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What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS By BILL DOEDE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred! Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native. At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed. He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated. He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him. He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings. Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs. <doc-sep>The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing! The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man. You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful? Yes, beautiful. You will leave now. Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago. You must go. Why? Who are you? I am keeper of the city. You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper? The spirits may return. Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear. The spirits are angry. Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it. Leave! The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious. Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt. He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following. Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed. <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back. Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat. Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools. Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street. He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun. There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him. His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought. You did not leave, as I asked you. Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that. You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry. Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function. What rooms? Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms. I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least. You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure? I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand. No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been. <doc-sep>You are sensitive, the native said in his ear. It takes a sensitivegod to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these oldstreets. Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thingI've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptiantombs—none can hold a candle to this. Mr. Earthgod.... Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it. The old man shrugged. It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those namesyou mention, are they the names of gods? He chuckled. In a way, yes. What is your name? Maota. You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll builda museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill justoutside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we maydecipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long agoand think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build andevacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize.... Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head likea waving palm frond and stamped his feet. You will leave now. Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. Theymust be preserved. Future generations will thank us. Do you mean, the old man asked, aghast, that you want others to comehere? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those wholived here may return one day! They must not find their city packagedand preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe theirfoul breaths upon. You will leave. Now! No. Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar. Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside hisbody. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with hisheel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city. The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pagesrustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, whileMichaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancientstreet. <doc-sep>When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now. The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back. The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up. It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting. Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands. God in heaven! he exclaimed. He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again. Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time. A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand. I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes. And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears! He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine. The clock was warm. He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth! He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head. Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense. He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment. <doc-sep>When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east. Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson. Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well? No. I'm sorry to hear that. How do you feel? Fine, but my head aches a little. Sorry, Maota said. For what? For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you. Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize. I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright. He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon. It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon. Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see. What about the book? What kind of book is it? What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what kind of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks. No, no. I mean, what's in it? Poetry. Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book. Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest. The old man raised the gun. <doc-sep>Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon. He pointed to the spotbehind his ear where the cylinder was buried. I can move faster thanyou can fire the gun. Maota nodded. I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I willkill you anyway. I suggest we negotiate. No. Why not? Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sandand wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile,brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent. Why not? Michaelson repeated. Why not what? Maota dragged his eyes back. Negotiate. No. Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, nottwenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and faraway on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes. All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing justdisintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that. Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closertoward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun. Wait! Now what? At least read some of the book to me before I die, then. The gun wavered. I am not an unreasonable man, the webfoot said. Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book. No, stay where you are. Throw it. This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable itemsaround. It won't break. Throw it. Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sandagainst his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafedthrough it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching fora suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustlesoftly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, buthis desire to hear the book was strong. <doc-sep>Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, thesyntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have beena professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley,Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations. The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson insight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages. See? he said. The spirits read. They must have been great readers,these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See howgentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk. Michaelson laughed. You certainly have an imagination. What difference does it make? Maota cried, suddenly angry. You wantto close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have noslightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is,for spirits whose existence I cannot prove. The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directlyin line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved. Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumpedbehind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out ofexistence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spunhim around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to anarcheologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man. He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over topick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers,hung on and was pulled to his feet. They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kickingsand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth,over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threwimpersonal shadows down where they fought. Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger orhand—touched the firing stud. There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing thetotal destruction they might have caused. It only hit the ground, Michaelson said. A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see howdeep—stared at them. Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. The book! he cried. The bookis gone! No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought. <doc-sep>Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging franticallyfor the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know orcare. Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial areaaround the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been. We killed it, the old man moaned. It was just a book. Not alive, you know. How do you know? The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. Ittalked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights Iused to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it. There are other books. We'll get another. Maota shook his head. There are no more. But I've seen them. Down there in the square building. Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book withsongs. I'm sorry. You killed it! Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lyingforgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was tooweak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage. When he could talk again, Maota said, I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I'vedisgraced myself. Don't be sorry. Michaelson helped him to his feet. We fight for somereasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either. Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last nightwhen I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't takethem we lose forever. I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you neverheard of negotiation? You are a god, Maota said. One does not negotiate with gods. Oneeither loves them, or kills them. That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand? Of course you are. Maota looked up, very sure. Mortals cannot stepfrom star to star like crossing a shallow brook. No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that.Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one wouldever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hitme and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some dayI'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more thanthat. <doc-sep>Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie. No. If I had this machine, could I travel as you? Yes. Then I'll kill you and take yours. It would not work for you. Why? Each machine is tailored for each person. The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book. Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences? He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I. He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly. Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city? No. Where are you going? Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant. Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity? There are many directions. You would not understand. East. West. North. South. Up. Down. No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see. Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building. Michaelson said, This is where you live? Yes. Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be. Maota pointed to it. You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction. <doc-sep>Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight,then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but heforced a short laugh. Maota, you are complex. Why not stop all thismystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I. Of course. Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. What do yousuppose happened to this race? You tell me. They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't knowhow the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did notdie out, as a species becomes extinct. Michaelson was amused, but interested. Something like a fourthdimension? I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death.I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful peoplewho conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science,who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on theface of the instrument? Press the button, and.... And what? I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked thestreets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. NowI will do so. Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitchedwhine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, itthen rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly. The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, laystill. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him morecarefully. No question about it. The old man was dead. <doc-sep>Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outsidethe city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight andgleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man'sbody on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up theknoll. Here he buried him. But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt thatthe old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sensemore complete than death. In the days that followed he gave much thought to the clock. He cameto the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square buildingwith the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination.Then he searched the books for information about the instrument. Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated allevidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. Hehad to know if the machine would work for him. And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadowsover the sand he walked down the long street and entered the oldman's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, butdetermined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed thebutton. The high-pitched whine started. Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes;nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression onlylike the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no leftor right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere. Look! Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of nodirection. Think of the city and you will see it. Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were lookingthrough a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body. Maota's chuckle again. The city will remain as it is. You did not winafter all. Neither did you. But this existence has compensations, Maota said. You can beanywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth. Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across theold, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or lifeforce—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead bodydifferent from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some threadstretching from the reality of his body to his present state? I don't like your thoughts, Maota said. No one can go back. I tried.I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communicationwith you. No one can go back. Michaelson decided he try. <doc-sep>No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger. Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command. At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him. He was standing up! The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place. To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence. You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were agod...! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Stationed on the Earth base of Alpha Centaurus II, Mr. Michaelson, a tall, gaunt archeologist, explores the planet for historical artifacts. He is human, but has a special cylinder embedded in the flesh behind his ear that teleports him to a different location when touched.He comes across an empty city in the desert, with the old buildings filling with blown sand, though he is not alone. He is approached by a short, gray-haired native with webbed bare feet (aka webfoot or Maota) that he spotted in a doorway, who introduces himself as the keeper of the city and implores him to leave because he angers the gods. Michaelson brushes aside that spirits exist, but notes that he must keep an eye on this intelligent native.As Michaelson continues to explore the city and disobey what he was told, the native again demands he leave, calling him “Mr. Earthgod.” Michaelson learns his name is Maota, and tries to negotiate to preserve the artifacts and build a museum. Maota does not succumb to Michaelson’s tactics, and whacks him unconscious with a metal book.Michaelson awakes and teleports to a creek 500 miles away to clean his wound, then returns and opens the book to find voices talking to him. He is mystified that the civilization here said to have disappeared half a million years ago was communicating with him. In his wonder, he picks up another clock-like artifact he has been curious about, and is shocked to feel it is radiating heat.The next day, Michaelson awakes in the dead city to find Maota pointing a gun-like weapon at him - apologizing for causing him pain instead of killing him. Maota reads from the talking poetry book, at Michaelson’s request. It moves them both, Michaelson feeling the humanity of the civilization, and Maota feeling the gentle spirits. Maota becomes furious that Michaelson wants to move things into a museum and begins to fire the weapon. Michaelson teleports behind him and in their struggle to take possession they discharge it - destroying the book. Maota has disgraced himself and the gods and becomes inconsolable. He has been wanting to try the “clock” device for some time - now with renewed determination because he doesn’t care if it kills him. He explains that he thinks the race of the dead city entered a fourth dimension. Pushing the button, Maota’s body collapses in death. Michaelson tries to bury him, but has the sense that his soul is elsewhere. Michaelson desperately studies the artifacts to understand the clock, then radically decides to just press the button too. Afterwards, he sees his dead body below him and communicates with Maota’s consciousness in a spiritual dimension. He discovers that he can will his cylinder with his mind to return to his physical body, traversing between the physical and spiritual realms. This infuriates Maota who can never return to his body and feels pushed and tricked by Michaelson.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS By BILL DOEDE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred! Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native. At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed. He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated. He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him. He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings. Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs. <doc-sep>The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing! The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man. You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful? Yes, beautiful. You will leave now. Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago. You must go. Why? Who are you? I am keeper of the city. You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper? The spirits may return. Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear. The spirits are angry. Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it. Leave! The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious. Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt. He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following. Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed. <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back. Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat. Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools. Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street. He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun. There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him. His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought. You did not leave, as I asked you. Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that. You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry. Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function. What rooms? Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms. I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least. You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure? I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand. No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been. <doc-sep>You are sensitive, the native said in his ear. It takes a sensitivegod to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these oldstreets. Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thingI've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptiantombs—none can hold a candle to this. Mr. Earthgod.... Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it. The old man shrugged. It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those namesyou mention, are they the names of gods? He chuckled. In a way, yes. What is your name? Maota. You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll builda museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill justoutside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we maydecipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long agoand think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build andevacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize.... Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head likea waving palm frond and stamped his feet. You will leave now. Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. Theymust be preserved. Future generations will thank us. Do you mean, the old man asked, aghast, that you want others to comehere? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those wholived here may return one day! They must not find their city packagedand preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe theirfoul breaths upon. You will leave. Now! No. Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar. Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside hisbody. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with hisheel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city. The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pagesrustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, whileMichaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancientstreet. <doc-sep>When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now. The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back. The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up. It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting. Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands. God in heaven! he exclaimed. He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again. Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time. A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand. I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes. And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears! He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine. The clock was warm. He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth! He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head. Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense. He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment. <doc-sep>When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east. Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson. Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well? No. I'm sorry to hear that. How do you feel? Fine, but my head aches a little. Sorry, Maota said. For what? For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you. Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize. I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright. He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon. It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon. Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see. What about the book? What kind of book is it? What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what kind of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks. No, no. I mean, what's in it? Poetry. Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book. Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest. The old man raised the gun. <doc-sep>Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon. He pointed to the spotbehind his ear where the cylinder was buried. I can move faster thanyou can fire the gun. Maota nodded. I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I willkill you anyway. I suggest we negotiate. No. Why not? Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sandand wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile,brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent. Why not? Michaelson repeated. Why not what? Maota dragged his eyes back. Negotiate. No. Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, nottwenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and faraway on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes. All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing justdisintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that. Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closertoward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun. Wait! Now what? At least read some of the book to me before I die, then. The gun wavered. I am not an unreasonable man, the webfoot said. Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book. No, stay where you are. Throw it. This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable itemsaround. It won't break. Throw it. Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sandagainst his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafedthrough it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching fora suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustlesoftly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, buthis desire to hear the book was strong. <doc-sep>Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, thesyntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have beena professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley,Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations. The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson insight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages. See? he said. The spirits read. They must have been great readers,these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See howgentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk. Michaelson laughed. You certainly have an imagination. What difference does it make? Maota cried, suddenly angry. You wantto close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have noslightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is,for spirits whose existence I cannot prove. The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directlyin line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved. Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumpedbehind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out ofexistence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spunhim around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to anarcheologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man. He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over topick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers,hung on and was pulled to his feet. They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kickingsand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth,over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threwimpersonal shadows down where they fought. Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger orhand—touched the firing stud. There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing thetotal destruction they might have caused. It only hit the ground, Michaelson said. A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see howdeep—stared at them. Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. The book! he cried. The bookis gone! No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought. <doc-sep>Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging franticallyfor the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know orcare. Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial areaaround the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been. We killed it, the old man moaned. It was just a book. Not alive, you know. How do you know? The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. Ittalked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights Iused to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it. There are other books. We'll get another. Maota shook his head. There are no more. But I've seen them. Down there in the square building. Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book withsongs. I'm sorry. You killed it! Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lyingforgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was tooweak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage. When he could talk again, Maota said, I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I'vedisgraced myself. Don't be sorry. Michaelson helped him to his feet. We fight for somereasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either. Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last nightwhen I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't takethem we lose forever. I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you neverheard of negotiation? You are a god, Maota said. One does not negotiate with gods. Oneeither loves them, or kills them. That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand? Of course you are. Maota looked up, very sure. Mortals cannot stepfrom star to star like crossing a shallow brook. No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that.Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one wouldever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hitme and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some dayI'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more thanthat. <doc-sep>Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie. No. If I had this machine, could I travel as you? Yes. Then I'll kill you and take yours. It would not work for you. Why? Each machine is tailored for each person. The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book. Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences? He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I. He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly. Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city? No. Where are you going? Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant. Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity? There are many directions. You would not understand. East. West. North. South. Up. Down. No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see. Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building. Michaelson said, This is where you live? Yes. Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be. Maota pointed to it. You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction. <doc-sep>Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight,then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but heforced a short laugh. Maota, you are complex. Why not stop all thismystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I. Of course. Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. What do yousuppose happened to this race? You tell me. They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't knowhow the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did notdie out, as a species becomes extinct. Michaelson was amused, but interested. Something like a fourthdimension? I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death.I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful peoplewho conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science,who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on theface of the instrument? Press the button, and.... And what? I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked thestreets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. NowI will do so. Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitchedwhine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, itthen rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly. The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, laystill. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him morecarefully. No question about it. The old man was dead. <doc-sep>Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outsidethe city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight andgleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man'sbody on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up theknoll. Here he buried him. But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt thatthe old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sensemore complete than death. In the days that followed he gave much thought to the clock. He cameto the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square buildingwith the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination.Then he searched the books for information about the instrument. Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated allevidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. Hehad to know if the machine would work for him. And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadowsover the sand he walked down the long street and entered the oldman's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, butdetermined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed thebutton. The high-pitched whine started. Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes;nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression onlylike the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no leftor right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere. Look! Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of nodirection. Think of the city and you will see it. Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were lookingthrough a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body. Maota's chuckle again. The city will remain as it is. You did not winafter all. Neither did you. But this existence has compensations, Maota said. You can beanywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth. Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across theold, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or lifeforce—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead bodydifferent from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some threadstretching from the reality of his body to his present state? I don't like your thoughts, Maota said. No one can go back. I tried.I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communicationwith you. No one can go back. Michaelson decided he try. <doc-sep>No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger. Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command. At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him. He was standing up! The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place. To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence. You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were agod...! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The story is set on Alpha Centaurus II, a planet with two moons and many unknowns and dangers. There is an Earth settlement on the planet, and the archeologist, Mr. Michaelson traverses around a sandy, desert-like area under a pale blue sky come to be referred to as the dead city which was last populated half a million years ago.The dead city is a complex variety of buildings, including small homes, huge ones with spires, and all varieties of square and spherical shapes. Suspension bridges connected conical towers. Desert plants grew from rooftops and sand had blown down the streets and filled the doorways. Despite not believing in the spiritual, Mr. Michaelson experiences waves of energy communicating with him from the artifacts he finds in the dead city, giving it the feel of not being deserted at all.Through the discovery of an important artifact (the “clock) that is radiating heat. The two characters Maota and Mr. Michaelson also discover that they can travel into a spiritual dimension setting where they look down on the planet, or anywhere in the universe, and communicate with their thoughts.

Who is Mr. Michaelson and what is his personality like? [SEP] <s> A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS By BILL DOEDE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred! Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native. At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed. He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated. He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him. He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings. Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs. <doc-sep>The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing! The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man. You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful? Yes, beautiful. You will leave now. Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago. You must go. Why? Who are you? I am keeper of the city. You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper? The spirits may return. Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear. The spirits are angry. Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it. Leave! The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious. Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt. He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following. Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed. <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back. Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat. Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools. Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street. He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun. There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him. His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought. You did not leave, as I asked you. Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that. You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry. Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function. What rooms? Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms. I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least. You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure? I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand. No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been. <doc-sep>You are sensitive, the native said in his ear. It takes a sensitivegod to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these oldstreets. Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thingI've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptiantombs—none can hold a candle to this. Mr. Earthgod.... Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it. The old man shrugged. It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those namesyou mention, are they the names of gods? He chuckled. In a way, yes. What is your name? Maota. You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll builda museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill justoutside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we maydecipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long agoand think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build andevacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize.... Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head likea waving palm frond and stamped his feet. You will leave now. Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. Theymust be preserved. Future generations will thank us. Do you mean, the old man asked, aghast, that you want others to comehere? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those wholived here may return one day! They must not find their city packagedand preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe theirfoul breaths upon. You will leave. Now! No. Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar. Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside hisbody. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with hisheel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city. The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pagesrustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, whileMichaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancientstreet. <doc-sep>When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now. The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back. The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up. It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting. Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands. God in heaven! he exclaimed. He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again. Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time. A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand. I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes. And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears! He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine. The clock was warm. He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth! He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head. Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense. He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment. <doc-sep>When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east. Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson. Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well? No. I'm sorry to hear that. How do you feel? Fine, but my head aches a little. Sorry, Maota said. For what? For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you. Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize. I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright. He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon. It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon. Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see. What about the book? What kind of book is it? What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what kind of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks. No, no. I mean, what's in it? Poetry. Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book. Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest. The old man raised the gun. <doc-sep>Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon. He pointed to the spotbehind his ear where the cylinder was buried. I can move faster thanyou can fire the gun. Maota nodded. I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I willkill you anyway. I suggest we negotiate. No. Why not? Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sandand wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile,brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent. Why not? Michaelson repeated. Why not what? Maota dragged his eyes back. Negotiate. No. Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, nottwenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and faraway on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes. All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing justdisintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that. Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closertoward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun. Wait! Now what? At least read some of the book to me before I die, then. The gun wavered. I am not an unreasonable man, the webfoot said. Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book. No, stay where you are. Throw it. This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable itemsaround. It won't break. Throw it. Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sandagainst his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafedthrough it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching fora suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustlesoftly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, buthis desire to hear the book was strong. <doc-sep>Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, thesyntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have beena professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley,Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations. The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson insight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages. See? he said. The spirits read. They must have been great readers,these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See howgentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk. Michaelson laughed. You certainly have an imagination. What difference does it make? Maota cried, suddenly angry. You wantto close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have noslightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is,for spirits whose existence I cannot prove. The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directlyin line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved. Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumpedbehind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out ofexistence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spunhim around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to anarcheologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man. He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over topick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers,hung on and was pulled to his feet. They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kickingsand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth,over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threwimpersonal shadows down where they fought. Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger orhand—touched the firing stud. There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing thetotal destruction they might have caused. It only hit the ground, Michaelson said. A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see howdeep—stared at them. Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. The book! he cried. The bookis gone! No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought. <doc-sep>Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging franticallyfor the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know orcare. Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial areaaround the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been. We killed it, the old man moaned. It was just a book. Not alive, you know. How do you know? The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. Ittalked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights Iused to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it. There are other books. We'll get another. Maota shook his head. There are no more. But I've seen them. Down there in the square building. Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book withsongs. I'm sorry. You killed it! Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lyingforgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was tooweak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage. When he could talk again, Maota said, I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I'vedisgraced myself. Don't be sorry. Michaelson helped him to his feet. We fight for somereasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either. Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last nightwhen I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't takethem we lose forever. I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you neverheard of negotiation? You are a god, Maota said. One does not negotiate with gods. Oneeither loves them, or kills them. That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand? Of course you are. Maota looked up, very sure. Mortals cannot stepfrom star to star like crossing a shallow brook. No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that.Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one wouldever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hitme and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some dayI'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more thanthat. <doc-sep>Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie. No. If I had this machine, could I travel as you? Yes. Then I'll kill you and take yours. It would not work for you. Why? Each machine is tailored for each person. The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book. Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences? He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I. He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly. Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city? No. Where are you going? Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant. Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity? There are many directions. You would not understand. East. West. North. South. Up. Down. No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see. Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building. Michaelson said, This is where you live? Yes. Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be. Maota pointed to it. You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction. <doc-sep>Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight,then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but heforced a short laugh. Maota, you are complex. Why not stop all thismystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I. Of course. Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. What do yousuppose happened to this race? You tell me. They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't knowhow the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did notdie out, as a species becomes extinct. Michaelson was amused, but interested. Something like a fourthdimension? I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death.I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful peoplewho conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science,who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on theface of the instrument? Press the button, and.... And what? I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked thestreets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. NowI will do so. Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitchedwhine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, itthen rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly. The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, laystill. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him morecarefully. No question about it. The old man was dead. <doc-sep>Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outsidethe city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight andgleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man'sbody on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up theknoll. Here he buried him. But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt thatthe old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sensemore complete than death. In the days that followed he gave much thought to the clock. He cameto the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square buildingwith the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination.Then he searched the books for information about the instrument. Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated allevidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. Hehad to know if the machine would work for him. And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadowsover the sand he walked down the long street and entered the oldman's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, butdetermined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed thebutton. The high-pitched whine started. Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes;nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression onlylike the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no leftor right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere. Look! Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of nodirection. Think of the city and you will see it. Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were lookingthrough a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body. Maota's chuckle again. The city will remain as it is. You did not winafter all. Neither did you. But this existence has compensations, Maota said. You can beanywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth. Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across theold, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or lifeforce—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead bodydifferent from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some threadstretching from the reality of his body to his present state? I don't like your thoughts, Maota said. No one can go back. I tried.I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communicationwith you. No one can go back. Michaelson decided he try. <doc-sep>No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger. Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command. At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him. He was standing up! The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place. To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence. You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were agod...! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Mr. Michaelson and what is his personality like?

Mr. Michaelson is a determined, tall, gaunt archeologist who enjoys finding artifacts and methodically undergoes the process of discovering and unearthing things, like this dead city on Alpha Centaurus II. His wife died many years ago back on Earth, and he has no children and no friends in the Earth settlement. He has a tiny cylinder in the flesh behind his ear that allows him to teleport instantly to a different location when touched.He does not believe in the spiritual, and rejects that the dead city he stumbles across even needs a keeper, offending Maota greatly who refers to him as “Mr. Earthgod.”Mr. Michaelson is ignorant and pushy towards Maota, not heeding his warnings or respecting his appeals to leave because it is angering the gods. Instead, Mr. Michaelson can’t understand why Maota won’t negotiate with him, almost as if he is entitled to take possession of the secrets and artifacts of the dead city

Who is the webfoot and what is his personality like? [SEP] <s> A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS By BILL DOEDE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred! Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native. At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed. He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated. He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him. He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings. Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs. <doc-sep>The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing! The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man. You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful? Yes, beautiful. You will leave now. Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago. You must go. Why? Who are you? I am keeper of the city. You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper? The spirits may return. Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear. The spirits are angry. Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it. Leave! The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious. Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt. He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following. Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed. <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back. Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat. Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools. Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street. He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun. There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him. His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought. You did not leave, as I asked you. Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that. You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry. Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function. What rooms? Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms. I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least. You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure? I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand. No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been. <doc-sep>You are sensitive, the native said in his ear. It takes a sensitivegod to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these oldstreets. Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thingI've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptiantombs—none can hold a candle to this. Mr. Earthgod.... Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it. The old man shrugged. It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those namesyou mention, are they the names of gods? He chuckled. In a way, yes. What is your name? Maota. You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll builda museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill justoutside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we maydecipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long agoand think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build andevacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize.... Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head likea waving palm frond and stamped his feet. You will leave now. Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. Theymust be preserved. Future generations will thank us. Do you mean, the old man asked, aghast, that you want others to comehere? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those wholived here may return one day! They must not find their city packagedand preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe theirfoul breaths upon. You will leave. Now! No. Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar. Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside hisbody. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with hisheel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city. The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pagesrustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, whileMichaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancientstreet. <doc-sep>When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now. The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back. The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up. It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting. Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands. God in heaven! he exclaimed. He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again. Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time. A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand. I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes. And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears! He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine. The clock was warm. He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth! He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head. Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense. He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment. <doc-sep>When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east. Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson. Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well? No. I'm sorry to hear that. How do you feel? Fine, but my head aches a little. Sorry, Maota said. For what? For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you. Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize. I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright. He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon. It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon. Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see. What about the book? What kind of book is it? What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what kind of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks. No, no. I mean, what's in it? Poetry. Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book. Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest. The old man raised the gun. <doc-sep>Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon. He pointed to the spotbehind his ear where the cylinder was buried. I can move faster thanyou can fire the gun. Maota nodded. I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I willkill you anyway. I suggest we negotiate. No. Why not? Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sandand wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile,brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent. Why not? Michaelson repeated. Why not what? Maota dragged his eyes back. Negotiate. No. Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, nottwenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and faraway on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes. All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing justdisintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that. Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closertoward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun. Wait! Now what? At least read some of the book to me before I die, then. The gun wavered. I am not an unreasonable man, the webfoot said. Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book. No, stay where you are. Throw it. This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable itemsaround. It won't break. Throw it. Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sandagainst his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafedthrough it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching fora suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustlesoftly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, buthis desire to hear the book was strong. <doc-sep>Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, thesyntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have beena professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley,Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations. The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson insight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages. See? he said. The spirits read. They must have been great readers,these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See howgentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk. Michaelson laughed. You certainly have an imagination. What difference does it make? Maota cried, suddenly angry. You wantto close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have noslightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is,for spirits whose existence I cannot prove. The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directlyin line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved. Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumpedbehind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out ofexistence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spunhim around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to anarcheologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man. He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over topick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers,hung on and was pulled to his feet. They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kickingsand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth,over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threwimpersonal shadows down where they fought. Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger orhand—touched the firing stud. There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing thetotal destruction they might have caused. It only hit the ground, Michaelson said. A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see howdeep—stared at them. Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. The book! he cried. The bookis gone! No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought. <doc-sep>Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging franticallyfor the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know orcare. Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial areaaround the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been. We killed it, the old man moaned. It was just a book. Not alive, you know. How do you know? The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. Ittalked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights Iused to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it. There are other books. We'll get another. Maota shook his head. There are no more. But I've seen them. Down there in the square building. Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book withsongs. I'm sorry. You killed it! Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lyingforgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was tooweak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage. When he could talk again, Maota said, I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I'vedisgraced myself. Don't be sorry. Michaelson helped him to his feet. We fight for somereasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either. Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last nightwhen I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't takethem we lose forever. I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you neverheard of negotiation? You are a god, Maota said. One does not negotiate with gods. Oneeither loves them, or kills them. That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand? Of course you are. Maota looked up, very sure. Mortals cannot stepfrom star to star like crossing a shallow brook. No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that.Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one wouldever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hitme and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some dayI'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more thanthat. <doc-sep>Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie. No. If I had this machine, could I travel as you? Yes. Then I'll kill you and take yours. It would not work for you. Why? Each machine is tailored for each person. The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book. Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences? He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I. He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly. Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city? No. Where are you going? Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant. Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity? There are many directions. You would not understand. East. West. North. South. Up. Down. No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see. Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building. Michaelson said, This is where you live? Yes. Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be. Maota pointed to it. You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction. <doc-sep>Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight,then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but heforced a short laugh. Maota, you are complex. Why not stop all thismystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I. Of course. Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. What do yousuppose happened to this race? You tell me. They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't knowhow the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did notdie out, as a species becomes extinct. Michaelson was amused, but interested. Something like a fourthdimension? I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death.I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful peoplewho conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science,who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on theface of the instrument? Press the button, and.... And what? I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked thestreets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. NowI will do so. Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitchedwhine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, itthen rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly. The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, laystill. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him morecarefully. No question about it. The old man was dead. <doc-sep>Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outsidethe city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight andgleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man'sbody on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up theknoll. Here he buried him. But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt thatthe old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sensemore complete than death. In the days that followed he gave much thought to the clock. He cameto the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square buildingwith the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination.Then he searched the books for information about the instrument. Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated allevidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. Hehad to know if the machine would work for him. And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadowsover the sand he walked down the long street and entered the oldman's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, butdetermined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed thebutton. The high-pitched whine started. Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes;nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression onlylike the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no leftor right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere. Look! Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of nodirection. Think of the city and you will see it. Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were lookingthrough a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body. Maota's chuckle again. The city will remain as it is. You did not winafter all. Neither did you. But this existence has compensations, Maota said. You can beanywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth. Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across theold, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or lifeforce—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead bodydifferent from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some threadstretching from the reality of his body to his present state? I don't like your thoughts, Maota said. No one can go back. I tried.I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communicationwith you. No one can go back. Michaelson decided he try. <doc-sep>No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger. Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command. At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him. He was standing up! The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place. To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence. You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were agod...! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is the webfoot and what is his personality like?

The webfoot, real name Maota (also referred to as “the native” by Mr. Michaelson), is the self-proclaimed keeper of the dead city on Alpha Centaurus II. He is an older man of at least sixty or seventy years, short in stature with long gray hair to his shoulders. The toes of his webbed, bare feet drag in the sand as he walks making a trail behind him. Maota is sturdy in his beliefs that the dead city needs to be protected, and that the gods are being disrupted by Mr. Michaelson. He feels strongly enough about it that he resorts to physical violence on two occasions - hitting Mr. Michaelson with a book over the head, and firing a gun-like weapon at him. Although he is angry and violent with Mr. Michaelson, he also shows remarkable tolerance for him. Maota’s ultimate duty, he believes, is to the gods. This brings him turmoil when he thinks he missed the chance the gods gave him to kill Mr. Michaelson, and even apologized to him directly for instead letting him suffer with a head wound instead of killing him. There is a reference to them perhaps having met before when Michaelson says tauntingly to Maota, “You never told us about this old dead city… Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't it beautiful?” Thus, Maota is also motivated to protect the dead city at all costs, perhaps even concealing its location.

What is the cylinder and why is it significant? [SEP] <s> A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS By BILL DOEDE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred! Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native. At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed. He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated. He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him. He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings. Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs. <doc-sep>The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing! The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man. You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful? Yes, beautiful. You will leave now. Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago. You must go. Why? Who are you? I am keeper of the city. You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper? The spirits may return. Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear. The spirits are angry. Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it. Leave! The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious. Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt. He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following. Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed. <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back. Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat. Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools. Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street. He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun. There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him. His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought. You did not leave, as I asked you. Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that. You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry. Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function. What rooms? Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms. I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least. You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure? I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand. No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been. <doc-sep>You are sensitive, the native said in his ear. It takes a sensitivegod to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these oldstreets. Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thingI've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptiantombs—none can hold a candle to this. Mr. Earthgod.... Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it. The old man shrugged. It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those namesyou mention, are they the names of gods? He chuckled. In a way, yes. What is your name? Maota. You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll builda museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill justoutside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we maydecipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long agoand think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build andevacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize.... Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head likea waving palm frond and stamped his feet. You will leave now. Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. Theymust be preserved. Future generations will thank us. Do you mean, the old man asked, aghast, that you want others to comehere? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those wholived here may return one day! They must not find their city packagedand preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe theirfoul breaths upon. You will leave. Now! No. Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar. Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside hisbody. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with hisheel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city. The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pagesrustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, whileMichaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancientstreet. <doc-sep>When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now. The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back. The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up. It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting. Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands. God in heaven! he exclaimed. He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again. Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time. A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand. I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes. And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears! He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine. The clock was warm. He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth! He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head. Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense. He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment. <doc-sep>When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east. Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson. Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well? No. I'm sorry to hear that. How do you feel? Fine, but my head aches a little. Sorry, Maota said. For what? For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you. Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize. I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright. He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon. It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon. Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see. What about the book? What kind of book is it? What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what kind of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks. No, no. I mean, what's in it? Poetry. Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book. Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest. The old man raised the gun. <doc-sep>Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon. He pointed to the spotbehind his ear where the cylinder was buried. I can move faster thanyou can fire the gun. Maota nodded. I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I willkill you anyway. I suggest we negotiate. No. Why not? Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sandand wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile,brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent. Why not? Michaelson repeated. Why not what? Maota dragged his eyes back. Negotiate. No. Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, nottwenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and faraway on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes. All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing justdisintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that. Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closertoward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun. Wait! Now what? At least read some of the book to me before I die, then. The gun wavered. I am not an unreasonable man, the webfoot said. Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book. No, stay where you are. Throw it. This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable itemsaround. It won't break. Throw it. Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sandagainst his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafedthrough it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching fora suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustlesoftly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, buthis desire to hear the book was strong. <doc-sep>Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, thesyntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have beena professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley,Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations. The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson insight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages. See? he said. The spirits read. They must have been great readers,these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See howgentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk. Michaelson laughed. You certainly have an imagination. What difference does it make? Maota cried, suddenly angry. You wantto close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have noslightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is,for spirits whose existence I cannot prove. The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directlyin line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved. Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumpedbehind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out ofexistence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spunhim around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to anarcheologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man. He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over topick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers,hung on and was pulled to his feet. They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kickingsand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth,over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threwimpersonal shadows down where they fought. Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger orhand—touched the firing stud. There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing thetotal destruction they might have caused. It only hit the ground, Michaelson said. A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see howdeep—stared at them. Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. The book! he cried. The bookis gone! No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought. <doc-sep>Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging franticallyfor the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know orcare. Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial areaaround the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been. We killed it, the old man moaned. It was just a book. Not alive, you know. How do you know? The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. Ittalked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights Iused to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it. There are other books. We'll get another. Maota shook his head. There are no more. But I've seen them. Down there in the square building. Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book withsongs. I'm sorry. You killed it! Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lyingforgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was tooweak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage. When he could talk again, Maota said, I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I'vedisgraced myself. Don't be sorry. Michaelson helped him to his feet. We fight for somereasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either. Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last nightwhen I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't takethem we lose forever. I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you neverheard of negotiation? You are a god, Maota said. One does not negotiate with gods. Oneeither loves them, or kills them. That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand? Of course you are. Maota looked up, very sure. Mortals cannot stepfrom star to star like crossing a shallow brook. No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that.Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one wouldever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hitme and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some dayI'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more thanthat. <doc-sep>Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie. No. If I had this machine, could I travel as you? Yes. Then I'll kill you and take yours. It would not work for you. Why? Each machine is tailored for each person. The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book. Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences? He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I. He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly. Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city? No. Where are you going? Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant. Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity? There are many directions. You would not understand. East. West. North. South. Up. Down. No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see. Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building. Michaelson said, This is where you live? Yes. Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be. Maota pointed to it. You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction. <doc-sep>Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight,then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but heforced a short laugh. Maota, you are complex. Why not stop all thismystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I. Of course. Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. What do yousuppose happened to this race? You tell me. They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't knowhow the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did notdie out, as a species becomes extinct. Michaelson was amused, but interested. Something like a fourthdimension? I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death.I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful peoplewho conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science,who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on theface of the instrument? Press the button, and.... And what? I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked thestreets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. NowI will do so. Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitchedwhine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, itthen rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly. The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, laystill. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him morecarefully. No question about it. The old man was dead. <doc-sep>Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outsidethe city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight andgleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man'sbody on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up theknoll. Here he buried him. But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt thatthe old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sensemore complete than death. In the days that followed he gave much thought to the clock. He cameto the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square buildingwith the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination.Then he searched the books for information about the instrument. Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated allevidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. Hehad to know if the machine would work for him. And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadowsover the sand he walked down the long street and entered the oldman's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, butdetermined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed thebutton. The high-pitched whine started. Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes;nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression onlylike the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no leftor right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere. Look! Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of nodirection. Think of the city and you will see it. Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were lookingthrough a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body. Maota's chuckle again. The city will remain as it is. You did not winafter all. Neither did you. But this existence has compensations, Maota said. You can beanywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth. Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across theold, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or lifeforce—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead bodydifferent from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some threadstretching from the reality of his body to his present state? I don't like your thoughts, Maota said. No one can go back. I tried.I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communicationwith you. No one can go back. Michaelson decided he try. <doc-sep>No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger. Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command. At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him. He was standing up! The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place. To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence. You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were agod...! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the cylinder and why is it significant?

The cylinder is an implement tailored to Mr. Michaelson that is tucked behind his ear and will allow him to go anywhere that he desires when it is pressed. He uses it several times in the story to travel to physical places, disappearing immediately and reappearing in a new location. Once, to travel to a cold stream to wash his bleeding wounds after being hit on the head with a book by Maota, and a second time to avoid being killed by Maota firing a weapon to kill him.After Maota presses the button of the “clock” in the dead city and appears to drop dead. Mr. Michaelson desperately attempts to gain the knowledge to understand what the clock device does. Rather radically, he decides that he must press the button to fully understand, not completely knowing that he won’t die when he does. When Mr. Michaelson sees his dead body below him in the city and communicates wordlessly with Maota in this spiritual dimension he begins to panic and search for ways to get back into his body. This is how he discovers that he can will the cylinder with his mind, and return into his physical body by doing so. Through this act he can traverse between the physical and spiritual realms, which ultimately makes him considered a god by Maota (greatly angering him).

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS By ERIK FENNEL On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers. It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing. In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open. The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers. Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence. The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him. Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness. Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky. Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully. Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action. It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders. At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch. The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power. There's metal in the field! His voice was high and unsteady. <doc-sep>Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate. Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind. It must be cleared. From the outside. Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered. Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations. The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death. Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief. I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty. Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man. For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel. For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty. He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock. But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility. Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness. For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand. Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive— <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations. Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here. First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor. Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt. Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible. But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions. On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell. Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials. Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions. Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end. She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt. But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires. The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate. Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed. But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship. He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action. Then it was done. As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations. <doc-sep>Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and NickPodtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk. I could eat a cow with the smallpox, Barry declared. Nick grinned. No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice jobof work out there. Barry unhitched his straps and sat up. Say, he asked anxiously. What's haywire with the air? Nick looked startled. Nothing. Everything checked out when I came offwatch a few minutes ago. Barry shrugged. Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch ahandout. He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley insideout while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait onhim. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and drynesshe had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult tobreathe. He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened aroundhim. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer. The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked! Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead.The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmentrained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress.Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchablethirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult. A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling ofexultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, forthe beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were notnecessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was,felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead. Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Renohimself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-createdsupport of flame. You're almost in, a voice chanted into his headphones throughcrackling, sizzling static. Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it!Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER! The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled,steadied. Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waitingwith the others when Captain Reno gave the last order. Airlock open. Both doors. Venusian air poured in. For this I left Panama? one of the men yelped. Enough to gag a maggot, another agreed with hand to nose. It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot andunbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decayingvegetation. But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles inhis chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened. The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassingvapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light. Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet abovea quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearbythe identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. Themist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, roundedoutlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried intheir cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet outof the marsh. The Colony! Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp,extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a fewminutes the new arrivals were scrambling down. Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk.Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for oneparticular figure among the men and women who waited. Dorothy! he said fervently. Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss. Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on anexpression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing hesaw was Robson Hind looming beside her. By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeplylined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialistin tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid arestraining hand on his shoulder. Water! Barry croaked. The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as hispatient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking waterdirectly into his lungs. Doctor, he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. Whatare my chances? On the level. Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. There's not a thing—not adamned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science. Barry lay still. Your body is undergoing certain radical changes, the doctorcontinued, and you know as much—more about your condition than I do.If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die ofa coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seemsto give you relief. Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on eachside itched infuriatingly. What are these changes? he asked. What's this? Those things seem to be— the doctor began hesitantly. Damn it, Iknow it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills. Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyondshock. But there must be— Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and archedinvoluntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion. II Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiationshad inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr.Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen hemust remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains. When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine.Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared. Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry, he began. Stuff it, the sick man interrupted. I want favors. Can do? Nick nodded vigorously. First cut that air conditioner and get the window open. Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavyplastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp,malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief. It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And hewas not an engineer for nothing. Got a pencil? he asked. He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to needdetailed drawings. Think you can get materials? Nick glanced at the sketch. Hell, man, for you I can get anything theColony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it. Two days? Nick looked insulted. He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. Apower line and water tube were run through the metal partition to thecorridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched wasready. Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshapednozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal sizethat hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops thatfell toward the metal floor. Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features. Perfect. Now put the window back. Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded windowmight invite disaster. A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. Theroom was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almostliquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceilingand furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and thescavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess waterfrom the floor. The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wetfrom the short exposure. It was abnormal. But so was Barry Barr. With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover someof his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent insleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as thoughshe were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—hereyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips thatseemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself tofulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacyfrom some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body. After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They camein a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen sinceTraining Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquidatmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits. But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. Ateach knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back witha sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not cometo him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from eveninquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in theColony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a cagedanimal. Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brighteningand darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian dayprogressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something ofVenusian conditions and the story of the Colony. Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smearyimages of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved tobe a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew hadblasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks withflame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats ofstrength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipmentbefore the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze. Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures thatslithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog,the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. Forweeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last,beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm,almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping ofrock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered. One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but theothers had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it upin time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, thesecondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony hadestablished a tenuous foothold. Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringingreinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony'sstruggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extendedor detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries. The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights whichby radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blankmaps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainlyjungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings awayfrom base had been judged too hazardous. Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactiveminerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide anadequate though monotonous food source. Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the foggigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunatelythey were harmless and timid. In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced andfought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearancepossessed surprisingly venomous characteristics. The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony tominimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but theblasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grewwith a vigor approaching fury. Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armoredmonsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to thebrontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers thatused the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They wereapparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk madethem dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it,and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repelthe beasts. The most important question—that of the presence or absence ofintelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the menreported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when nearopen water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would haveestablished contact. <doc-sep>Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared. But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition. Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him. Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes. Huh? he grunted. Who? Me? Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter! Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly. Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice. Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly. I believe you, Barry. She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist. When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features. The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan. But even with his trickery Hind had lost. He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom. The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off. He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest. Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room. Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help. The door was locked! He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed. He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped. Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered. He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough! He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness. There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground. Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath. Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale. Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water. III Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus. Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers. Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids. For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim. Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off. He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer. He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection. He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank. Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless. Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward. Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman. Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder. Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing. Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working. Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage. It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt. Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close. Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp. Barry stared through the reddening water. Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively. But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind. One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord. One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break. He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out. Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously. Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly. The other one turned too late as Barry leaped. Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Engineer Barry Barr is one of the chosen few to ride on Number Three to Venus. His beloved Dorothy Voorhees would have been riding with him, but Barry had a piece of scaffolding drop on his ankle. Unable to make the first flight, Barry hops onto Number Four instead. On the journey to Venus, a small meteor crashes into their hull at several hundreds of miles an hour. The effect is immediate: Ryan is killed in the jet room and traces of the meteor are stuck in the field. Barry wakes up when the alarm bells are sounded, and rushes to join the rest of the crew to figure out what’s going on. Nick Podtaguine is steering the ship with emergency controls while Captain Reno looks on. Once the jet room stabilized, Captain Reno opens the doors to find Ryan’s body and ruin. After fixing all that they could, Reno hit the accelerator, only to watch in dismay at it soared out of proportions. Captain Reno cut off the power, realizing that the meteor had left metal particles in the cylinder of force. He asks for volunteers to work outside of the ship and remove all traces of the meteor. No one volunteers at first because of how dangerous a task it is; Sigma radiation affects man in ways still unknown and incurable. After Robson Hind turns the task down, Barry volunteers. He steps outside in his spacesuit equipped to block radiation and removes them with the chisel. Once he returns inside, he falls asleep and wakes a day later already feeling the effects of the radiation. His symptoms only increase: dryness, heat, and breathing difficulties. He faints upon standing and realizes that the Sigma radiation had seeped into his spacesuit. Four heads toward Venus while Barry suffers from an insatiable thirst. Finally, upon landing, they throw open the doors to let in the muggy Venusian air, and Barry feels like he can breathe again. Two and Three welcome them, and Barry throws his arms around Dorothy before fainting. Dr. Carl Jensen gives him water which Barry inhales. He’s growing gills on the sides of his neck, and dry air is becoming more intolerable. Barry asks Nick to build him a machine to let in moisture, allowing him to breathe better. He grows webbed fingers and toes. Dorothy doesn’t visit him while in hospital until she can’t bear it anymore. She bursts open the door and reveals she still loves him even though he has a wife and family back in Philadelphia. Barry reveals the falsehood and believes that Hind sent her a letter detailing this lie. One night, he wakes up to realize his moisture machine was broken and the door locked. He escapes by breaking the window and runs to the water. He dives in and inhales the water. Worms attack him, but he swims away to the ocean. He battles humanoid Venusians and kills one of them. He rescues a girl from being robbed.

What changes does Barry Barr undergo throughout the story? [SEP] <s> THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS By ERIK FENNEL On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers. It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing. In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open. The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers. Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence. The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him. Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness. Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky. Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully. Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action. It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders. At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch. The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power. There's metal in the field! His voice was high and unsteady. <doc-sep>Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate. Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind. It must be cleared. From the outside. Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered. Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations. The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death. Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief. I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty. Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man. For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel. For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty. He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock. But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility. Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness. For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand. Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive— <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations. Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here. First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor. Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt. Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible. But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions. On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell. Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials. Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions. Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end. She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt. But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires. The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate. Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed. But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship. He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action. Then it was done. As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations. <doc-sep>Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and NickPodtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk. I could eat a cow with the smallpox, Barry declared. Nick grinned. No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice jobof work out there. Barry unhitched his straps and sat up. Say, he asked anxiously. What's haywire with the air? Nick looked startled. Nothing. Everything checked out when I came offwatch a few minutes ago. Barry shrugged. Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch ahandout. He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley insideout while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait onhim. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and drynesshe had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult tobreathe. He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened aroundhim. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer. The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked! Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead.The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmentrained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress.Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchablethirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult. A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling ofexultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, forthe beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were notnecessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was,felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead. Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Renohimself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-createdsupport of flame. You're almost in, a voice chanted into his headphones throughcrackling, sizzling static. Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it!Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER! The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled,steadied. Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waitingwith the others when Captain Reno gave the last order. Airlock open. Both doors. Venusian air poured in. For this I left Panama? one of the men yelped. Enough to gag a maggot, another agreed with hand to nose. It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot andunbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decayingvegetation. But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles inhis chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened. The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassingvapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light. Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet abovea quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearbythe identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. Themist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, roundedoutlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried intheir cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet outof the marsh. The Colony! Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp,extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a fewminutes the new arrivals were scrambling down. Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk.Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for oneparticular figure among the men and women who waited. Dorothy! he said fervently. Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss. Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on anexpression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing hesaw was Robson Hind looming beside her. By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeplylined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialistin tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid arestraining hand on his shoulder. Water! Barry croaked. The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as hispatient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking waterdirectly into his lungs. Doctor, he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. Whatare my chances? On the level. Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. There's not a thing—not adamned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science. Barry lay still. Your body is undergoing certain radical changes, the doctorcontinued, and you know as much—more about your condition than I do.If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die ofa coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seemsto give you relief. Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on eachside itched infuriatingly. What are these changes? he asked. What's this? Those things seem to be— the doctor began hesitantly. Damn it, Iknow it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills. Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyondshock. But there must be— Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and archedinvoluntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion. II Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiationshad inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr.Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen hemust remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains. When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine.Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared. Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry, he began. Stuff it, the sick man interrupted. I want favors. Can do? Nick nodded vigorously. First cut that air conditioner and get the window open. Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavyplastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp,malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief. It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And hewas not an engineer for nothing. Got a pencil? he asked. He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to needdetailed drawings. Think you can get materials? Nick glanced at the sketch. Hell, man, for you I can get anything theColony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it. Two days? Nick looked insulted. He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. Apower line and water tube were run through the metal partition to thecorridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched wasready. Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshapednozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal sizethat hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops thatfell toward the metal floor. Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features. Perfect. Now put the window back. Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded windowmight invite disaster. A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. Theroom was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almostliquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceilingand furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and thescavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess waterfrom the floor. The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wetfrom the short exposure. It was abnormal. But so was Barry Barr. With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover someof his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent insleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as thoughshe were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—hereyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips thatseemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself tofulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacyfrom some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body. After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They camein a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen sinceTraining Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquidatmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits. But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. Ateach knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back witha sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not cometo him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from eveninquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in theColony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a cagedanimal. Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brighteningand darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian dayprogressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something ofVenusian conditions and the story of the Colony. Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smearyimages of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved tobe a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew hadblasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks withflame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats ofstrength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipmentbefore the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze. Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures thatslithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog,the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. Forweeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last,beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm,almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping ofrock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered. One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but theothers had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it upin time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, thesecondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony hadestablished a tenuous foothold. Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringingreinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony'sstruggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extendedor detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries. The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights whichby radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blankmaps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainlyjungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings awayfrom base had been judged too hazardous. Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactiveminerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide anadequate though monotonous food source. Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the foggigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunatelythey were harmless and timid. In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced andfought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearancepossessed surprisingly venomous characteristics. The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony tominimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but theblasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grewwith a vigor approaching fury. Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armoredmonsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to thebrontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers thatused the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They wereapparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk madethem dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it,and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repelthe beasts. The most important question—that of the presence or absence ofintelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the menreported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when nearopen water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would haveestablished contact. <doc-sep>Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared. But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition. Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him. Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes. Huh? he grunted. Who? Me? Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter! Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly. Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice. Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly. I believe you, Barry. She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist. When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features. The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan. But even with his trickery Hind had lost. He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom. The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off. He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest. Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room. Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help. The door was locked! He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed. He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped. Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered. He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough! He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness. There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground. Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath. Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale. Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water. III Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus. Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers. Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids. For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim. Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off. He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer. He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection. He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank. Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless. Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward. Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman. Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder. Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing. Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working. Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage. It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt. Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close. Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp. Barry stared through the reddening water. Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively. But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind. One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord. One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break. He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out. Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously. Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly. The other one turned too late as Barry leaped. Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What changes does Barry Barr undergo throughout the story?

Barry Barr transforms from a regular human male to a creature that breathes underwater and requires moisture to survive. After being exposed to Sigma radiation while removing particles from the outer hull of Four, Barry began to feel changes in his body. Air felt dry and hot in his lungs and he quickly developed shortness of breath. Fainting spells ensued and breathing difficulties. Once they arrived on Venus, Dr. Carl Jensen gave a grave diagnosis of the unknown. Barry developed dark marks on both sides of his neck, which soon transformed into gills. Webbing grew between his fingers and toes, and his revulsion to dry air only grew. He built a moisture machine to keep in his room so he could breathe comfortably. But it still wasn’t enough. On the night he was trapped inside of the dry room, he broke out and escaped to the water. Although his lungs weren’t fully adjusted to breathing water, he took off like a rocket and battled several Venusian creatures with ease. Barry goes from completely human to a humanoid merman of sorts.

Describe Venus and the creatures on its surface. [SEP] <s> THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS By ERIK FENNEL On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers. It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing. In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open. The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers. Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence. The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him. Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness. Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky. Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully. Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action. It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders. At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch. The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power. There's metal in the field! His voice was high and unsteady. <doc-sep>Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate. Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind. It must be cleared. From the outside. Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered. Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations. The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death. Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief. I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty. Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man. For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel. For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty. He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock. But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility. Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness. For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand. Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive— <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations. Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here. First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor. Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt. Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible. But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions. On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell. Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials. Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions. Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end. She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt. But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires. The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate. Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed. But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship. He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action. Then it was done. As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations. <doc-sep>Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and NickPodtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk. I could eat a cow with the smallpox, Barry declared. Nick grinned. No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice jobof work out there. Barry unhitched his straps and sat up. Say, he asked anxiously. What's haywire with the air? Nick looked startled. Nothing. Everything checked out when I came offwatch a few minutes ago. Barry shrugged. Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch ahandout. He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley insideout while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait onhim. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and drynesshe had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult tobreathe. He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened aroundhim. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer. The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked! Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead.The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmentrained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress.Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchablethirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult. A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling ofexultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, forthe beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were notnecessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was,felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead. Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Renohimself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-createdsupport of flame. You're almost in, a voice chanted into his headphones throughcrackling, sizzling static. Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it!Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER! The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled,steadied. Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waitingwith the others when Captain Reno gave the last order. Airlock open. Both doors. Venusian air poured in. For this I left Panama? one of the men yelped. Enough to gag a maggot, another agreed with hand to nose. It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot andunbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decayingvegetation. But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles inhis chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened. The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassingvapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light. Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet abovea quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearbythe identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. Themist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, roundedoutlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried intheir cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet outof the marsh. The Colony! Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp,extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a fewminutes the new arrivals were scrambling down. Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk.Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for oneparticular figure among the men and women who waited. Dorothy! he said fervently. Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss. Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on anexpression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing hesaw was Robson Hind looming beside her. By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeplylined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialistin tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid arestraining hand on his shoulder. Water! Barry croaked. The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as hispatient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking waterdirectly into his lungs. Doctor, he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. Whatare my chances? On the level. Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. There's not a thing—not adamned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science. Barry lay still. Your body is undergoing certain radical changes, the doctorcontinued, and you know as much—more about your condition than I do.If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die ofa coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seemsto give you relief. Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on eachside itched infuriatingly. What are these changes? he asked. What's this? Those things seem to be— the doctor began hesitantly. Damn it, Iknow it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills. Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyondshock. But there must be— Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and archedinvoluntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion. II Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiationshad inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr.Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen hemust remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains. When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine.Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared. Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry, he began. Stuff it, the sick man interrupted. I want favors. Can do? Nick nodded vigorously. First cut that air conditioner and get the window open. Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavyplastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp,malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief. It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And hewas not an engineer for nothing. Got a pencil? he asked. He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to needdetailed drawings. Think you can get materials? Nick glanced at the sketch. Hell, man, for you I can get anything theColony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it. Two days? Nick looked insulted. He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. Apower line and water tube were run through the metal partition to thecorridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched wasready. Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshapednozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal sizethat hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops thatfell toward the metal floor. Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features. Perfect. Now put the window back. Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded windowmight invite disaster. A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. Theroom was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almostliquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceilingand furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and thescavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess waterfrom the floor. The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wetfrom the short exposure. It was abnormal. But so was Barry Barr. With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover someof his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent insleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as thoughshe were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—hereyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips thatseemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself tofulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacyfrom some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body. After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They camein a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen sinceTraining Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquidatmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits. But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. Ateach knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back witha sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not cometo him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from eveninquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in theColony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a cagedanimal. Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brighteningand darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian dayprogressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something ofVenusian conditions and the story of the Colony. Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smearyimages of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved tobe a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew hadblasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks withflame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats ofstrength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipmentbefore the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze. Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures thatslithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog,the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. Forweeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last,beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm,almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping ofrock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered. One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but theothers had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it upin time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, thesecondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony hadestablished a tenuous foothold. Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringingreinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony'sstruggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extendedor detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries. The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights whichby radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blankmaps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainlyjungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings awayfrom base had been judged too hazardous. Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactiveminerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide anadequate though monotonous food source. Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the foggigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunatelythey were harmless and timid. In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced andfought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearancepossessed surprisingly venomous characteristics. The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony tominimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but theblasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grewwith a vigor approaching fury. Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armoredmonsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to thebrontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers thatused the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They wereapparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk madethem dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it,and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repelthe beasts. The most important question—that of the presence or absence ofintelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the menreported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when nearopen water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would haveestablished contact. <doc-sep>Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared. But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition. Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him. Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes. Huh? he grunted. Who? Me? Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter! Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly. Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice. Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly. I believe you, Barry. She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist. When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features. The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan. But even with his trickery Hind had lost. He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom. The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off. He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest. Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room. Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help. The door was locked! He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed. He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped. Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered. He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough! He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness. There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground. Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath. Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale. Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water. III Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus. Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers. Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids. For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim. Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off. He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer. He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection. He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank. Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless. Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward. Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman. Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder. Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing. Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working. Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage. It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt. Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close. Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp. Barry stared through the reddening water. Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively. But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind. One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord. One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break. He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out. Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously. Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly. The other one turned too late as Barry leaped. Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe Venus and the creatures on its surface.

Venus is a hot and muggy planet, most comparable to certain areas of South America. The air is so moist and hot that many of the colonists when arrived felt as though they were melting or wading through a swamp. Much of the planet is covered in swamps and marshes, while only a small portion is made up of solid rock or land. The air teems with buzzing insects and creatures roam the surface of the planet. Large vegetarian Venusian creatures roam solid ground, and, though they aren’t going to eat the humans, their humongous size can make them a danger to have around. Different creatures reside in the swamps and oceans as well. Flesh-eating worms lie deep in the swamps, while humanoid Venusians live out in the open ocean.

Who is Robson Hind and what happens to him throughout the story? [SEP] <s> THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS By ERIK FENNEL On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers. It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing. In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open. The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers. Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence. The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him. Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness. Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky. Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully. Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action. It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders. At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch. The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power. There's metal in the field! His voice was high and unsteady. <doc-sep>Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate. Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind. It must be cleared. From the outside. Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered. Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations. The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death. Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief. I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty. Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man. For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel. For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty. He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock. But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility. Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness. For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand. Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive— <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations. Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here. First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor. Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt. Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible. But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions. On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell. Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials. Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions. Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end. She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt. But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires. The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate. Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed. But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship. He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action. Then it was done. As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations. <doc-sep>Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and NickPodtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk. I could eat a cow with the smallpox, Barry declared. Nick grinned. No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice jobof work out there. Barry unhitched his straps and sat up. Say, he asked anxiously. What's haywire with the air? Nick looked startled. Nothing. Everything checked out when I came offwatch a few minutes ago. Barry shrugged. Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch ahandout. He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley insideout while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait onhim. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and drynesshe had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult tobreathe. He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened aroundhim. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer. The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked! Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead.The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmentrained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress.Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchablethirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult. A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling ofexultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, forthe beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were notnecessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was,felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead. Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Renohimself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-createdsupport of flame. You're almost in, a voice chanted into his headphones throughcrackling, sizzling static. Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it!Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER! The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled,steadied. Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waitingwith the others when Captain Reno gave the last order. Airlock open. Both doors. Venusian air poured in. For this I left Panama? one of the men yelped. Enough to gag a maggot, another agreed with hand to nose. It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot andunbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decayingvegetation. But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles inhis chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened. The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassingvapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light. Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet abovea quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearbythe identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. Themist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, roundedoutlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried intheir cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet outof the marsh. The Colony! Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp,extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a fewminutes the new arrivals were scrambling down. Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk.Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for oneparticular figure among the men and women who waited. Dorothy! he said fervently. Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss. Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on anexpression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing hesaw was Robson Hind looming beside her. By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeplylined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialistin tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid arestraining hand on his shoulder. Water! Barry croaked. The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as hispatient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking waterdirectly into his lungs. Doctor, he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. Whatare my chances? On the level. Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. There's not a thing—not adamned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science. Barry lay still. Your body is undergoing certain radical changes, the doctorcontinued, and you know as much—more about your condition than I do.If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die ofa coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seemsto give you relief. Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on eachside itched infuriatingly. What are these changes? he asked. What's this? Those things seem to be— the doctor began hesitantly. Damn it, Iknow it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills. Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyondshock. But there must be— Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and archedinvoluntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion. II Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiationshad inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr.Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen hemust remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains. When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine.Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared. Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry, he began. Stuff it, the sick man interrupted. I want favors. Can do? Nick nodded vigorously. First cut that air conditioner and get the window open. Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavyplastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp,malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief. It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And hewas not an engineer for nothing. Got a pencil? he asked. He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to needdetailed drawings. Think you can get materials? Nick glanced at the sketch. Hell, man, for you I can get anything theColony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it. Two days? Nick looked insulted. He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. Apower line and water tube were run through the metal partition to thecorridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched wasready. Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshapednozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal sizethat hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops thatfell toward the metal floor. Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features. Perfect. Now put the window back. Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded windowmight invite disaster. A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. Theroom was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almostliquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceilingand furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and thescavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess waterfrom the floor. The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wetfrom the short exposure. It was abnormal. But so was Barry Barr. With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover someof his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent insleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as thoughshe were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—hereyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips thatseemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself tofulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacyfrom some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body. After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They camein a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen sinceTraining Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquidatmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits. But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. Ateach knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back witha sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not cometo him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from eveninquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in theColony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a cagedanimal. Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brighteningand darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian dayprogressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something ofVenusian conditions and the story of the Colony. Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smearyimages of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved tobe a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew hadblasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks withflame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats ofstrength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipmentbefore the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze. Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures thatslithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog,the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. Forweeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last,beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm,almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping ofrock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered. One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but theothers had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it upin time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, thesecondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony hadestablished a tenuous foothold. Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringingreinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony'sstruggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extendedor detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries. The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights whichby radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blankmaps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainlyjungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings awayfrom base had been judged too hazardous. Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactiveminerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide anadequate though monotonous food source. Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the foggigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunatelythey were harmless and timid. In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced andfought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearancepossessed surprisingly venomous characteristics. The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony tominimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but theblasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grewwith a vigor approaching fury. Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armoredmonsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to thebrontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers thatused the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They wereapparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk madethem dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it,and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repelthe beasts. The most important question—that of the presence or absence ofintelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the menreported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when nearopen water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would haveestablished contact. <doc-sep>Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared. But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition. Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him. Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes. Huh? he grunted. Who? Me? Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter! Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly. Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice. Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly. I believe you, Barry. She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist. When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features. The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan. But even with his trickery Hind had lost. He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom. The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off. He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest. Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room. Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help. The door was locked! He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed. He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped. Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered. He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough! He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness. There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground. Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath. Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale. Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water. III Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus. Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers. Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids. For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim. Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off. He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer. He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection. He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank. Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless. Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward. Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman. Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder. Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing. Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working. Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage. It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt. Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close. Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp. Barry stared through the reddening water. Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively. But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind. One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord. One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break. He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out. Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously. Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly. The other one turned too late as Barry leaped. Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Robson Hind and what happens to him throughout the story?

Robson Hind is a very wealthy man and jet chief of Number Four. The son of the manager of Hoskins Corporation, Hind was basically guaranteed a spot in the Five Ship Plan. Just like Barry Barr, he was instantly attracted to Dorothy Voorhees and her jet-black hair, high cheekbones, and intelligence. Before their ships take off, Hind conspires to join her on Number Three or transfer her to Number Four. However, his scheme eventually fails. Before Three lifts off, he sends Dorothy a letter pretending to be Barry’s imaginary wife from Philadelphia, asking her to stay away from him so his wife and children can still have him. This works for a time in keeping Dorothy away from Barry. Once again, however, Hind’s scheme ultimately fails once they arrive on Venus and Dorothy is near Barry again. While on Number Four, Hind refuses to exit the spaceship to work on the meteor shards, citing his assigned status. When Barry volunteers, Hind is secretly happy, almost as if he wants him out of the picture for good. After their arrival on Venus, Dorothy stays away from Barry for a time, but eventually runs into his hospital room and embraces him. She discovers that Hind’s letter was a lie and rushes into Barry’s arms for good. Presumably, once Hind discovered this, he dismantled Barry’s life-saving moisture machine and locked him in the room to die.

Describe the Five Ship Plan. [SEP] <s> THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS By ERIK FENNEL On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers. It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing. In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open. The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers. Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence. The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him. Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness. Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky. Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully. Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action. It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders. At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch. The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power. There's metal in the field! His voice was high and unsteady. <doc-sep>Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate. Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind. It must be cleared. From the outside. Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered. Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations. The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death. Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief. I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty. Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man. For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel. For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty. He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock. But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility. Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness. For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand. Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive— <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations. Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here. First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor. Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt. Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible. But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions. On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell. Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials. Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions. Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end. She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt. But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires. The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate. Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed. But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship. He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action. Then it was done. As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations. <doc-sep>Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and NickPodtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk. I could eat a cow with the smallpox, Barry declared. Nick grinned. No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice jobof work out there. Barry unhitched his straps and sat up. Say, he asked anxiously. What's haywire with the air? Nick looked startled. Nothing. Everything checked out when I came offwatch a few minutes ago. Barry shrugged. Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch ahandout. He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley insideout while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait onhim. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and drynesshe had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult tobreathe. He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened aroundhim. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer. The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked! Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead.The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmentrained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress.Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchablethirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult. A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling ofexultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, forthe beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were notnecessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was,felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead. Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Renohimself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-createdsupport of flame. You're almost in, a voice chanted into his headphones throughcrackling, sizzling static. Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it!Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER! The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled,steadied. Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waitingwith the others when Captain Reno gave the last order. Airlock open. Both doors. Venusian air poured in. For this I left Panama? one of the men yelped. Enough to gag a maggot, another agreed with hand to nose. It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot andunbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decayingvegetation. But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles inhis chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened. The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassingvapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light. Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet abovea quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearbythe identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. Themist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, roundedoutlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried intheir cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet outof the marsh. The Colony! Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp,extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a fewminutes the new arrivals were scrambling down. Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk.Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for oneparticular figure among the men and women who waited. Dorothy! he said fervently. Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss. Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on anexpression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing hesaw was Robson Hind looming beside her. By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeplylined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialistin tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid arestraining hand on his shoulder. Water! Barry croaked. The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as hispatient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking waterdirectly into his lungs. Doctor, he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. Whatare my chances? On the level. Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. There's not a thing—not adamned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science. Barry lay still. Your body is undergoing certain radical changes, the doctorcontinued, and you know as much—more about your condition than I do.If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die ofa coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seemsto give you relief. Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on eachside itched infuriatingly. What are these changes? he asked. What's this? Those things seem to be— the doctor began hesitantly. Damn it, Iknow it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills. Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyondshock. But there must be— Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and archedinvoluntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion. II Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiationshad inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr.Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen hemust remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains. When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine.Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared. Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry, he began. Stuff it, the sick man interrupted. I want favors. Can do? Nick nodded vigorously. First cut that air conditioner and get the window open. Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavyplastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp,malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief. It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And hewas not an engineer for nothing. Got a pencil? he asked. He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to needdetailed drawings. Think you can get materials? Nick glanced at the sketch. Hell, man, for you I can get anything theColony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it. Two days? Nick looked insulted. He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. Apower line and water tube were run through the metal partition to thecorridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched wasready. Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshapednozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal sizethat hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops thatfell toward the metal floor. Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features. Perfect. Now put the window back. Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded windowmight invite disaster. A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. Theroom was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almostliquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceilingand furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and thescavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess waterfrom the floor. The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wetfrom the short exposure. It was abnormal. But so was Barry Barr. With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover someof his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent insleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as thoughshe were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—hereyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips thatseemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself tofulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacyfrom some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body. After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They camein a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen sinceTraining Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquidatmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits. But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. Ateach knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back witha sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not cometo him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from eveninquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in theColony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a cagedanimal. Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brighteningand darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian dayprogressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something ofVenusian conditions and the story of the Colony. Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smearyimages of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved tobe a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew hadblasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks withflame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats ofstrength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipmentbefore the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze. Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures thatslithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog,the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. Forweeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last,beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm,almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping ofrock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered. One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but theothers had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it upin time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, thesecondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony hadestablished a tenuous foothold. Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringingreinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony'sstruggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extendedor detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries. The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights whichby radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blankmaps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainlyjungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings awayfrom base had been judged too hazardous. Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactiveminerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide anadequate though monotonous food source. Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the foggigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunatelythey were harmless and timid. In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced andfought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearancepossessed surprisingly venomous characteristics. The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony tominimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but theblasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grewwith a vigor approaching fury. Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armoredmonsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to thebrontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers thatused the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They wereapparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk madethem dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it,and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repelthe beasts. The most important question—that of the presence or absence ofintelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the menreported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when nearopen water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would haveestablished contact. <doc-sep>Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared. But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition. Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him. Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes. Huh? he grunted. Who? Me? Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter! Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly. Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice. Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly. I believe you, Barry. She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist. When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features. The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan. But even with his trickery Hind had lost. He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom. The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off. He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest. Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room. Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help. The door was locked! He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed. He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped. Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered. He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough! He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness. There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground. Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath. Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale. Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water. III Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus. Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers. Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids. For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim. Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off. He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer. He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection. He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank. Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless. Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward. Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman. Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder. Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing. Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working. Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage. It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt. Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close. Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp. Barry stared through the reddening water. Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively. But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind. One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord. One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break. He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out. Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously. Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly. The other one turned too late as Barry leaped. Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the Five Ship Plan.

After discovering Mars and the moon, humanity decided to conquer yet another planet: Venus. However, Venus was too far away to safely carry the amount of fuel needed for a round trip mission. So, the Five Ship Plan evolved. Five rockets were to fly to Venus at separate intervals. Those who landed first would build a colony to live in and welcome the others to the surface of the planet. Once all five had arrived, they would figure out which ship was in the best shape and transfer all remaining fuel to that one. The colonists would head back home if Venus was completely uninhabitable, or remain on the planet for the time being, living out their lives on the colony.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> MASTER of Life and Death by ROBERT SILVERBERG ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y. MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property Printed in U.S.A. [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world. For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH? CAST OF CHARACTERS ROY WALTON He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means . FITZMAUGHAM His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet. FRED WALTON His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size. LEE PERCY His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills. PRIOR With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son? DR. LAMARRE He died for discovering the secret of immortality. Contents I The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place. Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters. So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice. Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all. His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay. He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it. It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization. Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition. He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings. Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came. There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data. It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage. He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep. That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute. The annunciator chimed. I'm busy, Walton said immediately. There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300. Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment. Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all. Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need— The door burst open. A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers. Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior. The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did. Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you? Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of— One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all. Search him, Walton said. They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health? Neither. Leave him here with me. Are you sure you— Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now get out ! They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards. Take a seat, Mr. Prior. I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man. I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior. Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you— That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor? Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted. Grinning, Walton said, I have to do something when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable. The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently. Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance— Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him. Mr. Walton.... Yes? My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now.... Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy. He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you— Walton rose. No , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program. I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected— You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live. I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now? It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits. Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked. Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you. Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer. But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us. Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks. In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time. It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food? Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing. Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now? The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too. What good are poets? he asked himself savagely. The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home. Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision. The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act. But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one. Prior's baby. With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour. II He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway. There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law. Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law. He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor. Roy. At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere. Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham. The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter? Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately. As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself. The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you? I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs. Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone? No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention. I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think. Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little. FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy. The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination. As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning? Yes, Walton said. He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good? That's right, sir, Walton said tightly. He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind? Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down. Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles. Of course, sir. The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign: FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now. The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day. I'll try, sir. Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone. Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know! Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept. <doc-sep>The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data. While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night. Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do? I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine? Not at all, sir. Go right ahead. Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence. No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself. Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior. A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot: 3216847AB1 PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz. An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card: EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend. Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior. He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket. That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2,tubercular-prone . He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits. He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good. Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it. The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby. He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away. Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process? <doc-sep>Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the mainsection of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there,each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from oneto the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above. The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at itslocal clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and acertificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied acertificate ... and life. Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here? Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try tokeep in touch with every department we have, you know. Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We'rereally getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton! Umm. Yes. Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he coulddo about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in hisprotégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose. Seen my brother around? he asked. Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get himfor you, Mr. Walton? No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later. Inwardly,Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor inthe employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, andRoy did not care to have Fred know he was down there. Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump,squalling babies, and said, Find many sour ones today? Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc,two blind, one congenital syph. That only makes six, Walton said. Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest haul we've had yet.Seven in one morning. Have any trouble with the parents? What do you think? the doctor asked. But some of them seemed tounderstand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though. Walton shuddered. You remember his name? he asked, with feigned calm. Silence for a moment. No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look itup for you if you like. Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly. He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the executionchamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names athis desk when Walton appeared. Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. Hewas short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contactlenses in his weak blue eyes. Morning, Mr. Walton. Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you? Eleven hundred, as usual. Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said.To keep public opinion on our side. Sir? Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby thatcomes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been nomistake. Got that? Mistake? But how— Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at oneof the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news getsout. How glibly I reel this stuff off , Walton thought in amazement. Falbrough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-checkeverything from now on. Good. Begin with the 1100 batch. Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He leftvia a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube. Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of atowering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. Heremembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception,the whole framework crumbles. Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was littledoubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what hehad done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow. The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep callingyou, sir. Put him on. The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness hadgiven way to wild-eyed tenseness. What is it, Doctor? It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'llnever guess what just happened— No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up. I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me thismorning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sentto me! No! It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his cardright here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern isfine. Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked. No, sir. Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting greatanxiety. Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet.Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out thatthere's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over usin half an hour. Yes, sir. Falbrough looked terribly grave. What should I do, sir? Don't say a word about this to anyone , not even the men in theexamining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents,apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking forany future cases of this sort. Certainly, sir. Is that all? It is, Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deepbreath and stared bleakly at the far wall. The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the EqualizationLaw—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminalas the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators,or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor. He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham andthe Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had doneit, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life,even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby. Well, the thing was done. No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have tofinish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distantplaces and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning'sactivities. The annunciator chimed again. Your brother is on the wire, sir. Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, Put him on. Somehow, Frednever called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. AndWalton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by thiscall. No good at all. III Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out ofthe swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, builtcloser to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven,next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to get evenwith his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but toFred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height. Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression oftremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image totake shape, and when the time lag was over he said, Well, Fred? Whatgoes? His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down herea little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit? I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn'thave time. Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred'slapel, and refused to look anywhere else. Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though. Official business! Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened tobe using the computer shortly after you this morning. I wascurious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript ofyour conversation with the machine. Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line andsay, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeekcomputer outlet is confidential. Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,Roy? How much do you know? You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word ofthis, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Waltondoesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no! Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly. You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,shall we? Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, thoughthe ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screencloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have somework to do now. His voice was barely audible. I won't keep you any longer, then, Fred said. The screen went dead. Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. Henudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glasscleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside. Idiot! he thought. Fool! He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomedto an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could seethrough Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and hisfather-substitute. FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as forFred.... There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never beenparticularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (nowalmost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Theirparents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred hadbeen sent to the public crèche. After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, aneducation in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's privatesecretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistantadministrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep sectionof Popeek, thanks to Roy. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Roy Walton is the Assistant Administrator of the Bureau of Population Equalization, otherwise known as Popeek. In the six weeks that they have been working, thousands of people have been euthanized, sterilized, and relocated in order to curb population growth and overcrowding. Roy Walton arrives at his desk, filled with papers, and settles into his miserable job. He asks for a relocation of the people of central Belgium to Patagonia before his receptionist alerts him Mr. Prior is here to see him. He refuses, but Mr. Prior sneaks through security and the unlocked door–Walton’s fault–and demands his attention. He is a famous poet, one Walton admires. He asks Walton to save his son who is to be euthanized for being tubercular. Walton turns him down, but after Prior leaves, his words swim in his head. He realizes he wants to save his baby, and so he sets off to do just that. He runs into his boss, Director FitzMaugham in the elevator and tries to lie his way through the encounter. He narrowly succeeds but is left with the feeling that Director FitzMaughan knew more than he was letting on. Walton gets off at the 20th floor and breezes past the receptionist to input Philp Porter into the computer. A series of cards come out, detailing all the baby’s specifics as well as the tubercular diagnosis. He deletes the cause for euthanization and inputs the new data into the system. He comes back clear. Hoping no one saw him, he walks down past the hall of babies and chats with the doctor, asking where his brother, another doctor, is. Evidently, his brother is running analytics, so Walton is safe for now. He speaks with the executioner, Falbrough, and tells him to double-check every baby before euthanization, due to an unfortunate incident in Europe. Falbrough agrees, and Walton quickly slips back upstairs to his office. Worrying about his actions that day, Walton gets a call from Falbrough informing him that there was a mistake, and they saved a baby’s life that day. Walton tells him to keep it under wraps, and he quickly hangs up. Walton has now committed a felony, and he’s wondering what the long-term effects will be. His brother, Fred, calls him and tells him that he knows what he did. By accessing confidential information (a crime in and of itself), Fred knows that Roy saved that baby’s life illegally. He holds it over his head and asks for a favor in return, as well as silence on Roy’s end. The story ends with Roy’s fate up in the air as well as the fate of the new world order.

Describe the new world order and the Equalization Laws. [SEP] <s> MASTER of Life and Death by ROBERT SILVERBERG ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y. MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property Printed in U.S.A. [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world. For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH? CAST OF CHARACTERS ROY WALTON He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means . FITZMAUGHAM His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet. FRED WALTON His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size. LEE PERCY His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills. PRIOR With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son? DR. LAMARRE He died for discovering the secret of immortality. Contents I The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place. Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters. So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice. Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all. His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay. He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it. It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization. Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition. He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings. Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came. There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data. It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage. He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep. That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute. The annunciator chimed. I'm busy, Walton said immediately. There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300. Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment. Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all. Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need— The door burst open. A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers. Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior. The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did. Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you? Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of— One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all. Search him, Walton said. They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health? Neither. Leave him here with me. Are you sure you— Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now get out ! They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards. Take a seat, Mr. Prior. I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man. I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior. Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you— That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor? Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted. Grinning, Walton said, I have to do something when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable. The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently. Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance— Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him. Mr. Walton.... Yes? My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now.... Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy. He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you— Walton rose. No , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program. I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected— You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live. I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now? It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits. Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked. Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you. Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer. But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us. Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks. In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time. It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food? Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing. Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now? The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too. What good are poets? he asked himself savagely. The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home. Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision. The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act. But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one. Prior's baby. With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour. II He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway. There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law. Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law. He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor. Roy. At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere. Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham. The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter? Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately. As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself. The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you? I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs. Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone? No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention. I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think. Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little. FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy. The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination. As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning? Yes, Walton said. He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good? That's right, sir, Walton said tightly. He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind? Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down. Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles. Of course, sir. The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign: FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now. The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day. I'll try, sir. Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone. Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know! Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept. <doc-sep>The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data. While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night. Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do? I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine? Not at all, sir. Go right ahead. Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence. No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself. Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior. A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot: 3216847AB1 PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz. An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card: EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend. Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior. He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket. That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2,tubercular-prone . He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits. He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good. Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it. The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby. He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away. Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process? <doc-sep>Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the mainsection of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there,each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from oneto the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above. The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at itslocal clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and acertificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied acertificate ... and life. Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here? Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try tokeep in touch with every department we have, you know. Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We'rereally getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton! Umm. Yes. Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he coulddo about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in hisprotégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose. Seen my brother around? he asked. Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get himfor you, Mr. Walton? No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later. Inwardly,Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor inthe employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, andRoy did not care to have Fred know he was down there. Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump,squalling babies, and said, Find many sour ones today? Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc,two blind, one congenital syph. That only makes six, Walton said. Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest haul we've had yet.Seven in one morning. Have any trouble with the parents? What do you think? the doctor asked. But some of them seemed tounderstand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though. Walton shuddered. You remember his name? he asked, with feigned calm. Silence for a moment. No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look itup for you if you like. Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly. He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the executionchamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names athis desk when Walton appeared. Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. Hewas short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contactlenses in his weak blue eyes. Morning, Mr. Walton. Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you? Eleven hundred, as usual. Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said.To keep public opinion on our side. Sir? Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby thatcomes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been nomistake. Got that? Mistake? But how— Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at oneof the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news getsout. How glibly I reel this stuff off , Walton thought in amazement. Falbrough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-checkeverything from now on. Good. Begin with the 1100 batch. Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He leftvia a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube. Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of atowering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. Heremembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception,the whole framework crumbles. Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was littledoubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what hehad done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow. The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep callingyou, sir. Put him on. The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness hadgiven way to wild-eyed tenseness. What is it, Doctor? It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'llnever guess what just happened— No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up. I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me thismorning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sentto me! No! It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his cardright here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern isfine. Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked. No, sir. Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting greatanxiety. Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet.Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out thatthere's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over usin half an hour. Yes, sir. Falbrough looked terribly grave. What should I do, sir? Don't say a word about this to anyone , not even the men in theexamining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents,apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking forany future cases of this sort. Certainly, sir. Is that all? It is, Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deepbreath and stared bleakly at the far wall. The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the EqualizationLaw—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminalas the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators,or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor. He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham andthe Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had doneit, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life,even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby. Well, the thing was done. No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have tofinish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distantplaces and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning'sactivities. The annunciator chimed again. Your brother is on the wire, sir. Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, Put him on. Somehow, Frednever called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. AndWalton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by thiscall. No good at all. III Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out ofthe swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, builtcloser to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven,next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to get evenwith his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but toFred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height. Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression oftremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image totake shape, and when the time lag was over he said, Well, Fred? Whatgoes? His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down herea little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit? I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn'thave time. Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred'slapel, and refused to look anywhere else. Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though. Official business! Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened tobe using the computer shortly after you this morning. I wascurious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript ofyour conversation with the machine. Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line andsay, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeekcomputer outlet is confidential. Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,Roy? How much do you know? You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word ofthis, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Waltondoesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no! Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly. You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,shall we? Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, thoughthe ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screencloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have somework to do now. His voice was barely audible. I won't keep you any longer, then, Fred said. The screen went dead. Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. Henudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glasscleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside. Idiot! he thought. Fool! He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomedto an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could seethrough Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and hisfather-substitute. FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as forFred.... There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never beenparticularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (nowalmost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Theirparents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred hadbeen sent to the public crèche. After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, aneducation in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's privatesecretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistantadministrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep sectionof Popeek, thanks to Roy. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the new world order and the Equalization Laws.

In the year 2232, the Earth’s population of humans had maxed out at seven billion. This huge influx of people and steady population growth caused major poverty, starvation, and trade/supply issues. For these reasons and more, the Equalization Law was implemented in order to contain humanity and limit population growth. One such rule under this new world order was the Equalization Law where all newborn babies must be presented before they are two weeks old to be examined. If they do not have any congenital defects or carry any unwanted genes, they will be allowed to live. If not, they will be committed to euthanization, otherwise known as Happysleep. As well, several thousand members of the elderly population were euthanized, as they were already on death’s doorstep. Thousands of men were sterilized in order to prevent any insufficient offspring, and those that were ill or handicapped in some way were also euthanized. As for overcrowding, the Bureau of Population Equalization (Popeek) also relocates certain groups of people to more empty settings. For example, Roy Walton set up a relocation for several thousand people in Belgium to the empty areas of Patagonia.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> MASTER of Life and Death by ROBERT SILVERBERG ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y. MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property Printed in U.S.A. [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world. For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH? CAST OF CHARACTERS ROY WALTON He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means . FITZMAUGHAM His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet. FRED WALTON His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size. LEE PERCY His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills. PRIOR With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son? DR. LAMARRE He died for discovering the secret of immortality. Contents I The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place. Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters. So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice. Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all. His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay. He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it. It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization. Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition. He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings. Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came. There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data. It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage. He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep. That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute. The annunciator chimed. I'm busy, Walton said immediately. There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300. Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment. Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all. Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need— The door burst open. A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers. Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior. The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did. Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you? Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of— One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all. Search him, Walton said. They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health? Neither. Leave him here with me. Are you sure you— Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now get out ! They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards. Take a seat, Mr. Prior. I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man. I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior. Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you— That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor? Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted. Grinning, Walton said, I have to do something when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable. The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently. Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance— Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him. Mr. Walton.... Yes? My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now.... Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy. He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you— Walton rose. No , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program. I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected— You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live. I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now? It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits. Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked. Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you. Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer. But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us. Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks. In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time. It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food? Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing. Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now? The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too. What good are poets? he asked himself savagely. The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home. Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision. The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act. But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one. Prior's baby. With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour. II He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway. There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law. Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law. He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor. Roy. At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere. Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham. The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter? Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately. As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself. The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you? I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs. Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone? No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention. I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think. Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little. FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy. The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination. As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning? Yes, Walton said. He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good? That's right, sir, Walton said tightly. He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind? Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down. Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles. Of course, sir. The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign: FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now. The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day. I'll try, sir. Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone. Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know! Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept. <doc-sep>The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data. While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night. Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do? I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine? Not at all, sir. Go right ahead. Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence. No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself. Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior. A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot: 3216847AB1 PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz. An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card: EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend. Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior. He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket. That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2,tubercular-prone . He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits. He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good. Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it. The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby. He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away. Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process? <doc-sep>Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the mainsection of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there,each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from oneto the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above. The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at itslocal clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and acertificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied acertificate ... and life. Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here? Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try tokeep in touch with every department we have, you know. Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We'rereally getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton! Umm. Yes. Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he coulddo about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in hisprotégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose. Seen my brother around? he asked. Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get himfor you, Mr. Walton? No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later. Inwardly,Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor inthe employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, andRoy did not care to have Fred know he was down there. Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump,squalling babies, and said, Find many sour ones today? Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc,two blind, one congenital syph. That only makes six, Walton said. Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest haul we've had yet.Seven in one morning. Have any trouble with the parents? What do you think? the doctor asked. But some of them seemed tounderstand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though. Walton shuddered. You remember his name? he asked, with feigned calm. Silence for a moment. No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look itup for you if you like. Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly. He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the executionchamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names athis desk when Walton appeared. Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. Hewas short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contactlenses in his weak blue eyes. Morning, Mr. Walton. Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you? Eleven hundred, as usual. Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said.To keep public opinion on our side. Sir? Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby thatcomes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been nomistake. Got that? Mistake? But how— Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at oneof the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news getsout. How glibly I reel this stuff off , Walton thought in amazement. Falbrough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-checkeverything from now on. Good. Begin with the 1100 batch. Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He leftvia a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube. Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of atowering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. Heremembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception,the whole framework crumbles. Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was littledoubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what hehad done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow. The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep callingyou, sir. Put him on. The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness hadgiven way to wild-eyed tenseness. What is it, Doctor? It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'llnever guess what just happened— No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up. I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me thismorning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sentto me! No! It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his cardright here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern isfine. Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked. No, sir. Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting greatanxiety. Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet.Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out thatthere's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over usin half an hour. Yes, sir. Falbrough looked terribly grave. What should I do, sir? Don't say a word about this to anyone , not even the men in theexamining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents,apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking forany future cases of this sort. Certainly, sir. Is that all? It is, Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deepbreath and stared bleakly at the far wall. The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the EqualizationLaw—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminalas the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators,or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor. He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham andthe Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had doneit, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life,even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby. Well, the thing was done. No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have tofinish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distantplaces and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning'sactivities. The annunciator chimed again. Your brother is on the wire, sir. Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, Put him on. Somehow, Frednever called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. AndWalton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by thiscall. No good at all. III Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out ofthe swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, builtcloser to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven,next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to get evenwith his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but toFred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height. Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression oftremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image totake shape, and when the time lag was over he said, Well, Fred? Whatgoes? His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down herea little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit? I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn'thave time. Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred'slapel, and refused to look anywhere else. Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though. Official business! Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened tobe using the computer shortly after you this morning. I wascurious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript ofyour conversation with the machine. Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line andsay, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeekcomputer outlet is confidential. Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,Roy? How much do you know? You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word ofthis, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Waltondoesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no! Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly. You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,shall we? Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, thoughthe ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screencloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have somework to do now. His voice was barely audible. I won't keep you any longer, then, Fred said. The screen went dead. Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. Henudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glasscleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside. Idiot! he thought. Fool! He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomedto an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could seethrough Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and hisfather-substitute. FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as forFred.... There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never beenparticularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (nowalmost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Theirparents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred hadbeen sent to the public crèche. After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, aneducation in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's privatesecretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistantadministrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep sectionof Popeek, thanks to Roy. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg takes place on Earth many years in the future, specifically June 10, 2232, or six weeks after the equalization laws were implemented. The story takes place within the confines of the Cullen building, specifically through the twentieth and twenty-ninth floors. It starts in Roy Walton’s office on the twenty-eighth floor, designed à la 22nd Century neo-Victorian style. Roy redesigned his office, changing the lights, windows, and removing the trim, but the room still felt ugly to him. His office has a desk with a firearm strapped to the bottom, and the door features a lock so as to prevent an assassination. He communicates with people through a holographic video call, and papers and assignments are sent to his desk immediately. Throughout the story, Roy travels down the elevator to the 20th floor, otherwise known as the Euthanization Clinic. There is a receptionist there as well as several computers. Different offices house different doctors, but he makes his to the center for babies where the executioner works. The rooms are very sterile and hospital-like. Each baby had its own pen, and several doctors examined them all while parents watched from screens.

Who is Fred Walton, and what is his significance in the story? [SEP] <s> MASTER of Life and Death by ROBERT SILVERBERG ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y. MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property Printed in U.S.A. [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world. For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH? CAST OF CHARACTERS ROY WALTON He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means . FITZMAUGHAM His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet. FRED WALTON His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size. LEE PERCY His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills. PRIOR With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son? DR. LAMARRE He died for discovering the secret of immortality. Contents I The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place. Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters. So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice. Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all. His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay. He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it. It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization. Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition. He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings. Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came. There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data. It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage. He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep. That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute. The annunciator chimed. I'm busy, Walton said immediately. There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300. Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment. Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all. Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need— The door burst open. A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers. Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior. The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did. Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you? Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of— One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all. Search him, Walton said. They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health? Neither. Leave him here with me. Are you sure you— Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now get out ! They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards. Take a seat, Mr. Prior. I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man. I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior. Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you— That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor? Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted. Grinning, Walton said, I have to do something when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable. The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently. Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance— Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him. Mr. Walton.... Yes? My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now.... Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy. He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you— Walton rose. No , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program. I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected— You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live. I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now? It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits. Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked. Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you. Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer. But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us. Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks. In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time. It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food? Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing. Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now? The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too. What good are poets? he asked himself savagely. The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home. Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision. The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act. But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one. Prior's baby. With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour. II He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway. There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law. Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law. He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor. Roy. At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere. Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham. The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter? Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately. As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself. The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you? I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs. Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone? No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention. I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think. Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little. FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy. The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination. As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning? Yes, Walton said. He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good? That's right, sir, Walton said tightly. He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind? Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down. Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles. Of course, sir. The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign: FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now. The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day. I'll try, sir. Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone. Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know! Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept. <doc-sep>The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data. While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night. Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do? I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine? Not at all, sir. Go right ahead. Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence. No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself. Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior. A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot: 3216847AB1 PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz. An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card: EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend. Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior. He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket. That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2,tubercular-prone . He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits. He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good. Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it. The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby. He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away. Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process? <doc-sep>Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the mainsection of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there,each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from oneto the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above. The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at itslocal clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and acertificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied acertificate ... and life. Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here? Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try tokeep in touch with every department we have, you know. Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We'rereally getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton! Umm. Yes. Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he coulddo about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in hisprotégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose. Seen my brother around? he asked. Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get himfor you, Mr. Walton? No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later. Inwardly,Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor inthe employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, andRoy did not care to have Fred know he was down there. Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump,squalling babies, and said, Find many sour ones today? Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc,two blind, one congenital syph. That only makes six, Walton said. Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest haul we've had yet.Seven in one morning. Have any trouble with the parents? What do you think? the doctor asked. But some of them seemed tounderstand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though. Walton shuddered. You remember his name? he asked, with feigned calm. Silence for a moment. No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look itup for you if you like. Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly. He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the executionchamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names athis desk when Walton appeared. Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. Hewas short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contactlenses in his weak blue eyes. Morning, Mr. Walton. Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you? Eleven hundred, as usual. Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said.To keep public opinion on our side. Sir? Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby thatcomes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been nomistake. Got that? Mistake? But how— Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at oneof the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news getsout. How glibly I reel this stuff off , Walton thought in amazement. Falbrough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-checkeverything from now on. Good. Begin with the 1100 batch. Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He leftvia a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube. Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of atowering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. Heremembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception,the whole framework crumbles. Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was littledoubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what hehad done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow. The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep callingyou, sir. Put him on. The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness hadgiven way to wild-eyed tenseness. What is it, Doctor? It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'llnever guess what just happened— No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up. I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me thismorning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sentto me! No! It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his cardright here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern isfine. Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked. No, sir. Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting greatanxiety. Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet.Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out thatthere's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over usin half an hour. Yes, sir. Falbrough looked terribly grave. What should I do, sir? Don't say a word about this to anyone , not even the men in theexamining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents,apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking forany future cases of this sort. Certainly, sir. Is that all? It is, Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deepbreath and stared bleakly at the far wall. The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the EqualizationLaw—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminalas the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators,or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor. He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham andthe Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had doneit, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life,even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby. Well, the thing was done. No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have tofinish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distantplaces and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning'sactivities. The annunciator chimed again. Your brother is on the wire, sir. Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, Put him on. Somehow, Frednever called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. AndWalton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by thiscall. No good at all. III Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out ofthe swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, builtcloser to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven,next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to get evenwith his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but toFred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height. Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression oftremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image totake shape, and when the time lag was over he said, Well, Fred? Whatgoes? His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down herea little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit? I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn'thave time. Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred'slapel, and refused to look anywhere else. Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though. Official business! Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened tobe using the computer shortly after you this morning. I wascurious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript ofyour conversation with the machine. Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line andsay, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeekcomputer outlet is confidential. Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,Roy? How much do you know? You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word ofthis, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Waltondoesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no! Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly. You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,shall we? Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, thoughthe ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screencloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have somework to do now. His voice was barely audible. I won't keep you any longer, then, Fred said. The screen went dead. Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. Henudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glasscleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside. Idiot! he thought. Fool! He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomedto an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could seethrough Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and hisfather-substitute. FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as forFred.... There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never beenparticularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (nowalmost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Theirparents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred hadbeen sent to the public crèche. After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, aneducation in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's privatesecretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistantadministrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep sectionof Popeek, thanks to Roy. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Fred Walton, and what is his significance in the story?

Fred Walton is the brother of Roy Walton, Assistant Administrator of the Bureau of Population Equalization. Fred Walton is a physician with a vaguely unsuccessful career history: medical school, a failed private practice, and finally becoming a doctor in the euthanizing section of Bureau of Population Equalization (or Popeek) thanks to his brother. Their childhood was tense and difficult. They were orphaned at 7 and 9 respectively when their parents died in a jet crash. Fred Walton and Roy have a very contentious relationship now, shown through Roy’s hindrance to visiting his brother when in his section of the building. Fred Walton is significant because he discovered what Roy Walton had done after breaking into the office computers and looking up confidential information. He uses his knowledge of Roy’s felony and leverages it over his head. Essentially, he offers an ultimatum: Fred will keep quiet, so long as Roy does too. Plus, Roy now owes Fred.

Who is Philip Prior, and what happens to him throughout the story? [SEP] <s> MASTER of Life and Death by ROBERT SILVERBERG ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y. MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property Printed in U.S.A. [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world. For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH? CAST OF CHARACTERS ROY WALTON He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means . FITZMAUGHAM His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet. FRED WALTON His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size. LEE PERCY His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills. PRIOR With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son? DR. LAMARRE He died for discovering the secret of immortality. Contents I The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place. Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters. So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice. Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all. His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay. He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it. It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization. Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition. He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings. Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came. There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data. It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage. He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep. That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute. The annunciator chimed. I'm busy, Walton said immediately. There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300. Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment. Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all. Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need— The door burst open. A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers. Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior. The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did. Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you? Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of— One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all. Search him, Walton said. They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health? Neither. Leave him here with me. Are you sure you— Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now get out ! They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards. Take a seat, Mr. Prior. I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man. I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior. Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you— That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor? Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted. Grinning, Walton said, I have to do something when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable. The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently. Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance— Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him. Mr. Walton.... Yes? My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now.... Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy. He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you— Walton rose. No , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program. I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected— You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live. I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now? It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits. Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked. Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you. Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer. But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us. Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks. In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time. It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food? Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing. Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now? The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too. What good are poets? he asked himself savagely. The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home. Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision. The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act. But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one. Prior's baby. With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour. II He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway. There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law. Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law. He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor. Roy. At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere. Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham. The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter? Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately. As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself. The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you? I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs. Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone? No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention. I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think. Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little. FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy. The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination. As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning? Yes, Walton said. He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good? That's right, sir, Walton said tightly. He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind? Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down. Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles. Of course, sir. The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign: FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now. The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day. I'll try, sir. Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone. Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know! Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept. <doc-sep>The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data. While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night. Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do? I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine? Not at all, sir. Go right ahead. Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence. No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself. Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior. A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot: 3216847AB1 PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz. An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card: EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend. Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior. He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket. That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2,tubercular-prone . He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits. He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good. Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it. The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby. He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away. Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process? <doc-sep>Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the mainsection of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there,each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from oneto the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above. The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at itslocal clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and acertificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied acertificate ... and life. Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here? Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try tokeep in touch with every department we have, you know. Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We'rereally getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton! Umm. Yes. Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he coulddo about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in hisprotégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose. Seen my brother around? he asked. Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get himfor you, Mr. Walton? No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later. Inwardly,Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor inthe employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, andRoy did not care to have Fred know he was down there. Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump,squalling babies, and said, Find many sour ones today? Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc,two blind, one congenital syph. That only makes six, Walton said. Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest haul we've had yet.Seven in one morning. Have any trouble with the parents? What do you think? the doctor asked. But some of them seemed tounderstand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though. Walton shuddered. You remember his name? he asked, with feigned calm. Silence for a moment. No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look itup for you if you like. Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly. He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the executionchamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names athis desk when Walton appeared. Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. Hewas short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contactlenses in his weak blue eyes. Morning, Mr. Walton. Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you? Eleven hundred, as usual. Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said.To keep public opinion on our side. Sir? Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby thatcomes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been nomistake. Got that? Mistake? But how— Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at oneof the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news getsout. How glibly I reel this stuff off , Walton thought in amazement. Falbrough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-checkeverything from now on. Good. Begin with the 1100 batch. Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He leftvia a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube. Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of atowering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. Heremembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception,the whole framework crumbles. Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was littledoubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what hehad done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow. The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep callingyou, sir. Put him on. The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness hadgiven way to wild-eyed tenseness. What is it, Doctor? It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'llnever guess what just happened— No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up. I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me thismorning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sentto me! No! It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his cardright here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern isfine. Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked. No, sir. Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting greatanxiety. Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet.Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out thatthere's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over usin half an hour. Yes, sir. Falbrough looked terribly grave. What should I do, sir? Don't say a word about this to anyone , not even the men in theexamining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents,apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking forany future cases of this sort. Certainly, sir. Is that all? It is, Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deepbreath and stared bleakly at the far wall. The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the EqualizationLaw—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminalas the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators,or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor. He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham andthe Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had doneit, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life,even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby. Well, the thing was done. No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have tofinish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distantplaces and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning'sactivities. The annunciator chimed again. Your brother is on the wire, sir. Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, Put him on. Somehow, Frednever called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. AndWalton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by thiscall. No good at all. III Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out ofthe swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, builtcloser to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven,next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to get evenwith his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but toFred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height. Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression oftremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image totake shape, and when the time lag was over he said, Well, Fred? Whatgoes? His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down herea little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit? I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn'thave time. Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred'slapel, and refused to look anywhere else. Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though. Official business! Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened tobe using the computer shortly after you this morning. I wascurious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript ofyour conversation with the machine. Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line andsay, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeekcomputer outlet is confidential. Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,Roy? How much do you know? You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word ofthis, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Waltondoesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no! Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly. You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,shall we? Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, thoughthe ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screencloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have somework to do now. His voice was barely audible. I won't keep you any longer, then, Fred said. The screen went dead. Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. Henudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glasscleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside. Idiot! he thought. Fool! He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomedto an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could seethrough Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and hisfather-substitute. FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as forFred.... There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never beenparticularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (nowalmost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Theirparents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred hadbeen sent to the public crèche. After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, aneducation in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's privatesecretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistantadministrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep sectionof Popeek, thanks to Roy. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Philip Prior, and what happens to him throughout the story?

Philip Prior is the son of Lyle Prior and Ava Leonard Prior. He was born small, a little over 5 pounds, and carries the gene for tuberculosis. Within this new society, this genetic mutation means that Philip Prior has to be euthanized and sent to Happysleep. At only two weeks old, he has been sentenced to death. His father, Lyle Prior the poet, comes to the office of Roy Walton to try and save his son’s life. Although he is unsuccessful at first, his words about what his son could become stuck with Roy and caused him to save Philip’s life. Philip Prior is incredibly significant because his life and sentencing caused Roy Walton to make the first crack in the framework, commit a felony by saving his life, and potentially sentence himself to a failed career and life.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> THE LORELEI DEATH by NELSON S. BOND Far out in limitless Space she plied her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the void, beckoning spacemen to death and destruction with her beautiful siren lure. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship Chickadee II , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too— He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly. There! How do you like that ? Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder. Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck! You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do you think of it, Padre? Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is some Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—' Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls! Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours! Syd chuckled. O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer! Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I would becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all— The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped. That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun! Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along? No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em. O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later! And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the Chickadee onto the soil of the asteroid Danae. <doc-sep>Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the townbeyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice lucentite Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terranormal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for itscradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System,and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulderswith citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians,petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus,Earthman—all were here. Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. Abrilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to: XU'UL'S SOLAREST Barroom—Casino—Dancing 100—Lovely Hostesses—100 He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vyingfor the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2)helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftlyas possible from the credits in his money belt. Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true;but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passedthrough it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusianswere straining the structure with a native sing-stomp, and ended upfinally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private barunfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender. The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chipentered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting. Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse? This was more like it! Chip grinned. Scotch, he said. Old Spaceman. And let's have a new bottle, Curly.None of that doctored swill. Of courrsse, ssirr! piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed abottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back athim. Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another. Hetook a deep, appreciative sniff. And don't let any of those dizzydolls in here, he ordered. I've got a lot of back drinking to catchup on, and I don't want to be disturbed— Hey! In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burstopen, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A fingerpointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared: Stop! Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted onfour planets for murder! <doc-sep>Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And— Johnny! Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did you dropfrom? The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp. I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you? We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and— Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron! You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare! [1] Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market? Warren shook his head. Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo— Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned? Why—why, yes. From where? Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong? Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything wrong , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei! <doc-sep>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction. He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. ' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —' The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him. It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death. The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen. Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered? She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft! Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess,though? Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy— A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light. Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , becauseit's being plated right now! Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance. By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and— It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is? That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway— Chip! Look out! <doc-sep>Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly,thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yetunopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousandshards against a wall. Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had causedJohnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar wasblazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from thedark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face! The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper.His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged tothe floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's bodyjerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charredflesh. With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his kneesbehind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistolwas in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in hisheart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing lividdeath into the shadows. His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawnin inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered withone long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newlyscarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship. Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of poundingfootsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend,seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering lifebeneath still smoldering cloth. He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead. A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would payfor this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead thehue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun asthe footsteps drew nearer. Hurry! he cried. This way! Follow me— In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enoughto let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room,now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space,quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help. After him! Come on! He— And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of themob. The voice of the Martian bartender. That's him! he piped sibilantly. That's the man! He's a desperatecriminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came toarrest him— and now he's murdered the Spacie ! <doc-sep>II The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing ChipWarren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, forsuddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveledand fired. The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squanderin vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through thedoorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the realmurderer, and in that way clear himself.... But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleywaybehind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chipknew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get outof here. But quick! It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed thescarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuerscould no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to thespaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the Chickadee . Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in theelectro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, Salvation, look what the catdrug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life toomuch for you? Never mind that now! panted Chip. Is this tin can ready to roll?Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs— Palmer said anxiously, Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quitefinished plating the hull, Chip! Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very fewminutes— Ahh! There he goes now! Chip had gone to the perilens themoment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which hehad expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from itscradle. Hurry, Syd! There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know who went where ; he was bursting with curiosity about the importantbusiness which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; hiskeen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. Buthe was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia. O.Q., he snapped. It's your pigeon! And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, thescuff of equipment being disengaged from the Chickadee's hull, thethin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warrenquizzically. It smells, he ventured gently, like trouble. It is trouble, Chip told him. Plenty trouble! In that case— said the old man mildly—I guess I'd better get therotor stripped for action. He stepped to the gunnery turret, droppedthe fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. 'Be ye men ofpeace,' he intoned, 'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah! Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom. All set, Chip! Lift gravs! Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the Chickadee rocketed into space on a pillar of flame. <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry. In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend. As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes. I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of him . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway. Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it. Salvation shook his head. That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip! B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends! Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder! Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy. He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely? I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled. The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd better keep a sharp lookout! He turned to the perilens once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen— Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—! He pressed the plunger that transferred the perilens image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal. And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition. The Lorelei! <doc-sep>At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's telaudio wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for, die for! A woman like no other in the universe. Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd! Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the perilens .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the perilens was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted. But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger. We're blanketed! Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet.... He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The Chickadee groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral. It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the Chickadee must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments.... And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the Chickadee like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith: We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—' Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast! Chip stared at his companion numbly. But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us— Half-plated! howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the Chickadee ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip! He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the perilens vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting. He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold. 'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—' Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining Chickadee stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning. For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory.... After that—nothing! <doc-sep>III From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery. —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out— Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the Chickadee , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun.... Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head. My—my companions? he demanded weakly. The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt. Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time! Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly. What, he stormed, is the meaning of this? The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth. Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight! Talk? Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us. Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you are theLorelei's men? The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from? And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man did holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed. And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly. Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Chip Warren and his crew of Salvation Smith, a righteous missionary, and Syd Palmer, mechanic, have landed in the Belt on their spaceship Chickadee II after discovering a mountain of ekalastron, a highly sought-after material. Their new fortune is cause for celebration, so Chip picks out a flashy tie, which Syd and Salvation both make fun of him for, and sets off to get a drink. Syd and Salvation do not join him, as the repairmen were still encasing their ship with ekalastron. The asteroid Danae has a gravity that’s modeled after Earth, a good atmosphere, and features a wide variety of interplanetary species. Chip walks into Xu’ul’s Solarest and strolls past all the charm-gals, busy cabarets, and the native sing-stomp, before arriving in an empty, private bar. The Martian bartender serves him a new bottle of Scotch but is quickly frightened when a member of the Space Patrol steps in and accuses Chip of murder. The Martian runs off before the cop reveals himself to be Johnny Haldane, Chip’s old friend. After catching up briefly, Chip tells Johnny about their find on Titania and explains that they turned it all over to the Space Patrol, before visiphoning Earth. At this, Johnny becomes upset and explains that their message could have been intercepted by the mythic Lorelei. Chip laughs him off, but Johnny explains that for the past two months a beautiful blonde woman has been luring spacemen to their doom and stealing all their cargo. They decide to take on the Lorelei together, especially now that the Chickadee will be plated with ekalastron, an impenetrable material. Johnny claims he knows one of Lorelei’s men is on Danae right now getting more supplies, so they could follow him back to their base. As he says that, Johnny saves Chip by throwing him to the floor and sacrificing himself. He is killed by an assailant with a scar on his face. Chip tries to save his friend, but the bartender rushes back in with a horde of people, claiming Chip is the murder. Chip runs away, chasing after the true killer, but loses him. He runs back to the Chickadee, and they quickly take off, even though the plating was only halfway finished. Syd and Salvation question him, and he explains the situation, as they follow the scarred man to the Bog, an extremely dangerous asteroid-ridden area. As Chip attempts to look through the perilens, a beautiful woman pops up, crying for help: the Lorelei. Chaos ensues, and they try to get her off their transmission, while a blast rocks the hull. The Chickadee crashed, and Chip wakes up to see a large man standing above him. He and his men question Chip about the ekalastron, but Chip won’t reveal its location. The story ends with the pirate threatening to torture Chip.

Who or what is the Lorelei? [SEP] <s> THE LORELEI DEATH by NELSON S. BOND Far out in limitless Space she plied her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the void, beckoning spacemen to death and destruction with her beautiful siren lure. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship Chickadee II , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too— He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly. There! How do you like that ? Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder. Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck! You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do you think of it, Padre? Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is some Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—' Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls! Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours! Syd chuckled. O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer! Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I would becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all— The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped. That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun! Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along? No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em. O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later! And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the Chickadee onto the soil of the asteroid Danae. <doc-sep>Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the townbeyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice lucentite Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terranormal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for itscradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System,and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulderswith citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians,petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus,Earthman—all were here. Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. Abrilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to: XU'UL'S SOLAREST Barroom—Casino—Dancing 100—Lovely Hostesses—100 He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vyingfor the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2)helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftlyas possible from the credits in his money belt. Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true;but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passedthrough it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusianswere straining the structure with a native sing-stomp, and ended upfinally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private barunfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender. The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chipentered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting. Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse? This was more like it! Chip grinned. Scotch, he said. Old Spaceman. And let's have a new bottle, Curly.None of that doctored swill. Of courrsse, ssirr! piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed abottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back athim. Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another. Hetook a deep, appreciative sniff. And don't let any of those dizzydolls in here, he ordered. I've got a lot of back drinking to catchup on, and I don't want to be disturbed— Hey! In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burstopen, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A fingerpointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared: Stop! Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted onfour planets for murder! <doc-sep>Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And— Johnny! Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did you dropfrom? The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp. I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you? We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and— Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron! You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare! [1] Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market? Warren shook his head. Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo— Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned? Why—why, yes. From where? Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong? Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything wrong , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei! <doc-sep>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction. He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. ' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —' The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him. It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death. The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen. Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered? She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft! Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess,though? Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy— A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light. Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , becauseit's being plated right now! Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance. By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and— It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is? That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway— Chip! Look out! <doc-sep>Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly,thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yetunopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousandshards against a wall. Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had causedJohnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar wasblazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from thedark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face! The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper.His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged tothe floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's bodyjerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charredflesh. With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his kneesbehind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistolwas in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in hisheart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing lividdeath into the shadows. His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawnin inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered withone long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newlyscarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship. Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of poundingfootsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend,seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering lifebeneath still smoldering cloth. He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead. A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would payfor this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead thehue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun asthe footsteps drew nearer. Hurry! he cried. This way! Follow me— In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enoughto let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room,now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space,quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help. After him! Come on! He— And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of themob. The voice of the Martian bartender. That's him! he piped sibilantly. That's the man! He's a desperatecriminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came toarrest him— and now he's murdered the Spacie ! <doc-sep>II The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing ChipWarren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, forsuddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveledand fired. The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squanderin vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through thedoorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the realmurderer, and in that way clear himself.... But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleywaybehind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chipknew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get outof here. But quick! It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed thescarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuerscould no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to thespaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the Chickadee . Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in theelectro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, Salvation, look what the catdrug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life toomuch for you? Never mind that now! panted Chip. Is this tin can ready to roll?Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs— Palmer said anxiously, Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quitefinished plating the hull, Chip! Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very fewminutes— Ahh! There he goes now! Chip had gone to the perilens themoment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which hehad expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from itscradle. Hurry, Syd! There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know who went where ; he was bursting with curiosity about the importantbusiness which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; hiskeen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. Buthe was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia. O.Q., he snapped. It's your pigeon! And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, thescuff of equipment being disengaged from the Chickadee's hull, thethin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warrenquizzically. It smells, he ventured gently, like trouble. It is trouble, Chip told him. Plenty trouble! In that case— said the old man mildly—I guess I'd better get therotor stripped for action. He stepped to the gunnery turret, droppedthe fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. 'Be ye men ofpeace,' he intoned, 'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah! Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom. All set, Chip! Lift gravs! Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the Chickadee rocketed into space on a pillar of flame. <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry. In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend. As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes. I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of him . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway. Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it. Salvation shook his head. That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip! B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends! Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder! Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy. He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely? I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled. The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd better keep a sharp lookout! He turned to the perilens once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen— Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—! He pressed the plunger that transferred the perilens image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal. And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition. The Lorelei! <doc-sep>At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's telaudio wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for, die for! A woman like no other in the universe. Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd! Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the perilens .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the perilens was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted. But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger. We're blanketed! Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet.... He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The Chickadee groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral. It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the Chickadee must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments.... And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the Chickadee like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith: We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—' Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast! Chip stared at his companion numbly. But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us— Half-plated! howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the Chickadee ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip! He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the perilens vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting. He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold. 'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—' Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining Chickadee stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning. For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory.... After that—nothing! <doc-sep>III From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery. —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out— Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the Chickadee , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun.... Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head. My—my companions? he demanded weakly. The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt. Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time! Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly. What, he stormed, is the meaning of this? The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth. Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight! Talk? Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us. Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you are theLorelei's men? The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from? And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man did holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed. And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly. Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who or what is the Lorelei?

The Lorelei was first an ancient myth that plagued all spacemen. It was a Teutonic myth, similar to the sirens of ancient Greece, about a gorgeous blonde woman who combed her hair and sang to those around her. Her position on the rock lured all the men to their doom, as they would crash around her. That is where the Lorelei originated. In this turn of events, the story has evolved into a present-day pirating crew using the original myth to draw spacemen in. For the past two months, according to Space Patrolman Johnny Haldane, a pirate crew has a beautiful blonde woman calling for help to lure at least a dozen spaceships in before they kill the crew and capture all of their cargo. The pirates then turn on all of the control locks and send the empty ships back out, as they have no space for them in their current base. The Lorelei and her crew intercepted Chip’s message about the ekalastron and set their sights on his ship as their next target.

Who is Johnny Haldane and what happens to him throughout the story? [SEP] <s> THE LORELEI DEATH by NELSON S. BOND Far out in limitless Space she plied her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the void, beckoning spacemen to death and destruction with her beautiful siren lure. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship Chickadee II , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too— He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly. There! How do you like that ? Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder. Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck! You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do you think of it, Padre? Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is some Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—' Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls! Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours! Syd chuckled. O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer! Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I would becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all— The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped. That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun! Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along? No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em. O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later! And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the Chickadee onto the soil of the asteroid Danae. <doc-sep>Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the townbeyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice lucentite Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terranormal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for itscradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System,and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulderswith citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians,petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus,Earthman—all were here. Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. Abrilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to: XU'UL'S SOLAREST Barroom—Casino—Dancing 100—Lovely Hostesses—100 He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vyingfor the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2)helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftlyas possible from the credits in his money belt. Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true;but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passedthrough it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusianswere straining the structure with a native sing-stomp, and ended upfinally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private barunfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender. The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chipentered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting. Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse? This was more like it! Chip grinned. Scotch, he said. Old Spaceman. And let's have a new bottle, Curly.None of that doctored swill. Of courrsse, ssirr! piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed abottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back athim. Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another. Hetook a deep, appreciative sniff. And don't let any of those dizzydolls in here, he ordered. I've got a lot of back drinking to catchup on, and I don't want to be disturbed— Hey! In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burstopen, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A fingerpointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared: Stop! Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted onfour planets for murder! <doc-sep>Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And— Johnny! Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did you dropfrom? The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp. I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you? We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and— Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron! You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare! [1] Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market? Warren shook his head. Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo— Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned? Why—why, yes. From where? Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong? Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything wrong , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei! <doc-sep>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction. He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. ' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —' The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him. It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death. The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen. Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered? She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft! Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess,though? Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy— A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light. Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , becauseit's being plated right now! Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance. By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and— It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is? That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway— Chip! Look out! <doc-sep>Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly,thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yetunopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousandshards against a wall. Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had causedJohnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar wasblazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from thedark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face! The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper.His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged tothe floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's bodyjerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charredflesh. With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his kneesbehind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistolwas in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in hisheart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing lividdeath into the shadows. His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawnin inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered withone long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newlyscarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship. Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of poundingfootsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend,seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering lifebeneath still smoldering cloth. He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead. A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would payfor this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead thehue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun asthe footsteps drew nearer. Hurry! he cried. This way! Follow me— In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enoughto let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room,now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space,quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help. After him! Come on! He— And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of themob. The voice of the Martian bartender. That's him! he piped sibilantly. That's the man! He's a desperatecriminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came toarrest him— and now he's murdered the Spacie ! <doc-sep>II The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing ChipWarren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, forsuddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveledand fired. The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squanderin vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through thedoorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the realmurderer, and in that way clear himself.... But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleywaybehind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chipknew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get outof here. But quick! It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed thescarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuerscould no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to thespaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the Chickadee . Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in theelectro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, Salvation, look what the catdrug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life toomuch for you? Never mind that now! panted Chip. Is this tin can ready to roll?Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs— Palmer said anxiously, Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quitefinished plating the hull, Chip! Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very fewminutes— Ahh! There he goes now! Chip had gone to the perilens themoment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which hehad expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from itscradle. Hurry, Syd! There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know who went where ; he was bursting with curiosity about the importantbusiness which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; hiskeen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. Buthe was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia. O.Q., he snapped. It's your pigeon! And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, thescuff of equipment being disengaged from the Chickadee's hull, thethin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warrenquizzically. It smells, he ventured gently, like trouble. It is trouble, Chip told him. Plenty trouble! In that case— said the old man mildly—I guess I'd better get therotor stripped for action. He stepped to the gunnery turret, droppedthe fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. 'Be ye men ofpeace,' he intoned, 'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah! Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom. All set, Chip! Lift gravs! Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the Chickadee rocketed into space on a pillar of flame. <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry. In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend. As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes. I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of him . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway. Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it. Salvation shook his head. That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip! B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends! Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder! Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy. He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely? I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled. The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd better keep a sharp lookout! He turned to the perilens once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen— Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—! He pressed the plunger that transferred the perilens image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal. And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition. The Lorelei! <doc-sep>At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's telaudio wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for, die for! A woman like no other in the universe. Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd! Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the perilens .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the perilens was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted. But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger. We're blanketed! Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet.... He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The Chickadee groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral. It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the Chickadee must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments.... And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the Chickadee like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith: We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—' Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast! Chip stared at his companion numbly. But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us— Half-plated! howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the Chickadee ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip! He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the perilens vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting. He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold. 'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—' Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining Chickadee stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning. For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory.... After that—nothing! <doc-sep>III From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery. —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out— Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the Chickadee , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun.... Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head. My—my companions? he demanded weakly. The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt. Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time! Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly. What, he stormed, is the meaning of this? The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth. Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight! Talk? Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us. Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you are theLorelei's men? The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from? And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man did holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed. And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly. Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Johnny Haldane and what happens to him throughout the story?

Johnny Haldane is a member of the Space Patrol and one of Chip’s old friends. They talk briefly about their previous adventures and running into each other all across space, which speaks highly of their close bond. He arrives on Dandae to track one of the Lorelei’s crew, hoping to follow him all the way back to their hideout. However, while there, he runs into Chip and makes a grand entrance, accusing him of murder. This causes the bartender to scurry away, so they sit and talk in private while nursing a bottle of scotch. After chatting for a bit, Chip reveals to Johnny that his crew found a mountain of ekalastron and they gave it back to the Space Patrol, as private users might have abused the material. All is well and good until Johnny hears that Chip used his visiphone to get in touch with Earth authorities, which Johnny immediately protests. Evidently, the Lorelei tracks people through visiphone messages and could have intercepted his. They decide to take on the Lorelei together, tracking the crew member back to their base and using Chip’s newly-plated ship for protection. However, before they can move, a man comes in with a scar on his face and shoots at the two of them. Johnny saves Chip’s life by pushing him out of the way but is killed by the blast.

What is ekalastron or No. 97? [SEP] <s> THE LORELEI DEATH by NELSON S. BOND Far out in limitless Space she plied her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the void, beckoning spacemen to death and destruction with her beautiful siren lure. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship Chickadee II , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too— He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly. There! How do you like that ? Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder. Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck! You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do you think of it, Padre? Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is some Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—' Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls! Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours! Syd chuckled. O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer! Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I would becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all— The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped. That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun! Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along? No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em. O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later! And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the Chickadee onto the soil of the asteroid Danae. <doc-sep>Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the townbeyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice lucentite Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terranormal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for itscradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System,and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulderswith citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians,petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus,Earthman—all were here. Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. Abrilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to: XU'UL'S SOLAREST Barroom—Casino—Dancing 100—Lovely Hostesses—100 He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vyingfor the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2)helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftlyas possible from the credits in his money belt. Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true;but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passedthrough it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusianswere straining the structure with a native sing-stomp, and ended upfinally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private barunfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender. The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chipentered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting. Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse? This was more like it! Chip grinned. Scotch, he said. Old Spaceman. And let's have a new bottle, Curly.None of that doctored swill. Of courrsse, ssirr! piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed abottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back athim. Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another. Hetook a deep, appreciative sniff. And don't let any of those dizzydolls in here, he ordered. I've got a lot of back drinking to catchup on, and I don't want to be disturbed— Hey! In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burstopen, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A fingerpointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared: Stop! Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted onfour planets for murder! <doc-sep>Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And— Johnny! Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did you dropfrom? The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp. I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you? We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and— Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron! You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare! [1] Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market? Warren shook his head. Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo— Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned? Why—why, yes. From where? Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong? Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything wrong , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei! <doc-sep>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction. He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. ' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —' The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him. It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death. The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen. Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered? She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft! Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess,though? Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy— A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light. Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , becauseit's being plated right now! Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance. By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and— It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is? That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway— Chip! Look out! <doc-sep>Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly,thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yetunopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousandshards against a wall. Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had causedJohnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar wasblazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from thedark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face! The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper.His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged tothe floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's bodyjerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charredflesh. With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his kneesbehind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistolwas in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in hisheart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing lividdeath into the shadows. His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawnin inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered withone long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newlyscarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship. Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of poundingfootsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend,seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering lifebeneath still smoldering cloth. He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead. A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would payfor this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead thehue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun asthe footsteps drew nearer. Hurry! he cried. This way! Follow me— In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enoughto let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room,now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space,quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help. After him! Come on! He— And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of themob. The voice of the Martian bartender. That's him! he piped sibilantly. That's the man! He's a desperatecriminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came toarrest him— and now he's murdered the Spacie ! <doc-sep>II The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing ChipWarren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, forsuddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveledand fired. The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squanderin vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through thedoorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the realmurderer, and in that way clear himself.... But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleywaybehind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chipknew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get outof here. But quick! It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed thescarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuerscould no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to thespaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the Chickadee . Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in theelectro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, Salvation, look what the catdrug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life toomuch for you? Never mind that now! panted Chip. Is this tin can ready to roll?Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs— Palmer said anxiously, Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quitefinished plating the hull, Chip! Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very fewminutes— Ahh! There he goes now! Chip had gone to the perilens themoment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which hehad expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from itscradle. Hurry, Syd! There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know who went where ; he was bursting with curiosity about the importantbusiness which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; hiskeen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. Buthe was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia. O.Q., he snapped. It's your pigeon! And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, thescuff of equipment being disengaged from the Chickadee's hull, thethin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warrenquizzically. It smells, he ventured gently, like trouble. It is trouble, Chip told him. Plenty trouble! In that case— said the old man mildly—I guess I'd better get therotor stripped for action. He stepped to the gunnery turret, droppedthe fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. 'Be ye men ofpeace,' he intoned, 'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah! Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom. All set, Chip! Lift gravs! Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the Chickadee rocketed into space on a pillar of flame. <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry. In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend. As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes. I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of him . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway. Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it. Salvation shook his head. That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip! B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends! Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder! Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy. He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely? I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled. The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd better keep a sharp lookout! He turned to the perilens once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen— Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—! He pressed the plunger that transferred the perilens image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal. And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition. The Lorelei! <doc-sep>At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's telaudio wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for, die for! A woman like no other in the universe. Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd! Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the perilens .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the perilens was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted. But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger. We're blanketed! Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet.... He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The Chickadee groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral. It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the Chickadee must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments.... And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the Chickadee like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith: We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—' Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast! Chip stared at his companion numbly. But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us— Half-plated! howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the Chickadee ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip! He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the perilens vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting. He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold. 'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—' Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining Chickadee stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning. For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory.... After that—nothing! <doc-sep>III From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery. —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out— Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the Chickadee , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun.... Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head. My—my companions? he demanded weakly. The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt. Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time! Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly. What, he stormed, is the meaning of this? The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth. Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight! Talk? Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us. Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you are theLorelei's men? The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from? And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man did holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed. And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly. Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is ekalastron or No. 97?

Ekalastron is the element No. 97 on the period table. It is an incredibly valuable material due to its properties. It’s an incredibly light metal, and yet it is also impenetrable. Johnny claims that it’s strong enough that a simple film of ekalastron would deflect an entire meteor. Of course, because of this, any amount of ekalastron could make a person very wealthy. Chip and his crew find an entire mountain of ekalastron on the chilly Titania, a satellite off of Uranus. They decided to turn over their find to the Uranus Space Patrol, and then let the Earth authorities know that they were bringing in some cargo.

Who is Salvation Smith, and what is his significance in the story? [SEP] <s> THE LORELEI DEATH by NELSON S. BOND Far out in limitless Space she plied her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the void, beckoning spacemen to death and destruction with her beautiful siren lure. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship Chickadee II , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too— He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly. There! How do you like that ? Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder. Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck! You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do you think of it, Padre? Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is some Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—' Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls! Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours! Syd chuckled. O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer! Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I would becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all— The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped. That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun! Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along? No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em. O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later! And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the Chickadee onto the soil of the asteroid Danae. <doc-sep>Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the townbeyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice lucentite Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terranormal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for itscradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System,and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulderswith citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians,petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus,Earthman—all were here. Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. Abrilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to: XU'UL'S SOLAREST Barroom—Casino—Dancing 100—Lovely Hostesses—100 He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vyingfor the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2)helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftlyas possible from the credits in his money belt. Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true;but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passedthrough it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusianswere straining the structure with a native sing-stomp, and ended upfinally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private barunfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender. The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chipentered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting. Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse? This was more like it! Chip grinned. Scotch, he said. Old Spaceman. And let's have a new bottle, Curly.None of that doctored swill. Of courrsse, ssirr! piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed abottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back athim. Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another. Hetook a deep, appreciative sniff. And don't let any of those dizzydolls in here, he ordered. I've got a lot of back drinking to catchup on, and I don't want to be disturbed— Hey! In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burstopen, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A fingerpointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared: Stop! Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted onfour planets for murder! <doc-sep>Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And— Johnny! Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did you dropfrom? The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp. I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you? We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and— Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron! You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare! [1] Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market? Warren shook his head. Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo— Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned? Why—why, yes. From where? Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong? Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything wrong , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei! <doc-sep>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction. He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. ' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —' The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him. It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death. The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen. Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered? She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft! Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess,though? Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy— A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light. Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , becauseit's being plated right now! Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance. By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and— It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is? That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway— Chip! Look out! <doc-sep>Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly,thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yetunopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousandshards against a wall. Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had causedJohnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar wasblazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from thedark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face! The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper.His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged tothe floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's bodyjerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charredflesh. With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his kneesbehind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistolwas in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in hisheart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing lividdeath into the shadows. His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawnin inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered withone long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newlyscarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship. Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of poundingfootsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend,seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering lifebeneath still smoldering cloth. He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead. A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would payfor this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead thehue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun asthe footsteps drew nearer. Hurry! he cried. This way! Follow me— In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enoughto let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room,now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space,quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help. After him! Come on! He— And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of themob. The voice of the Martian bartender. That's him! he piped sibilantly. That's the man! He's a desperatecriminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came toarrest him— and now he's murdered the Spacie ! <doc-sep>II The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing ChipWarren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, forsuddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveledand fired. The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squanderin vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through thedoorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the realmurderer, and in that way clear himself.... But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleywaybehind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chipknew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get outof here. But quick! It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed thescarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuerscould no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to thespaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the Chickadee . Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in theelectro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, Salvation, look what the catdrug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life toomuch for you? Never mind that now! panted Chip. Is this tin can ready to roll?Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs— Palmer said anxiously, Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quitefinished plating the hull, Chip! Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very fewminutes— Ahh! There he goes now! Chip had gone to the perilens themoment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which hehad expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from itscradle. Hurry, Syd! There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know who went where ; he was bursting with curiosity about the importantbusiness which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; hiskeen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. Buthe was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia. O.Q., he snapped. It's your pigeon! And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, thescuff of equipment being disengaged from the Chickadee's hull, thethin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warrenquizzically. It smells, he ventured gently, like trouble. It is trouble, Chip told him. Plenty trouble! In that case— said the old man mildly—I guess I'd better get therotor stripped for action. He stepped to the gunnery turret, droppedthe fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. 'Be ye men ofpeace,' he intoned, 'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah! Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom. All set, Chip! Lift gravs! Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the Chickadee rocketed into space on a pillar of flame. <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry. In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend. As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes. I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of him . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway. Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it. Salvation shook his head. That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip! B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends! Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder! Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy. He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely? I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled. The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd better keep a sharp lookout! He turned to the perilens once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen— Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—! He pressed the plunger that transferred the perilens image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal. And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition. The Lorelei! <doc-sep>At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's telaudio wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for, die for! A woman like no other in the universe. Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd! Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the perilens .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the perilens was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted. But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger. We're blanketed! Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet.... He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The Chickadee groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral. It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the Chickadee must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments.... And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the Chickadee like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith: We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—' Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast! Chip stared at his companion numbly. But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us— Half-plated! howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the Chickadee ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip! He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the perilens vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting. He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold. 'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—' Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining Chickadee stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning. For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory.... After that—nothing! <doc-sep>III From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery. —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out— Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the Chickadee , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun.... Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head. My—my companions? he demanded weakly. The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt. Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time! Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly. What, he stormed, is the meaning of this? The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth. Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight! Talk? Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us. Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you are theLorelei's men? The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from? And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man did holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed. And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly. Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Salvation Smith, and what is his significance in the story?

Salvation Smith is a highly-religious man and a missionary. However, his god is not a gentle one. Salvation Smith is a scarecrow of a man, tall and lean, who dresses in all black with wavy gray hair. He believed in spreading the word of Yahveh of the Old Testament and took his words to heart. Salvation did not turn away from evil, in fact, he was one of the best shooters in space. Salvation Smith stays behind with Syd Palmer at the beginning of the story, after wisely warning Chip to be careful during his night on the town. Chip and Syd both respect Salvation for his knowledge, faith, and strength, so he is usually listened to. In the end, Salvation helps Chip escape from the authorities and men wrongfully pursuing him and tries to save them from destruction when they encounter the Lorelei. However, the story ends without a complete resolution for Salvation. The readers are unsure if he survived the crash, or if he’d been taken hostage by the pirates. Salvation Smith is often a voice of reason, as well as a great companion throughout the story.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> CONTAGION By KATHERINE MacLEAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food, perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really. It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows. The hunt party of the Explorer filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds. A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired. Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest. Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck. This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly. Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet. <doc-sep>They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship Explorer towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside. But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet. The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion. The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows. They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved. This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder. They lowered their guns. It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac? The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble. Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria. English? gasped June. We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention. <doc-sep>June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map. We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come. Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D. Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore. The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel. What—what is the population of Minos? she asked. He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly. Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired. Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied. They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled. I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them. Joke? Max asked, bewildered. June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us. She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead? He indicated her with a smile. Like you. June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes. In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme? Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable. For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague. Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers. Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look. Plague. What was the disease? Hal Barton asked. Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it. You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice. Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow. Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton. No. Any other diseases? Not a one. Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself! <doc-sep>Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions. The polished silver and black column of the Explorer seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up. Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming. It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough. The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos. <doc-sep>May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully. Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it. Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have. Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics. Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest. You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead. Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm. Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth. High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones: What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat. Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest. The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air. We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet. If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease. Starting with me? Pat asked. Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard. More needles? Yes, and a few little extras thrown in. Rough? It isn't easy. A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs. In the Explorer , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name. But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient. Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions. Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes. All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him. <doc-sep>June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zippedoff her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in awall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall.... I've got a good figure, she said thoughtfully. Max turned at the door. Why this sudden interest in your looks? heasked suspiciously. Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finallyget something to eat? Wait a minute. She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully,using a combination from the ship's directory. How're you doing, Pat? The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startledchuckle. Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to gojump in the lake? Are you hungry? No food since yesterday. We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out, she told Pat andhung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment whichmade shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast. They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealinghamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each ofPat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one ofantihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense systemwould treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless humanblood cells, and fight back against them violently. One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive,so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the humancells, and thus succumb more rapidly. How ya doing, George? Max asked. Routine, George Barton grunted absently. On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed aviewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on thehorizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew fartheraway, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear greenwhere there were fields. Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had beenthere a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. It looks likeWinnipeg, she told them as they paused. When are you doctors going tolet us out of this blithering barberpole? Look, she pointed. See thatpatch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding throughit? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out? <doc-sep>Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily. Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it. People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement. One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes. May I go see him? Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you. Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices. <doc-sep>They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a richsubdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteriawas a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the shiphad been converted to living and working quarters, and it still hadthe original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the soundabsorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at eachtable where people leisurely ate and talked. They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her Junecould hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur ofconversation. —new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in.He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman. The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose threeheaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised inthe growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rosetomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; fourdifferent desserts, and assorted beverages. Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to atable. Brant St. Clair came over. I beg your pardon, Max, but they aresaying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages,for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know? Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked theshy Canadian. He's back already. We just saw him come in. Oh, fine. St. Clair beamed. I had an appointment with him to go outand confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Haveyou seen Bess? Oh—there she is. He turned swiftly and hurried away. A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerlytalking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway,alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem evenlarger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread towardtheir table. Look! said someone. There's the colonist! Shelia, a pretty, jeweledwoman, followed and caught his arm. Did you really swim across ariver to come here? Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from alldirections. Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat withus. Let me help choose your tray. Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialistand wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about huntingwild animals with a bow and arrow. He needs to be rescued, Max said. He won't have a chance to eat. June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat andescorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to beclaiming the hero of the hour. <doc-sep>Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almostvoluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. Heran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He lookedaround at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He saidnothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing. When we build our town and leave the ship, June explained, wewill turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms andcocktail bars that used to be inside. Oh, I'm not complaining, Pat said negligently. He cocked his head tothe music, and tried to locate its source. That's big of you, said Max with gentle irony. They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than aday. Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through,and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another waveof smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked aboutcrops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farmanimals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earthseeds with local ground, about mines and strata. There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair anddrawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could thinkof no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developedthat he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the centerof interest. Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish. June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questionsmore than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at hisjokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces,eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed mostchimingly of all. June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything aman would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a momentmore, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listeningto Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max lookedalmost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she hadforgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimlyaware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat'send of the table. That guy's a menace, Max said, and laughed to himself, cuttinganother slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. What's eating you? headded, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness. Nothing, she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching PatMead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the manshe loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily.They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend theirlives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yetthe sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling ofguilt. Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for themushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat aquestion. Now he was saying, I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds likeyou're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables! Heglanced at them, looking puzzled. See if you two can make anything ofthis. It sounds medical to me. Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it. Len turned back to him. You people live off the country, right? Youhunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one ofthose steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens? <doc-sep>Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry. Why? Len was aggrieved. Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach. Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn. Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors. It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.' Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear. Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells— <doc-sep>She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in theexplanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt toMinos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death andhunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cellshave the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence,hunting, eating and reproducing alone. Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes.He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousandgenerations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alienindigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to thecell that reluctantly learned to absorb it. Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolutionin six months, Pat Mead finished. When they reached to a point wherethey would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people hehad taken them from. What was supposed to happen then? Max asked, leaning forward. I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much aboutit, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wanderingha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke hisneck at the age of eighty. A character, Max said. Why was she afraid? It worked then? Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlersdidn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. Itworked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers werestill eating out of hydroponics tanks. It worked, said Max to Len. You're a plant geneticist and a tankculture expert. There's a job for you. Uh- uh ! Len backed away. It sounds like a medical problem to me.Human cell control—right up your alley. It is a one-way street, Pat warned. Once it is done, you won't beable to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate itjust for the taste. Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. Three of the twelve testhamsters have died, he reported, and turned to Pat. Your people carrythe germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters wereinjected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. Wecan't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would theyobject? We wouldn't want to give you folks germs, Pat smiled. Anything forsafety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first. The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to thehangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, minglewith the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote beforereturning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours onthe hour or run the risk of disease. <doc-sep>Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as amechanic for the expedition. This gives me a chance to study theirmores. He winked wickedly. I may not be back for several nights.They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went overto the laboratory for a look at the hamsters. Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control;the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before heentered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently ahamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Threewere still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, butrecovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptiveand counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against theattack. June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again.They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready todissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest doseof adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It washairless and pink, like a still-born baby. We can find no micro-organisms, George Barton said. None at all.Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia.Fever only for the ones that fought it off. He handed Max sometemperature charts and graphs of blood counts. June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were herfield; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him withlaboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall,then abruptly lightened. Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeousShelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man.It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look uponand talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendousvitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a heroout of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke. She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to jointhem, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casuallift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back. Hello, June, said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as theypassed he lightly touched her arm. Oh, pioneer! she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile,and knew that he had heard. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The story begins with the Explorer ship landing on an unknown planet. The ships inhabitants are careful of any potential diseases and so do not readily disembark to explore their new surroundings. Instead, they send a crew of four medical doctors to go on a hunt party to understand the types of pathogens on the planet. The four doctors in the hunt party are June Walton, George Barton, Hal Barton, and Max. George and Hal are brothers. Max and June are in a relationship together. They walk through the forest, shooting different animals that they encounter to test for diseases. As they walk through the forest, they encounter a man who speaks English. His name is Patrick Mead and he introduces the party to the planet, known as Minos. The man explains how his group was 300 miles away from their ship. Patrick and the group asks questions of each other. Patrick notes that he is shocked to see a variety of different looking people as those on Minos all look very similar to each other. The group and Pat all head back to the ship where they explain to Pat that he has to go through a process of decontamination. They begin by taking specimen from Pat and spinal fluid samples from him. Pat then continues on to the rest of the decontamination process that the others do not have to go through. While Pat is going through decontamination, so is the rest of the doctors – but in a different process. During June’s process, she is seen admiring her body. Once they are done, they go to the dining hall to eat. A woman asks the doctors when they will be able to let out of the ship to explore the new land, and Max answers that it might happen soon. Many people are excited about the possibility because they have all been isolated in space for the past year and a half. When they enter the cafeteria, they can hear passengers excitedly gossiping about Pat’s arrival. As soon as pat enters the room, people approach him eagerly awaiting to talk to him. During the meal, Pat explains how a geneticist on the planet adapted the citizens’ cells to their planet so that they would not destroy the planet foraging for food. During the conversation over food, Hall enters the room to inform them that the hamsters showed signs of infection. This means that Pat’s people still do carry the disease, the morning sickness. Pat assures them that his people would be willing to be de-infected. The crew then send Reno Ulrich to go to Pat’s town to make relations with the people.After eating, June goes back to the laboratory. She sees Pat and the beautiful Shelia Davenport walking in her direction. She mockingly acknowledges his presence when he walks past her.

How does June feel and interact with Patrick Mead? [SEP] <s> CONTAGION By KATHERINE MacLEAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food, perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really. It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows. The hunt party of the Explorer filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds. A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired. Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest. Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck. This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly. Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet. <doc-sep>They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship Explorer towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside. But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet. The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion. The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows. They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved. This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder. They lowered their guns. It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac? The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble. Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria. English? gasped June. We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention. <doc-sep>June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map. We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come. Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D. Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore. The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel. What—what is the population of Minos? she asked. He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly. Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired. Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied. They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled. I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them. Joke? Max asked, bewildered. June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us. She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead? He indicated her with a smile. Like you. June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes. In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme? Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable. For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague. Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers. Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look. Plague. What was the disease? Hal Barton asked. Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it. You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice. Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow. Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton. No. Any other diseases? Not a one. Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself! <doc-sep>Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions. The polished silver and black column of the Explorer seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up. Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming. It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough. The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos. <doc-sep>May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully. Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it. Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have. Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics. Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest. You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead. Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm. Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth. High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones: What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat. Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest. The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air. We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet. If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease. Starting with me? Pat asked. Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard. More needles? Yes, and a few little extras thrown in. Rough? It isn't easy. A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs. In the Explorer , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name. But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient. Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions. Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes. All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him. <doc-sep>June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zippedoff her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in awall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall.... I've got a good figure, she said thoughtfully. Max turned at the door. Why this sudden interest in your looks? heasked suspiciously. Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finallyget something to eat? Wait a minute. She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully,using a combination from the ship's directory. How're you doing, Pat? The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startledchuckle. Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to gojump in the lake? Are you hungry? No food since yesterday. We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out, she told Pat andhung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment whichmade shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast. They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealinghamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each ofPat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one ofantihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense systemwould treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless humanblood cells, and fight back against them violently. One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive,so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the humancells, and thus succumb more rapidly. How ya doing, George? Max asked. Routine, George Barton grunted absently. On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed aviewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on thehorizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew fartheraway, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear greenwhere there were fields. Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had beenthere a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. It looks likeWinnipeg, she told them as they paused. When are you doctors going tolet us out of this blithering barberpole? Look, she pointed. See thatpatch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding throughit? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out? <doc-sep>Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily. Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it. People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement. One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes. May I go see him? Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you. Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices. <doc-sep>They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a richsubdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteriawas a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the shiphad been converted to living and working quarters, and it still hadthe original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the soundabsorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at eachtable where people leisurely ate and talked. They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her Junecould hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur ofconversation. —new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in.He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman. The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose threeheaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised inthe growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rosetomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; fourdifferent desserts, and assorted beverages. Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to atable. Brant St. Clair came over. I beg your pardon, Max, but they aresaying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages,for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know? Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked theshy Canadian. He's back already. We just saw him come in. Oh, fine. St. Clair beamed. I had an appointment with him to go outand confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Haveyou seen Bess? Oh—there she is. He turned swiftly and hurried away. A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerlytalking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway,alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem evenlarger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread towardtheir table. Look! said someone. There's the colonist! Shelia, a pretty, jeweledwoman, followed and caught his arm. Did you really swim across ariver to come here? Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from alldirections. Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat withus. Let me help choose your tray. Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialistand wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about huntingwild animals with a bow and arrow. He needs to be rescued, Max said. He won't have a chance to eat. June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat andescorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to beclaiming the hero of the hour. <doc-sep>Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almostvoluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. Heran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He lookedaround at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He saidnothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing. When we build our town and leave the ship, June explained, wewill turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms andcocktail bars that used to be inside. Oh, I'm not complaining, Pat said negligently. He cocked his head tothe music, and tried to locate its source. That's big of you, said Max with gentle irony. They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than aday. Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through,and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another waveof smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked aboutcrops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farmanimals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earthseeds with local ground, about mines and strata. There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair anddrawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could thinkof no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developedthat he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the centerof interest. Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish. June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questionsmore than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at hisjokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces,eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed mostchimingly of all. June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything aman would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a momentmore, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listeningto Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max lookedalmost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she hadforgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimlyaware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat'send of the table. That guy's a menace, Max said, and laughed to himself, cuttinganother slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. What's eating you? headded, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness. Nothing, she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching PatMead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the manshe loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily.They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend theirlives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yetthe sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling ofguilt. Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for themushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat aquestion. Now he was saying, I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds likeyou're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables! Heglanced at them, looking puzzled. See if you two can make anything ofthis. It sounds medical to me. Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it. Len turned back to him. You people live off the country, right? Youhunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one ofthose steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens? <doc-sep>Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry. Why? Len was aggrieved. Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach. Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn. Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors. It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.' Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear. Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells— <doc-sep>She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in theexplanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt toMinos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death andhunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cellshave the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence,hunting, eating and reproducing alone. Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes.He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousandgenerations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alienindigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to thecell that reluctantly learned to absorb it. Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolutionin six months, Pat Mead finished. When they reached to a point wherethey would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people hehad taken them from. What was supposed to happen then? Max asked, leaning forward. I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much aboutit, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wanderingha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke hisneck at the age of eighty. A character, Max said. Why was she afraid? It worked then? Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlersdidn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. Itworked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers werestill eating out of hydroponics tanks. It worked, said Max to Len. You're a plant geneticist and a tankculture expert. There's a job for you. Uh- uh ! Len backed away. It sounds like a medical problem to me.Human cell control—right up your alley. It is a one-way street, Pat warned. Once it is done, you won't beable to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate itjust for the taste. Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. Three of the twelve testhamsters have died, he reported, and turned to Pat. Your people carrythe germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters wereinjected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. Wecan't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would theyobject? We wouldn't want to give you folks germs, Pat smiled. Anything forsafety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first. The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to thehangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, minglewith the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote beforereturning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours onthe hour or run the risk of disease. <doc-sep>Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as amechanic for the expedition. This gives me a chance to study theirmores. He winked wickedly. I may not be back for several nights.They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went overto the laboratory for a look at the hamsters. Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control;the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before heentered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently ahamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Threewere still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, butrecovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptiveand counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against theattack. June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again.They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready todissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest doseof adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It washairless and pink, like a still-born baby. We can find no micro-organisms, George Barton said. None at all.Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia.Fever only for the ones that fought it off. He handed Max sometemperature charts and graphs of blood counts. June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were herfield; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him withlaboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall,then abruptly lightened. Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeousShelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man.It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look uponand talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendousvitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a heroout of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke. She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to jointhem, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casuallift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back. Hello, June, said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as theypassed he lightly touched her arm. Oh, pioneer! she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile,and knew that he had heard. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does June feel and interact with Patrick Mead?

Upon meeting Patrick, June makes note of his tall frame and how his appearance resembles her own. She seems to admire his looks. She in turn feels guilty as Max, her partner, seems to not compare well to Patrick in her own eyes. She also notes that Max is frailer than Pat. Back on the ship, June admires herself during the spacesuit decontamination process. Evident from Max’s reaction, it is unusual for her to do so in such a manner. It is hinted that Pat’s appearance prompted her examination. Further, into the story, June begins to express more uneasiness with Max’s figure. She also does not appear to like that so many women are giving Pat a lot of attention. She continues to feel guilty as she sees her feelings toward Pat as being disloyal to Max, who she thinks she loves. She again shows her jealously when Pat is seen walking down a hallway with Shelia Davenport, who June herself describes as gorgeous.

What is the melting sickness? [SEP] <s> CONTAGION By KATHERINE MacLEAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food, perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really. It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows. The hunt party of the Explorer filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds. A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired. Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest. Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck. This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly. Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet. <doc-sep>They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship Explorer towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside. But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet. The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion. The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows. They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved. This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder. They lowered their guns. It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac? The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble. Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria. English? gasped June. We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention. <doc-sep>June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map. We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come. Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D. Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore. The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel. What—what is the population of Minos? she asked. He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly. Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired. Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied. They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled. I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them. Joke? Max asked, bewildered. June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us. She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead? He indicated her with a smile. Like you. June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes. In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme? Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable. For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague. Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers. Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look. Plague. What was the disease? Hal Barton asked. Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it. You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice. Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow. Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton. No. Any other diseases? Not a one. Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself! <doc-sep>Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions. The polished silver and black column of the Explorer seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up. Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming. It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough. The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos. <doc-sep>May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully. Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it. Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have. Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics. Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest. You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead. Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm. Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth. High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones: What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat. Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest. The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air. We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet. If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease. Starting with me? Pat asked. Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard. More needles? Yes, and a few little extras thrown in. Rough? It isn't easy. A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs. In the Explorer , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name. But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient. Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions. Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes. All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him. <doc-sep>June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zippedoff her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in awall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall.... I've got a good figure, she said thoughtfully. Max turned at the door. Why this sudden interest in your looks? heasked suspiciously. Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finallyget something to eat? Wait a minute. She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully,using a combination from the ship's directory. How're you doing, Pat? The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startledchuckle. Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to gojump in the lake? Are you hungry? No food since yesterday. We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out, she told Pat andhung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment whichmade shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast. They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealinghamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each ofPat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one ofantihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense systemwould treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless humanblood cells, and fight back against them violently. One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive,so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the humancells, and thus succumb more rapidly. How ya doing, George? Max asked. Routine, George Barton grunted absently. On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed aviewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on thehorizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew fartheraway, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear greenwhere there were fields. Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had beenthere a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. It looks likeWinnipeg, she told them as they paused. When are you doctors going tolet us out of this blithering barberpole? Look, she pointed. See thatpatch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding throughit? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out? <doc-sep>Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily. Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it. People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement. One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes. May I go see him? Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you. Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices. <doc-sep>They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a richsubdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteriawas a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the shiphad been converted to living and working quarters, and it still hadthe original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the soundabsorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at eachtable where people leisurely ate and talked. They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her Junecould hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur ofconversation. —new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in.He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman. The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose threeheaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised inthe growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rosetomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; fourdifferent desserts, and assorted beverages. Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to atable. Brant St. Clair came over. I beg your pardon, Max, but they aresaying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages,for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know? Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked theshy Canadian. He's back already. We just saw him come in. Oh, fine. St. Clair beamed. I had an appointment with him to go outand confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Haveyou seen Bess? Oh—there she is. He turned swiftly and hurried away. A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerlytalking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway,alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem evenlarger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread towardtheir table. Look! said someone. There's the colonist! Shelia, a pretty, jeweledwoman, followed and caught his arm. Did you really swim across ariver to come here? Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from alldirections. Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat withus. Let me help choose your tray. Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialistand wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about huntingwild animals with a bow and arrow. He needs to be rescued, Max said. He won't have a chance to eat. June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat andescorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to beclaiming the hero of the hour. <doc-sep>Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almostvoluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. Heran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He lookedaround at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He saidnothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing. When we build our town and leave the ship, June explained, wewill turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms andcocktail bars that used to be inside. Oh, I'm not complaining, Pat said negligently. He cocked his head tothe music, and tried to locate its source. That's big of you, said Max with gentle irony. They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than aday. Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through,and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another waveof smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked aboutcrops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farmanimals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earthseeds with local ground, about mines and strata. There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair anddrawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could thinkof no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developedthat he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the centerof interest. Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish. June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questionsmore than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at hisjokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces,eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed mostchimingly of all. June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything aman would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a momentmore, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listeningto Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max lookedalmost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she hadforgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimlyaware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat'send of the table. That guy's a menace, Max said, and laughed to himself, cuttinganother slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. What's eating you? headded, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness. Nothing, she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching PatMead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the manshe loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily.They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend theirlives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yetthe sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling ofguilt. Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for themushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat aquestion. Now he was saying, I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds likeyou're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables! Heglanced at them, looking puzzled. See if you two can make anything ofthis. It sounds medical to me. Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it. Len turned back to him. You people live off the country, right? Youhunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one ofthose steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens? <doc-sep>Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry. Why? Len was aggrieved. Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach. Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn. Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors. It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.' Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear. Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells— <doc-sep>She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in theexplanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt toMinos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death andhunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cellshave the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence,hunting, eating and reproducing alone. Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes.He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousandgenerations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alienindigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to thecell that reluctantly learned to absorb it. Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolutionin six months, Pat Mead finished. When they reached to a point wherethey would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people hehad taken them from. What was supposed to happen then? Max asked, leaning forward. I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much aboutit, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wanderingha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke hisneck at the age of eighty. A character, Max said. Why was she afraid? It worked then? Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlersdidn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. Itworked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers werestill eating out of hydroponics tanks. It worked, said Max to Len. You're a plant geneticist and a tankculture expert. There's a job for you. Uh- uh ! Len backed away. It sounds like a medical problem to me.Human cell control—right up your alley. It is a one-way street, Pat warned. Once it is done, you won't beable to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate itjust for the taste. Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. Three of the twelve testhamsters have died, he reported, and turned to Pat. Your people carrythe germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters wereinjected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. Wecan't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would theyobject? We wouldn't want to give you folks germs, Pat smiled. Anything forsafety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first. The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to thehangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, minglewith the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote beforereturning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours onthe hour or run the risk of disease. <doc-sep>Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as amechanic for the expedition. This gives me a chance to study theirmores. He winked wickedly. I may not be back for several nights.They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went overto the laboratory for a look at the hamsters. Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control;the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before heentered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently ahamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Threewere still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, butrecovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptiveand counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against theattack. June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again.They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready todissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest doseof adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It washairless and pink, like a still-born baby. We can find no micro-organisms, George Barton said. None at all.Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia.Fever only for the ones that fought it off. He handed Max sometemperature charts and graphs of blood counts. June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were herfield; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him withlaboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall,then abruptly lightened. Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeousShelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man.It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look uponand talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendousvitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a heroout of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke. She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to jointhem, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casuallift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back. Hello, June, said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as theypassed he lightly touched her arm. Oh, pioneer! she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile,and knew that he had heard. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the melting sickness?

The melting sickness is described as a type of plague by Pat. He informs the doctors that it arrived soon after the colony settled on the planet and killed all but one particular familiar which happened to be immune to the disease. The disease is described as being brutal and not even doctors were able to avoid it. According to Pat, there has not been any recurrence of the melting sickness and no other diseases to note.

What criteria for health safety do the members of the Explorer follow? [SEP] <s> CONTAGION By KATHERINE MacLEAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food, perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really. It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows. The hunt party of the Explorer filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds. A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired. Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest. Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck. This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly. Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet. <doc-sep>They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship Explorer towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside. But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet. The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion. The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows. They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved. This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder. They lowered their guns. It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac? The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble. Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria. English? gasped June. We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention. <doc-sep>June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map. We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come. Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D. Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore. The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel. What—what is the population of Minos? she asked. He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly. Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired. Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied. They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled. I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them. Joke? Max asked, bewildered. June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us. She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead? He indicated her with a smile. Like you. June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes. In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme? Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable. For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague. Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers. Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look. Plague. What was the disease? Hal Barton asked. Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it. You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice. Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow. Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton. No. Any other diseases? Not a one. Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself! <doc-sep>Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions. The polished silver and black column of the Explorer seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up. Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming. It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough. The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos. <doc-sep>May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully. Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it. Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have. Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics. Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest. You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead. Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm. Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth. High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones: What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat. Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest. The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air. We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet. If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease. Starting with me? Pat asked. Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard. More needles? Yes, and a few little extras thrown in. Rough? It isn't easy. A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs. In the Explorer , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name. But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient. Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions. Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes. All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him. <doc-sep>June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zippedoff her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in awall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall.... I've got a good figure, she said thoughtfully. Max turned at the door. Why this sudden interest in your looks? heasked suspiciously. Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finallyget something to eat? Wait a minute. She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully,using a combination from the ship's directory. How're you doing, Pat? The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startledchuckle. Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to gojump in the lake? Are you hungry? No food since yesterday. We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out, she told Pat andhung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment whichmade shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast. They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealinghamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each ofPat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one ofantihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense systemwould treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless humanblood cells, and fight back against them violently. One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive,so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the humancells, and thus succumb more rapidly. How ya doing, George? Max asked. Routine, George Barton grunted absently. On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed aviewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on thehorizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew fartheraway, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear greenwhere there were fields. Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had beenthere a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. It looks likeWinnipeg, she told them as they paused. When are you doctors going tolet us out of this blithering barberpole? Look, she pointed. See thatpatch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding throughit? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out? <doc-sep>Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily. Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it. People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement. One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes. May I go see him? Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you. Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices. <doc-sep>They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a richsubdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteriawas a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the shiphad been converted to living and working quarters, and it still hadthe original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the soundabsorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at eachtable where people leisurely ate and talked. They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her Junecould hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur ofconversation. —new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in.He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman. The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose threeheaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised inthe growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rosetomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; fourdifferent desserts, and assorted beverages. Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to atable. Brant St. Clair came over. I beg your pardon, Max, but they aresaying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages,for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know? Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked theshy Canadian. He's back already. We just saw him come in. Oh, fine. St. Clair beamed. I had an appointment with him to go outand confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Haveyou seen Bess? Oh—there she is. He turned swiftly and hurried away. A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerlytalking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway,alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem evenlarger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread towardtheir table. Look! said someone. There's the colonist! Shelia, a pretty, jeweledwoman, followed and caught his arm. Did you really swim across ariver to come here? Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from alldirections. Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat withus. Let me help choose your tray. Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialistand wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about huntingwild animals with a bow and arrow. He needs to be rescued, Max said. He won't have a chance to eat. June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat andescorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to beclaiming the hero of the hour. <doc-sep>Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almostvoluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. Heran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He lookedaround at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He saidnothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing. When we build our town and leave the ship, June explained, wewill turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms andcocktail bars that used to be inside. Oh, I'm not complaining, Pat said negligently. He cocked his head tothe music, and tried to locate its source. That's big of you, said Max with gentle irony. They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than aday. Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through,and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another waveof smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked aboutcrops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farmanimals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earthseeds with local ground, about mines and strata. There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair anddrawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could thinkof no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developedthat he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the centerof interest. Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish. June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questionsmore than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at hisjokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces,eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed mostchimingly of all. June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything aman would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a momentmore, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listeningto Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max lookedalmost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she hadforgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimlyaware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat'send of the table. That guy's a menace, Max said, and laughed to himself, cuttinganother slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. What's eating you? headded, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness. Nothing, she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching PatMead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the manshe loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily.They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend theirlives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yetthe sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling ofguilt. Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for themushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat aquestion. Now he was saying, I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds likeyou're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables! Heglanced at them, looking puzzled. See if you two can make anything ofthis. It sounds medical to me. Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it. Len turned back to him. You people live off the country, right? Youhunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one ofthose steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens? <doc-sep>Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry. Why? Len was aggrieved. Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach. Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn. Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors. It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.' Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear. Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells— <doc-sep>She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in theexplanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt toMinos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death andhunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cellshave the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence,hunting, eating and reproducing alone. Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes.He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousandgenerations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alienindigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to thecell that reluctantly learned to absorb it. Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolutionin six months, Pat Mead finished. When they reached to a point wherethey would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people hehad taken them from. What was supposed to happen then? Max asked, leaning forward. I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much aboutit, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wanderingha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke hisneck at the age of eighty. A character, Max said. Why was she afraid? It worked then? Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlersdidn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. Itworked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers werestill eating out of hydroponics tanks. It worked, said Max to Len. You're a plant geneticist and a tankculture expert. There's a job for you. Uh- uh ! Len backed away. It sounds like a medical problem to me.Human cell control—right up your alley. It is a one-way street, Pat warned. Once it is done, you won't beable to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate itjust for the taste. Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. Three of the twelve testhamsters have died, he reported, and turned to Pat. Your people carrythe germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters wereinjected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. Wecan't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would theyobject? We wouldn't want to give you folks germs, Pat smiled. Anything forsafety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first. The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to thehangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, minglewith the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote beforereturning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours onthe hour or run the risk of disease. <doc-sep>Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as amechanic for the expedition. This gives me a chance to study theirmores. He winked wickedly. I may not be back for several nights.They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went overto the laboratory for a look at the hamsters. Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control;the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before heentered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently ahamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Threewere still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, butrecovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptiveand counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against theattack. June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again.They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready todissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest doseof adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It washairless and pink, like a still-born baby. We can find no micro-organisms, George Barton said. None at all.Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia.Fever only for the ones that fought it off. He handed Max sometemperature charts and graphs of blood counts. June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were herfield; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him withlaboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall,then abruptly lightened. Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeousShelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man.It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look uponand talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendousvitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a heroout of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke. She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to jointhem, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casuallift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back. Hello, June, said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as theypassed he lightly touched her arm. Oh, pioneer! she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile,and knew that he had heard. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What criteria for health safety do the members of the Explorer follow?

Potential pathogens are of grave concern to the members of the Explorer. To ensure their safety, they send out a hunting party of medical doctors to gather data on the diseases present on the planet Minos. The doctors wear protective gear during this trip. When they bring Pat back to their ship, they require him to go through tests before he is allowed onto the ship. They include needing to de-microbe him and taking specimens from him. Max takes spinal fluid samples from Pat during this process. Pat then went through a long process where he was guided by mechanical voices to go through many different stages of decontamination. While the group of doctors do not have to go through the same process as Pat to board the ship, they go through their own decontamination process. There is a stall for spacesuit decontamination that shoots out disinfectants and baths of ultraviolet radiation for sterilization. The ship was also governed by interplanetary health laws. These laws demanded that ship equipment protecting against diseases had to be completely mechanical in operation and efficient.

What is the setting of the story? [SEP] <s> CONTAGION By KATHERINE MacLEAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food, perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really. It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows. The hunt party of the Explorer filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds. A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired. Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest. Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck. This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly. Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet. <doc-sep>They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship Explorer towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside. But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet. The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion. The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows. They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved. This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder. They lowered their guns. It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac? The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble. Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria. English? gasped June. We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention. <doc-sep>June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map. We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come. Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D. Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore. The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel. What—what is the population of Minos? she asked. He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly. Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired. Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied. They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled. I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them. Joke? Max asked, bewildered. June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us. She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead? He indicated her with a smile. Like you. June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes. In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme? Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable. For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague. Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers. Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look. Plague. What was the disease? Hal Barton asked. Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it. You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice. Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow. Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton. No. Any other diseases? Not a one. Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself! <doc-sep>Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions. The polished silver and black column of the Explorer seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up. Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming. It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough. The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos. <doc-sep>May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully. Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it. Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have. Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics. Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest. You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead. Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm. Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth. High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones: What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat. Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest. The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air. We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet. If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease. Starting with me? Pat asked. Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard. More needles? Yes, and a few little extras thrown in. Rough? It isn't easy. A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs. In the Explorer , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name. But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient. Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions. Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes. All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him. <doc-sep>June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zippedoff her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in awall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall.... I've got a good figure, she said thoughtfully. Max turned at the door. Why this sudden interest in your looks? heasked suspiciously. Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finallyget something to eat? Wait a minute. She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully,using a combination from the ship's directory. How're you doing, Pat? The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startledchuckle. Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to gojump in the lake? Are you hungry? No food since yesterday. We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out, she told Pat andhung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment whichmade shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast. They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealinghamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each ofPat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one ofantihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense systemwould treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless humanblood cells, and fight back against them violently. One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive,so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the humancells, and thus succumb more rapidly. How ya doing, George? Max asked. Routine, George Barton grunted absently. On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed aviewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on thehorizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew fartheraway, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear greenwhere there were fields. Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had beenthere a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. It looks likeWinnipeg, she told them as they paused. When are you doctors going tolet us out of this blithering barberpole? Look, she pointed. See thatpatch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding throughit? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out? <doc-sep>Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily. Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it. People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement. One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes. May I go see him? Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you. Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices. <doc-sep>They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a richsubdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteriawas a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the shiphad been converted to living and working quarters, and it still hadthe original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the soundabsorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at eachtable where people leisurely ate and talked. They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her Junecould hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur ofconversation. —new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in.He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman. The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose threeheaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised inthe growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rosetomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; fourdifferent desserts, and assorted beverages. Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to atable. Brant St. Clair came over. I beg your pardon, Max, but they aresaying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages,for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know? Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked theshy Canadian. He's back already. We just saw him come in. Oh, fine. St. Clair beamed. I had an appointment with him to go outand confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Haveyou seen Bess? Oh—there she is. He turned swiftly and hurried away. A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerlytalking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway,alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem evenlarger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread towardtheir table. Look! said someone. There's the colonist! Shelia, a pretty, jeweledwoman, followed and caught his arm. Did you really swim across ariver to come here? Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from alldirections. Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat withus. Let me help choose your tray. Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialistand wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about huntingwild animals with a bow and arrow. He needs to be rescued, Max said. He won't have a chance to eat. June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat andescorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to beclaiming the hero of the hour. <doc-sep>Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almostvoluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. Heran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He lookedaround at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He saidnothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing. When we build our town and leave the ship, June explained, wewill turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms andcocktail bars that used to be inside. Oh, I'm not complaining, Pat said negligently. He cocked his head tothe music, and tried to locate its source. That's big of you, said Max with gentle irony. They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than aday. Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through,and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another waveof smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked aboutcrops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farmanimals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earthseeds with local ground, about mines and strata. There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair anddrawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could thinkof no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developedthat he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the centerof interest. Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish. June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questionsmore than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at hisjokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces,eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed mostchimingly of all. June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything aman would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a momentmore, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listeningto Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max lookedalmost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she hadforgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimlyaware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat'send of the table. That guy's a menace, Max said, and laughed to himself, cuttinganother slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. What's eating you? headded, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness. Nothing, she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching PatMead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the manshe loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily.They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend theirlives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yetthe sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling ofguilt. Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for themushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat aquestion. Now he was saying, I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds likeyou're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables! Heglanced at them, looking puzzled. See if you two can make anything ofthis. It sounds medical to me. Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it. Len turned back to him. You people live off the country, right? Youhunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one ofthose steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens? <doc-sep>Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry. Why? Len was aggrieved. Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach. Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn. Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors. It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.' Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear. Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells— <doc-sep>She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in theexplanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt toMinos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death andhunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cellshave the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence,hunting, eating and reproducing alone. Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes.He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousandgenerations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alienindigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to thecell that reluctantly learned to absorb it. Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolutionin six months, Pat Mead finished. When they reached to a point wherethey would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people hehad taken them from. What was supposed to happen then? Max asked, leaning forward. I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much aboutit, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wanderingha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke hisneck at the age of eighty. A character, Max said. Why was she afraid? It worked then? Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlersdidn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. Itworked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers werestill eating out of hydroponics tanks. It worked, said Max to Len. You're a plant geneticist and a tankculture expert. There's a job for you. Uh- uh ! Len backed away. It sounds like a medical problem to me.Human cell control—right up your alley. It is a one-way street, Pat warned. Once it is done, you won't beable to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate itjust for the taste. Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. Three of the twelve testhamsters have died, he reported, and turned to Pat. Your people carrythe germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters wereinjected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. Wecan't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would theyobject? We wouldn't want to give you folks germs, Pat smiled. Anything forsafety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first. The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to thehangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, minglewith the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote beforereturning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours onthe hour or run the risk of disease. <doc-sep>Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as amechanic for the expedition. This gives me a chance to study theirmores. He winked wickedly. I may not be back for several nights.They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went overto the laboratory for a look at the hamsters. Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control;the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before heentered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently ahamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Threewere still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, butrecovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptiveand counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against theattack. June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again.They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready todissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest doseof adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It washairless and pink, like a still-born baby. We can find no micro-organisms, George Barton said. None at all.Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia.Fever only for the ones that fought it off. He handed Max sometemperature charts and graphs of blood counts. June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were herfield; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him withlaboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall,then abruptly lightened. Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeousShelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man.It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look uponand talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendousvitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a heroout of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke. She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to jointhem, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casuallift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back. Hello, June, said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as theypassed he lightly touched her arm. Oh, pioneer! she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile,and knew that he had heard. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the setting of the story?

The story begins with the ship, the Explorer, landing on an unknown planet. It has an Earth-like forest in the fall. The leaves were of various colors, green, copper, purple, and red. To get to this planet, known as Minos, it took 36 light-years from Earth. The ship they traveled on is described as being like a silver and black column. It was previously a yacht that was retrofitted to become the Explorer. They take Pat back to the ship and they all decontaminate. Once they are done, they go to the dining hall for food. After eating their food in the dining, June and some of the other doctors return to the laboratory to inspect the mice.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> THE CREATURES THAT TIME FORGOT By RAY BRADBURY Mad, impossible world! Sun-blasted by day, cold-wracked by night—and life condensed by radiation into eight days! Sim eyed the Ship—if he only dared reach it and escape! ... but it was more than half an hour distant—the limit of life itself! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1946. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] During the night, Sim was born. He lay wailing upon the cold cavestones. His blood beat through him a thousand pulses each minute. Hegrew, steadily. Into his mouth his mother with feverish hands put the food. Thenightmare of living was begun. Almost instantly at birth his eyes grewalert, and then, without half understanding why, filled with bright,insistent terror. He gagged upon the food, choked and wailed. He lookedabout, blindly. There was a thick fog. It cleared. The outlines of the cave appeared.And a man loomed up, insane and wild and terrible. A man with a dyingface. Old, withered by winds, baked like adobe in the heat. The man wascrouched in a far corner of the cave, his eyes whitening to one side ofhis face, listening to the far wind trumpeting up above on the frozennight planet. Sim's mother, trembling, now and again, staring at the man, fed Simpebble-fruits, valley-grasses and ice-nipples broken from the cavernentrances, and eating, eliminating, eating again, he grew larger,larger. The man in the corner of the cave was his father! The man's eyes wereall that was alive in his face. He held a crude stone dagger in hiswithered hands and his jaw hung loose and senseless. Then, with a widening focus, Sim saw the old people sitting in thetunnel beyond this living quarter. And as he watched, they began to die. Their agonies filled the cave. They melted like waxen images, theirfaces collapsed inward on their sharp bones, their teeth protruded. Oneminute their faces were mature, fairly smooth, alive, electric. Thenext minute a desication and burning away of their flesh occurred. Sim thrashed in his mother's grasp. She held him. No, no, she soothedhim, quietly, earnestly, looking to see if this, too, would cause herhusband to rise again. With a soft swift padding of naked feet, Sim's father ran across thecave. Sim's mother screamed. Sim felt himself torn loose from hergrasp. He fell upon the stones, rolling, shrieking with his new, moistlungs! With a soft padding of naked feet Sim's father ran across the cave. The webbed face of his father jerked over him, the knife was poised.It was like one of those prenatal nightmares he'd had while stillin his mother's flesh. In the next few blazing, impossible instantsquestions flicked through his brain. The knife was high, suspended,ready to destroy him. But the whole question of life in this cave, thedying people, the withering and the insanity, surged through Sim'snew, small head. How was it that he understood? A newborn child? Can anewborn child think, see, understand, interpret? No. It was wrong! Itwas impossible. Yet it was happening! To him. He had been alive an hournow. And in the next instant perhaps dead! His mother flung herself upon the back of his father, and beat down theweapon. Sim caught the terrific backwash of emotion from both theirconflicting minds. Let me kill him! shouted the father, breathingharshly, sobbingly. What has he to live for? No, no! insisted the mother, and her body, frail and old as it was,stretched across the huge body of the father, tearing at his weapon.He must live! There may be a future for him! He may live longer thanus, and be young! The father fell back against a stone crib. Lying there, staring,eyes glittering, Sim saw another figure inside that stone crib. Agirl-child, quietly feeding itself, moving its delicate hands toprocure food. His sister. The mother wrenched the dagger from her husband's grasp, stood up,weeping and pushing back her cloud of stiffening gray hair. Her mouthtrembled and jerked. I'll kill you! she said, glaring down at herhusband. Leave my children alone. The old man spat tiredly, bitterly, and looked vacantly into the stonecrib, at the little girl. One-eighth of her life's over, already,he gasped. And she doesn't know it. What's the use? As Sim watched, his own mother seemed to shift and take a tortured,smoke-like form. The thin bony face broke out into a maze of wrinkles.She was shaken with pain and had to sit by him, shuddering and cuddlingthe knife to her shriveled breasts. She, like the old people in thetunnel, was aging, dying. Sim cried steadily. Everywhere he looked was horror. A mind came tomeet his own. Instinctively he glanced toward the stone crib. Dark, hissister, returned his glance. Their minds brushed like straying fingers.He relaxed somewhat. He began to learn. The father sighed, shut his lids down over his green eyes. Feed thechild, he said, exhaustedly. Hurry. It is almost dawn and it is ourlast day of living, woman. Feed him. Make him grow. Sim quieted, and images, out of the terror, floated to him. This was a planet next to the sun. The nights burned with cold, thedays were like torches of fire. It was a violent, impossible world. Thepeople lived in the cliffs to escape the incredible ice and the day offlame. Only at dawn and sunset was the air breath-sweet, flower-strong,and then the cave peoples brought their children out into a stony,barren valley. At dawn the ice thawed into creeks and rivers, at sunsetthe day-fires died and cooled. In the intervals of even, livabletemperature the people lived, ran, played, loved, free of the caverns;all life on the planet jumped, burst into life. Plants grew instantly,birds were flung like pellets across the sky. Smaller, legged animallife rushed frantically through the rocks; everything tried to getits living down in the brief hour of respite. It was an unbearable planet. Sim understood this, a matter of hoursafter birth. Racial memory bloomed in him. He would live his entirelife in the caves, with two hours a day outside. Here, in stonechannels of air he would talk, talk incessantly with his people, sleepnever, think, think and lie upon his back, dreaming; but never sleeping. And he would live exactly eight days. <doc-sep>The violence of this thought evacuated his bowels. Eight days. Eight short days. It was wrong, impossible, but a fact. Even while in hismother's flesh some racial knowledge had told him he was being formedrapidly, shaped and propelled out swiftly. Birth was quick as a knife. Childhood was over in a flash. Adolescencewas a sheet of lightning. Manhood was a dream, maturity a myth, old agean inescapably quick reality, death a swift certainty. Eight days from now he'd stand half-blind, withering, dying, as hisfather now stood, staring uselessly at his own wife and child. This day was an eighth part of his total life! He must enjoy everysecond of it. He must search his parents' thoughts for knowledge. Because in a few hours they'd be dead. This was so impossibly unfair. Was this all of life? In his prenatalstate hadn't he dreamed of long lives, valleys not of blasted stonebut green foliage and temperate clime? Yes! And if he'd dreamed thenthere must be truth in the visions. How could he seek and find the longlife? Where? And how could he accomplish a life mission that huge anddepressing in eight short, vanishing days? How had his people gotten into such a condition? As if at a button pressed, he saw an image. Metal seeds, blown acrossspace from a distant green world, fighting with long flames, crashingon this bleak planet. From their shattered hulls tumble men and women. When? Long ago. Ten thousand days. The crash victims hid in the cliffsfrom the sun. Fire, ice and floods washed away the wreckage of thehuge metal seeds. The victims were shaped and beaten like iron upona forge. Solar radiations drenched them. Their pulses quickened,two hundred, five hundred, a thousand beats a minute. Their skinsthickened, their blood changed. Old age came rushing. Children wereborn in the caves. Swifter, swifter, swifter the process. Like all thisworld's wild life, the men and women from the crash lived and died in aweek, leaving children to do likewise. So this is life, thought Sim. It was not spoken in his mind, forhe knew no words, he knew only images, old memory, an awareness, atelepathy that could penetrate flesh, rock, metal. So I'm the fivethousandth in a long line of futile sons? What can I do to save myselffrom dying eight days from now? Is there escape? His eyes widened, another image came to focus. Beyond this valley of cliffs, on a low mountain lay a perfect,unscarred metal seed. A metal ship, not rusted or touched by theavalanches. The ship was deserted, whole, intact. It was the only shipof all these that had crashed that was still a unit, still usable. Butit was so far away. There was no one in it to help. This ship, then, onthe far mountain, was the destiny toward which he would grow. There washis only hope of escape. His mind flexed. In this cliff, deep down in a confinement of solitude, worked a handfulof scientists. To these men, when he was old enough and wise enough, hemust go. They, too, dreamed of escape, of long life, of green valleysand temperate weathers. They, too, stared longingly at that distantship upon its high mountain, its metal so perfect it did not rust orage. The cliff groaned. Sim's father lifted his eroded, lifeless face. Dawn's coming, he said. II Morning relaxed the mighty granite cliff muscles. It was the time ofthe Avalanche. The tunnels echoed to running bare feet. Adults, children pushed witheager, hungry eyes toward the outside dawn. From far out, Sim hearda rumble of rock, a scream, a silence. Avalanches fell into valley.Stones that had been biding their time, not quite ready to fall, fora million years let go their bulks, and where they had begun theirjourney as single boulders they smashed upon the valley floor in athousand shrapnels and friction-heated nuggets. Every morning at least one person was caught in the downpour. The cliff people dared the avalanches. It added one more excitement totheir lives, already too short, too headlong, too dangerous. Sim felt himself seized up by his father. He was carried brusquely downthe tunnel for a thousand yards, to where the daylight appeared. Therewas a shining insane light in his father's eyes. Sim could not move. Hesensed what was going to happen. Behind his father, his mother hurried,bringing with her the little sister, Dark. Wait! Be careful! shecried to her husband. Sim felt his father crouch, listening. High in the cliff was a tremor, a shivering. Now! bellowed his father, and leaped out. An avalanche fell down at them! Sim had accelerated impressions of plunging walls, dust, confusion. Hismother screamed! There was a jolting, a plunging. With one last step, Sim's father hurried him forward into the day. Theavalanche thundered behind him. The mouth of the cave, where mother andDark stood back out of the way, was choked with rubble and two bouldersthat weighed a hundred pounds each. The storm thunder of the avalanche passed away to a trickle of sand.Sim's father burst out into laughter. Made it! By the Gods! Made italive! And he looked scornfully at the cliff and spat. Pagh! Mother and sister Dark struggled through the rubble. She cursed herhusband. Fool! You might have killed Sim! I may yet, retorted the father. Sim was not listening. He was fascinated with the remains of anavalanche afront of the next tunnel. A blood stain trickled out fromunder a rise of boulders, soaking into the ground. There was nothingelse to be seen. Someone else had lost the game. Dark ran ahead on lithe, supple feet, naked and certain. The valley air was like a wine filtered between mountains. The heavenwas a restive blue; not the pale scorched atmosphere of full day, northe bloated, bruised black-purple of night, a-riot with sickly shiningstars. This was a tide pool. A place where waves of varying and violenttemperatures struck, receded. Now the tide pool was quiet, cool, andits life moved abroad. Laughter! Far away, Sim heard it. Why laughter? How could any of hispeople find time for laughing? Perhaps later he would discover why. The valley suddenly blushed with impulsive color. Plant-life, thawingin the precipitant dawn, shoved out from most unexpected sources. Itflowered as you watched. Pale green tendrils appeared on scoured rocks.Seconds later, ripe globes of fruit twitched upon the blade-tips.Father gave Sim over to mother and harvested the momentary, volatilecrop, thrust scarlet, blue, yellow fruits into a fur sack which hung athis waist. Mother tugged at the moist new grasses, laid them on Sim'stongue. His senses were being honed to a fine edge. He stored knowledgethirstily. He understood love, marriage, customs, anger, pity, rage,selfishness, shadings and subtleties, realities and reflections. Onething suggested another. The sight of green plant life whirled his mindlike a gyroscope, seeking balance in a world where lack of time forexplanations made a mind seek and interpret on its own. The soft burdenof food gave him knowledge of his system, of energy, of movement. Likea bird newly cracking its way from a shell, he was almost a unit,complete, all-knowing. Heredity had done all this for him. He grewexcited with his ability. <doc-sep>They walked, mother, father and the two children, smelling the smells,watching the birds bounce from wall to wall of the valley likescurrying pebbles and suddenly the father said a strange thing: Remember? Remember what? Sim lay cradled. Was it any effort for them to rememberwhen they'd lived only seven days! The husband and wife looked at each other. Was it only three days ago? said the woman, her body shaking, hereyes closing to think. I can't believe it. It is so unfair. Shesobbed, then drew her hand across her face and bit her parched lips.The wind played at her gray hair. Now is my turn to cry. An hour agoit was you! An hour is half a life. Come, she took her husband's arm. Let us look at everything, becauseit will be our last looking. The sun'll be up in a few minutes, said the old man. We must turnback now. Just one more moment, pleaded the woman. The sun will catch us. Let it catch me then! You don't mean that. I mean nothing, nothing at all, cried the woman. The sun was coming fast. The green in the valley burnt away. Searingwind blasted from over the cliffs. Far away where sun bolts hammeredbattlements of cliff, the huge stone faces shook their contents; thoseavalanches not already powdered down, were now released and fell likemantles. Dark! shouted the father. The girl sprang over the warm floor of thevalley, answering, her hair a black flag behind her. Hands full ofgreen fruits, she joined them. The sun rimmed the horizon with flame, the air convulsed dangerouslywith it, and whistled. The cave people bolted, shouting, picking up their fallen children,bearing vast loads of fruit and grass with them back to their deephideouts. In moments the valley was bare. Except for one small childsomeone had forgotten. He was running far out on the flatness, but hewas not strong enough, and the engulfing heat was drifting down fromthe cliffs even as he was half across the valley. Flowers were burnt into effigies, grasses sucked back into rocks likesinged snakes, flower seeds whirled and fell in the sudden furnaceblast of wind, sown far into gullies and crannies, ready to blossom atsunset tonight, and then go to seed and die again. Sim's father watched that child running, alone, out on the floor ofthe valley. He and his wife and Dark and Sim were safe in the mouth oftheir tunnel. He'll never make it, said father. Do not watch him, woman. It's nota good thing to watch. They turned away. All except Sim, whose eyes had caught a glint ofmetal far away. His heart hammered in him, and his eyes blurred.Far away, atop a low mountain, one of those metal seeds from spacereflected a dazzling ripple of light! It was like one of hisintra-embryo dreams fulfilled! A metal space seed, intact, undamaged,lying on a mountain! There was his future! There was his hopefor survival! There was where he would go in a few days, when hewas—strange thought—a grown man! The sun plunged into the valley like molten lava. The little running child screamed, the sun burned, and the screamingstopped. Sim's mother walked painfully, with sudden age, down the tunnel,paused, reached up, broke off two last icicles that had formed duringthe night. She handed one to her husband, kept the other. We willdrink one last toast. To you, to the children. To you , he nodded to her. To the children. They lifted theicicles. The warmth melted the ice down into their thirsty mouths. <doc-sep>All day the sun seemed to blaze and erupt into the valley. Sim couldnot see it, but the vivid pictorials in his parents' minds weresufficient evidence of the nature of the day fire. The light ran likemercury, sizzling and roasting the caves, poking inward, but neverpenetrating deeply enough. It lighted the caves. It made the hollows ofthe cliff comfortably warm. Sim fought to keep his parents young. But no matter how hard he foughtwith mind and image, they became like mummies before him. His fatherseemed to dissolve from one stage of oldness to another. This is whatwill happen to me soon, though Sim in terror. Sim grew upon himself. He felt the digestive-eliminatory movementsof his body. He was fed every minute, he was continually swallowing,feeding. He began to fit words to images and processes. Such a word waslove. It was not an abstraction, but a process, a stir of breath, asmell of morning air, a flutter of heart, the curve of arm holding him,the look in the suspended face of his mother. He saw the processes,then searched behind her suspended face and there was the word, in herbrain, ready to use. His throat prepared to speak. Life was pushinghim, rushing him along toward oblivion. He sensed the expansion of his fingernails, the adjustments of hiscells, the profusion of his hair, the multiplication of his bones andsinew, the grooving of the soft pale wax of his brain. His brain atbirth as clear as a circle of ice, innocent, unmarked, was, an instantlater, as if hit with a thrown rock, cracked and marked and patternedin a million crevices of thought and discovery. His sister, Dark, ran in and out with other little hothouse children,forever eating. His mother trembled over him, not eating, she had noappetite, her eyes were webbed shut. Sunset, said his father, at last. The day was over. The light faded, a wind sounded. His mother arose. I want to see the outside world once more ... justonce more.... She stared blindly, shivering. His father's eyes were shut, he lay against the wall. I cannot rise, he whispered faintly. I cannot. Dark! The mother croaked, the girl came running. Here, and Sim washanded to the girl. Hold to Sim, Dark, feed him, care for him. Shegave Sim one last fondling touch. Dark said not a word, holding Sim, her great green eyes shining wetly. Go now, said the mother. Take him out into the sunset time. Enjoyyourselves. Pick foods, eat. Play. Dark walked away without looking back. Sim twisted in her grasp,looking over her shoulder with unbelieving, tragic eyes. He cried outand somehow summoned from his lips the first word of his existence. Why...? He saw his mother stiffen. The child spoke! Aye, said his father. Did you hear what he said? I heard, said the mother quietly. The last thing Sim saw of his living parents was his mother weakly,swayingly, slowly moving across the floor to lie beside her silenthusband. That was the last time he ever saw them move. IV The night came and passed and then started the second day. The bodies of all those who had died during the night were carried in afuneral procession to the top of a small hill. The procession was long,the bodies numerous. Dark walked in the procession, holding the newly walking Sim by onehand. Only an hour before dawn Sim had learned to walk. At the top of the hill, Sim saw once again the far off metal seed.Nobody ever looked at it, or spoke of it. Why? Was there some reason?Was it a mirage? Why did they not run toward it? Worship it? Try to getto it and fly away into space? The funeral words were spoken. The bodies were placed upon the groundwhere the sun, in a few minutes, would cremate them. The procession then turned and ran down the hill, eager to have theirfew minutes of free time running and playing and laughing in the sweetair. Dark and Sim, chattering like birds, feeding among the rocks, exchangedwhat they knew of life. He was in his second day, she in her third.They were driven, as always, by the mercurial speed of their lives. Another piece of his life opened wide. Fifty young men ran down from the cliffs, holding sharp stones and rockdaggers in their thick hands. Shouting, they ran off toward distantblack, low lines of small rock cliffs. War! The thought stood in Sim's brain. It shocked and beat at him. These menwere running to fight, to kill, over there in those small black cliffswhere other people lived. But why? Wasn't life short enough without fighting, killing? From a great distance he heard the sound of conflict, and it made hisstomach cold. Why, Dark, why? Dark didn't know. Perhaps they would understand tomorrow. Now, therewas the business of eating to sustain and support their lives. WatchingDark was like seeing a lizard forever flickering its pink tongue,forever hungry. Pale children ran on all sides of them. One beetle-like boy scuttled upthe rocks, knocking Sim aside, to take from him a particularly lusciousred berry he had found growing under an outcrop. The child ate hastily of the fruit before Sim could gain his feet. ThenSim hurled himself unsteadily, the two of them fell in a ridiculousjumble, rolling, until Dark pried them, squalling, apart. Sim bled. A part of him stood off, like a god, and said, This shouldnot be. Children should not be this way. It is wrong! Dark slapped the little intruding boy away. Get on! she cried.What's your name, bad one? Chion! laughed the boy. Chion, Chion, Chion! Sim glared at him with all the ferocity in his small, unskilledfeatures. He choked. This was his enemy. It was as if he'd waitedfor an enemy of person as well as scene. He had already understoodthe avalanches, the heat, the cold, the shortness of life, but thesewere things of places, of scene—mute, extravagant manifestations ofunthinking nature, not motivated save by gravity and radiation. Here,now, in this stridulent Chion he recognized a thinking enemy! Chion darted off, turned at a distance, tauntingly crying: Tomorrow I will be big enough to kill you! And he vanished around a rock. More children ran, giggling, by Sim. Which of them would be friends,enemies? How could friends and enemies come about in this impossible,quick life time? There was no time to make either, was there? Dark, as if knowing his thoughts, drew him away. As they searched fordesired foods, she whispered fiercely in his ear. Enemies are madeover things like stolen foods; gifts of long grasses make friends.Enemies come, too, from opinions and thoughts. In five seconds you'vemade an enemy for life. Life's so short enemies must be made quickly.And she laughed with an irony strange for one so young, who was growingolder before her rightful time. You must fight to protect yourself.Others, superstitious ones, will try killing you. There is a belief, aridiculous belief, that if one kills another, the murderer partakes ofthe life energy of the slain, and therefore will live an extra day. Yousee? As long as that is believed, you're in danger. But Sim was not listening. Bursting from a flock of delicate girls whotomorrow would be tall, quieter, and who day after that would gainbreasts and the next day take husbands, Sim caught sight of one smallgirl whose hair was a violet blue flame. She ran past, brushed Sim, their bodies touched. Her eyes, white assilver coins, shone at him. He knew then that he'd found a friend, alove, a wife, one who'd a week from now lie with him atop the funeralpyre as sunlight undressed their flesh from bone. Only the glance, but it held them in mid-motion, one instant. Your name? he shouted after her. Lyte! she called laughingly back. I'm Sim, he answered, confused and bewildered. Sim! she repeated it, flashing on. I'll remember! Dark nudged his ribs. Here, eat , she said to the distracted boy.Eat or you'll never get big enough to catch her. From nowhere, Chion appeared, running by. Lyte! he mocked, dancingmalevolently along and away. Lyte! I'll remember Lyte, too! Dark stood tall and reed slender, shaking her dark ebony clouds ofhair, sadly. I see your life before you, little Sim. You'll needweapons soon to fight for this Lyte one. Now, hurry—the sun's coming! They ran back to the caves. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The story begins with Sim being born in a cold cave. He’s wailing with tears while his mom feverishly feeds him. Even though he is a newborn, he interestingly has some self-awareness. Sim looked around the cave and spotted some old people dying in a graphic, grotesque manner. He raged in angst and his mom moved to soothe him. Suddenly, his father goes to attack him and his mother with a knife. His father wants to kill him as he reasons that there is no reason to live. Sim’s mother begs him not to and tells him to have faith that their son might live longer. After this altercation, Sim notices his sister, Dark, for the first time. Afterwards, he notices that his mother goes through a painful process of aging. Sim cannot seem to find anywhere to look in the cave that is not horrifying to look at and cries himself at these revelations. Because the people on this planet age incredibly fast, Sim goes through a lot of understanding and self-thought during the first day of his life. Eventually, the next day arrives. As an avalanche falls into the valley, Sim’s father takes him and they both jump into the avalanche and are carried by it into the valley. Sim and his family enjoy the valley during the time that it is livable to play within its borders. During this time, Sim’s mother and father become upset as there is a pressing realization that they both will die soon. They all hurriedly return back to their cave as the sun is coming out and would kill them if they are caught in its rays. A young child is caught in the sun’s rays and burned to death. Upon their return, Sim’s mother and father toast icicles to signify their last day. Throughout the day, Sim continues to grow and gain more intelligence. His mother feeds him and lovingly embraces him. Upon their mother’s instruction, Dark takes Sim out into the valley and watches over him. While they are in the valley, the two parents die from old age. In the valley, Sim wonders why no one else asks about the metal seed in the distance that he sees. He thinks it is a potential escape plan. While outside, Sim observes meaning screaming a war rallying cry. When he finds a red berry, a boy named Chion goes and steals it from Sim. Dark slaps the boy and scolds him for stealing the berry. Sim thinks to himself about how he does not understand the fighting nature people have when life is already so short. He then threatens Chion and acknowledges the boy as his new enemy. Dark gives him advice about enemies and friends, how quick they can be made. However, Sim gets distracted with lustful thoughts about a girl that passes him. Dark mentions that she is concerned for his future as he will have to fight Chion. They then both run back to the caves.

What is the setting of the story? [SEP] <s> THE CREATURES THAT TIME FORGOT By RAY BRADBURY Mad, impossible world! Sun-blasted by day, cold-wracked by night—and life condensed by radiation into eight days! Sim eyed the Ship—if he only dared reach it and escape! ... but it was more than half an hour distant—the limit of life itself! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1946. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] During the night, Sim was born. He lay wailing upon the cold cavestones. His blood beat through him a thousand pulses each minute. Hegrew, steadily. Into his mouth his mother with feverish hands put the food. Thenightmare of living was begun. Almost instantly at birth his eyes grewalert, and then, without half understanding why, filled with bright,insistent terror. He gagged upon the food, choked and wailed. He lookedabout, blindly. There was a thick fog. It cleared. The outlines of the cave appeared.And a man loomed up, insane and wild and terrible. A man with a dyingface. Old, withered by winds, baked like adobe in the heat. The man wascrouched in a far corner of the cave, his eyes whitening to one side ofhis face, listening to the far wind trumpeting up above on the frozennight planet. Sim's mother, trembling, now and again, staring at the man, fed Simpebble-fruits, valley-grasses and ice-nipples broken from the cavernentrances, and eating, eliminating, eating again, he grew larger,larger. The man in the corner of the cave was his father! The man's eyes wereall that was alive in his face. He held a crude stone dagger in hiswithered hands and his jaw hung loose and senseless. Then, with a widening focus, Sim saw the old people sitting in thetunnel beyond this living quarter. And as he watched, they began to die. Their agonies filled the cave. They melted like waxen images, theirfaces collapsed inward on their sharp bones, their teeth protruded. Oneminute their faces were mature, fairly smooth, alive, electric. Thenext minute a desication and burning away of their flesh occurred. Sim thrashed in his mother's grasp. She held him. No, no, she soothedhim, quietly, earnestly, looking to see if this, too, would cause herhusband to rise again. With a soft swift padding of naked feet, Sim's father ran across thecave. Sim's mother screamed. Sim felt himself torn loose from hergrasp. He fell upon the stones, rolling, shrieking with his new, moistlungs! With a soft padding of naked feet Sim's father ran across the cave. The webbed face of his father jerked over him, the knife was poised.It was like one of those prenatal nightmares he'd had while stillin his mother's flesh. In the next few blazing, impossible instantsquestions flicked through his brain. The knife was high, suspended,ready to destroy him. But the whole question of life in this cave, thedying people, the withering and the insanity, surged through Sim'snew, small head. How was it that he understood? A newborn child? Can anewborn child think, see, understand, interpret? No. It was wrong! Itwas impossible. Yet it was happening! To him. He had been alive an hournow. And in the next instant perhaps dead! His mother flung herself upon the back of his father, and beat down theweapon. Sim caught the terrific backwash of emotion from both theirconflicting minds. Let me kill him! shouted the father, breathingharshly, sobbingly. What has he to live for? No, no! insisted the mother, and her body, frail and old as it was,stretched across the huge body of the father, tearing at his weapon.He must live! There may be a future for him! He may live longer thanus, and be young! The father fell back against a stone crib. Lying there, staring,eyes glittering, Sim saw another figure inside that stone crib. Agirl-child, quietly feeding itself, moving its delicate hands toprocure food. His sister. The mother wrenched the dagger from her husband's grasp, stood up,weeping and pushing back her cloud of stiffening gray hair. Her mouthtrembled and jerked. I'll kill you! she said, glaring down at herhusband. Leave my children alone. The old man spat tiredly, bitterly, and looked vacantly into the stonecrib, at the little girl. One-eighth of her life's over, already,he gasped. And she doesn't know it. What's the use? As Sim watched, his own mother seemed to shift and take a tortured,smoke-like form. The thin bony face broke out into a maze of wrinkles.She was shaken with pain and had to sit by him, shuddering and cuddlingthe knife to her shriveled breasts. She, like the old people in thetunnel, was aging, dying. Sim cried steadily. Everywhere he looked was horror. A mind came tomeet his own. Instinctively he glanced toward the stone crib. Dark, hissister, returned his glance. Their minds brushed like straying fingers.He relaxed somewhat. He began to learn. The father sighed, shut his lids down over his green eyes. Feed thechild, he said, exhaustedly. Hurry. It is almost dawn and it is ourlast day of living, woman. Feed him. Make him grow. Sim quieted, and images, out of the terror, floated to him. This was a planet next to the sun. The nights burned with cold, thedays were like torches of fire. It was a violent, impossible world. Thepeople lived in the cliffs to escape the incredible ice and the day offlame. Only at dawn and sunset was the air breath-sweet, flower-strong,and then the cave peoples brought their children out into a stony,barren valley. At dawn the ice thawed into creeks and rivers, at sunsetthe day-fires died and cooled. In the intervals of even, livabletemperature the people lived, ran, played, loved, free of the caverns;all life on the planet jumped, burst into life. Plants grew instantly,birds were flung like pellets across the sky. Smaller, legged animallife rushed frantically through the rocks; everything tried to getits living down in the brief hour of respite. It was an unbearable planet. Sim understood this, a matter of hoursafter birth. Racial memory bloomed in him. He would live his entirelife in the caves, with two hours a day outside. Here, in stonechannels of air he would talk, talk incessantly with his people, sleepnever, think, think and lie upon his back, dreaming; but never sleeping. And he would live exactly eight days. <doc-sep>The violence of this thought evacuated his bowels. Eight days. Eight short days. It was wrong, impossible, but a fact. Even while in hismother's flesh some racial knowledge had told him he was being formedrapidly, shaped and propelled out swiftly. Birth was quick as a knife. Childhood was over in a flash. Adolescencewas a sheet of lightning. Manhood was a dream, maturity a myth, old agean inescapably quick reality, death a swift certainty. Eight days from now he'd stand half-blind, withering, dying, as hisfather now stood, staring uselessly at his own wife and child. This day was an eighth part of his total life! He must enjoy everysecond of it. He must search his parents' thoughts for knowledge. Because in a few hours they'd be dead. This was so impossibly unfair. Was this all of life? In his prenatalstate hadn't he dreamed of long lives, valleys not of blasted stonebut green foliage and temperate clime? Yes! And if he'd dreamed thenthere must be truth in the visions. How could he seek and find the longlife? Where? And how could he accomplish a life mission that huge anddepressing in eight short, vanishing days? How had his people gotten into such a condition? As if at a button pressed, he saw an image. Metal seeds, blown acrossspace from a distant green world, fighting with long flames, crashingon this bleak planet. From their shattered hulls tumble men and women. When? Long ago. Ten thousand days. The crash victims hid in the cliffsfrom the sun. Fire, ice and floods washed away the wreckage of thehuge metal seeds. The victims were shaped and beaten like iron upona forge. Solar radiations drenched them. Their pulses quickened,two hundred, five hundred, a thousand beats a minute. Their skinsthickened, their blood changed. Old age came rushing. Children wereborn in the caves. Swifter, swifter, swifter the process. Like all thisworld's wild life, the men and women from the crash lived and died in aweek, leaving children to do likewise. So this is life, thought Sim. It was not spoken in his mind, forhe knew no words, he knew only images, old memory, an awareness, atelepathy that could penetrate flesh, rock, metal. So I'm the fivethousandth in a long line of futile sons? What can I do to save myselffrom dying eight days from now? Is there escape? His eyes widened, another image came to focus. Beyond this valley of cliffs, on a low mountain lay a perfect,unscarred metal seed. A metal ship, not rusted or touched by theavalanches. The ship was deserted, whole, intact. It was the only shipof all these that had crashed that was still a unit, still usable. Butit was so far away. There was no one in it to help. This ship, then, onthe far mountain, was the destiny toward which he would grow. There washis only hope of escape. His mind flexed. In this cliff, deep down in a confinement of solitude, worked a handfulof scientists. To these men, when he was old enough and wise enough, hemust go. They, too, dreamed of escape, of long life, of green valleysand temperate weathers. They, too, stared longingly at that distantship upon its high mountain, its metal so perfect it did not rust orage. The cliff groaned. Sim's father lifted his eroded, lifeless face. Dawn's coming, he said. II Morning relaxed the mighty granite cliff muscles. It was the time ofthe Avalanche. The tunnels echoed to running bare feet. Adults, children pushed witheager, hungry eyes toward the outside dawn. From far out, Sim hearda rumble of rock, a scream, a silence. Avalanches fell into valley.Stones that had been biding their time, not quite ready to fall, fora million years let go their bulks, and where they had begun theirjourney as single boulders they smashed upon the valley floor in athousand shrapnels and friction-heated nuggets. Every morning at least one person was caught in the downpour. The cliff people dared the avalanches. It added one more excitement totheir lives, already too short, too headlong, too dangerous. Sim felt himself seized up by his father. He was carried brusquely downthe tunnel for a thousand yards, to where the daylight appeared. Therewas a shining insane light in his father's eyes. Sim could not move. Hesensed what was going to happen. Behind his father, his mother hurried,bringing with her the little sister, Dark. Wait! Be careful! shecried to her husband. Sim felt his father crouch, listening. High in the cliff was a tremor, a shivering. Now! bellowed his father, and leaped out. An avalanche fell down at them! Sim had accelerated impressions of plunging walls, dust, confusion. Hismother screamed! There was a jolting, a plunging. With one last step, Sim's father hurried him forward into the day. Theavalanche thundered behind him. The mouth of the cave, where mother andDark stood back out of the way, was choked with rubble and two bouldersthat weighed a hundred pounds each. The storm thunder of the avalanche passed away to a trickle of sand.Sim's father burst out into laughter. Made it! By the Gods! Made italive! And he looked scornfully at the cliff and spat. Pagh! Mother and sister Dark struggled through the rubble. She cursed herhusband. Fool! You might have killed Sim! I may yet, retorted the father. Sim was not listening. He was fascinated with the remains of anavalanche afront of the next tunnel. A blood stain trickled out fromunder a rise of boulders, soaking into the ground. There was nothingelse to be seen. Someone else had lost the game. Dark ran ahead on lithe, supple feet, naked and certain. The valley air was like a wine filtered between mountains. The heavenwas a restive blue; not the pale scorched atmosphere of full day, northe bloated, bruised black-purple of night, a-riot with sickly shiningstars. This was a tide pool. A place where waves of varying and violenttemperatures struck, receded. Now the tide pool was quiet, cool, andits life moved abroad. Laughter! Far away, Sim heard it. Why laughter? How could any of hispeople find time for laughing? Perhaps later he would discover why. The valley suddenly blushed with impulsive color. Plant-life, thawingin the precipitant dawn, shoved out from most unexpected sources. Itflowered as you watched. Pale green tendrils appeared on scoured rocks.Seconds later, ripe globes of fruit twitched upon the blade-tips.Father gave Sim over to mother and harvested the momentary, volatilecrop, thrust scarlet, blue, yellow fruits into a fur sack which hung athis waist. Mother tugged at the moist new grasses, laid them on Sim'stongue. His senses were being honed to a fine edge. He stored knowledgethirstily. He understood love, marriage, customs, anger, pity, rage,selfishness, shadings and subtleties, realities and reflections. Onething suggested another. The sight of green plant life whirled his mindlike a gyroscope, seeking balance in a world where lack of time forexplanations made a mind seek and interpret on its own. The soft burdenof food gave him knowledge of his system, of energy, of movement. Likea bird newly cracking its way from a shell, he was almost a unit,complete, all-knowing. Heredity had done all this for him. He grewexcited with his ability. <doc-sep>They walked, mother, father and the two children, smelling the smells,watching the birds bounce from wall to wall of the valley likescurrying pebbles and suddenly the father said a strange thing: Remember? Remember what? Sim lay cradled. Was it any effort for them to rememberwhen they'd lived only seven days! The husband and wife looked at each other. Was it only three days ago? said the woman, her body shaking, hereyes closing to think. I can't believe it. It is so unfair. Shesobbed, then drew her hand across her face and bit her parched lips.The wind played at her gray hair. Now is my turn to cry. An hour agoit was you! An hour is half a life. Come, she took her husband's arm. Let us look at everything, becauseit will be our last looking. The sun'll be up in a few minutes, said the old man. We must turnback now. Just one more moment, pleaded the woman. The sun will catch us. Let it catch me then! You don't mean that. I mean nothing, nothing at all, cried the woman. The sun was coming fast. The green in the valley burnt away. Searingwind blasted from over the cliffs. Far away where sun bolts hammeredbattlements of cliff, the huge stone faces shook their contents; thoseavalanches not already powdered down, were now released and fell likemantles. Dark! shouted the father. The girl sprang over the warm floor of thevalley, answering, her hair a black flag behind her. Hands full ofgreen fruits, she joined them. The sun rimmed the horizon with flame, the air convulsed dangerouslywith it, and whistled. The cave people bolted, shouting, picking up their fallen children,bearing vast loads of fruit and grass with them back to their deephideouts. In moments the valley was bare. Except for one small childsomeone had forgotten. He was running far out on the flatness, but hewas not strong enough, and the engulfing heat was drifting down fromthe cliffs even as he was half across the valley. Flowers were burnt into effigies, grasses sucked back into rocks likesinged snakes, flower seeds whirled and fell in the sudden furnaceblast of wind, sown far into gullies and crannies, ready to blossom atsunset tonight, and then go to seed and die again. Sim's father watched that child running, alone, out on the floor ofthe valley. He and his wife and Dark and Sim were safe in the mouth oftheir tunnel. He'll never make it, said father. Do not watch him, woman. It's nota good thing to watch. They turned away. All except Sim, whose eyes had caught a glint ofmetal far away. His heart hammered in him, and his eyes blurred.Far away, atop a low mountain, one of those metal seeds from spacereflected a dazzling ripple of light! It was like one of hisintra-embryo dreams fulfilled! A metal space seed, intact, undamaged,lying on a mountain! There was his future! There was his hopefor survival! There was where he would go in a few days, when hewas—strange thought—a grown man! The sun plunged into the valley like molten lava. The little running child screamed, the sun burned, and the screamingstopped. Sim's mother walked painfully, with sudden age, down the tunnel,paused, reached up, broke off two last icicles that had formed duringthe night. She handed one to her husband, kept the other. We willdrink one last toast. To you, to the children. To you , he nodded to her. To the children. They lifted theicicles. The warmth melted the ice down into their thirsty mouths. <doc-sep>All day the sun seemed to blaze and erupt into the valley. Sim couldnot see it, but the vivid pictorials in his parents' minds weresufficient evidence of the nature of the day fire. The light ran likemercury, sizzling and roasting the caves, poking inward, but neverpenetrating deeply enough. It lighted the caves. It made the hollows ofthe cliff comfortably warm. Sim fought to keep his parents young. But no matter how hard he foughtwith mind and image, they became like mummies before him. His fatherseemed to dissolve from one stage of oldness to another. This is whatwill happen to me soon, though Sim in terror. Sim grew upon himself. He felt the digestive-eliminatory movementsof his body. He was fed every minute, he was continually swallowing,feeding. He began to fit words to images and processes. Such a word waslove. It was not an abstraction, but a process, a stir of breath, asmell of morning air, a flutter of heart, the curve of arm holding him,the look in the suspended face of his mother. He saw the processes,then searched behind her suspended face and there was the word, in herbrain, ready to use. His throat prepared to speak. Life was pushinghim, rushing him along toward oblivion. He sensed the expansion of his fingernails, the adjustments of hiscells, the profusion of his hair, the multiplication of his bones andsinew, the grooving of the soft pale wax of his brain. His brain atbirth as clear as a circle of ice, innocent, unmarked, was, an instantlater, as if hit with a thrown rock, cracked and marked and patternedin a million crevices of thought and discovery. His sister, Dark, ran in and out with other little hothouse children,forever eating. His mother trembled over him, not eating, she had noappetite, her eyes were webbed shut. Sunset, said his father, at last. The day was over. The light faded, a wind sounded. His mother arose. I want to see the outside world once more ... justonce more.... She stared blindly, shivering. His father's eyes were shut, he lay against the wall. I cannot rise, he whispered faintly. I cannot. Dark! The mother croaked, the girl came running. Here, and Sim washanded to the girl. Hold to Sim, Dark, feed him, care for him. Shegave Sim one last fondling touch. Dark said not a word, holding Sim, her great green eyes shining wetly. Go now, said the mother. Take him out into the sunset time. Enjoyyourselves. Pick foods, eat. Play. Dark walked away without looking back. Sim twisted in her grasp,looking over her shoulder with unbelieving, tragic eyes. He cried outand somehow summoned from his lips the first word of his existence. Why...? He saw his mother stiffen. The child spoke! Aye, said his father. Did you hear what he said? I heard, said the mother quietly. The last thing Sim saw of his living parents was his mother weakly,swayingly, slowly moving across the floor to lie beside her silenthusband. That was the last time he ever saw them move. IV The night came and passed and then started the second day. The bodies of all those who had died during the night were carried in afuneral procession to the top of a small hill. The procession was long,the bodies numerous. Dark walked in the procession, holding the newly walking Sim by onehand. Only an hour before dawn Sim had learned to walk. At the top of the hill, Sim saw once again the far off metal seed.Nobody ever looked at it, or spoke of it. Why? Was there some reason?Was it a mirage? Why did they not run toward it? Worship it? Try to getto it and fly away into space? The funeral words were spoken. The bodies were placed upon the groundwhere the sun, in a few minutes, would cremate them. The procession then turned and ran down the hill, eager to have theirfew minutes of free time running and playing and laughing in the sweetair. Dark and Sim, chattering like birds, feeding among the rocks, exchangedwhat they knew of life. He was in his second day, she in her third.They were driven, as always, by the mercurial speed of their lives. Another piece of his life opened wide. Fifty young men ran down from the cliffs, holding sharp stones and rockdaggers in their thick hands. Shouting, they ran off toward distantblack, low lines of small rock cliffs. War! The thought stood in Sim's brain. It shocked and beat at him. These menwere running to fight, to kill, over there in those small black cliffswhere other people lived. But why? Wasn't life short enough without fighting, killing? From a great distance he heard the sound of conflict, and it made hisstomach cold. Why, Dark, why? Dark didn't know. Perhaps they would understand tomorrow. Now, therewas the business of eating to sustain and support their lives. WatchingDark was like seeing a lizard forever flickering its pink tongue,forever hungry. Pale children ran on all sides of them. One beetle-like boy scuttled upthe rocks, knocking Sim aside, to take from him a particularly lusciousred berry he had found growing under an outcrop. The child ate hastily of the fruit before Sim could gain his feet. ThenSim hurled himself unsteadily, the two of them fell in a ridiculousjumble, rolling, until Dark pried them, squalling, apart. Sim bled. A part of him stood off, like a god, and said, This shouldnot be. Children should not be this way. It is wrong! Dark slapped the little intruding boy away. Get on! she cried.What's your name, bad one? Chion! laughed the boy. Chion, Chion, Chion! Sim glared at him with all the ferocity in his small, unskilledfeatures. He choked. This was his enemy. It was as if he'd waitedfor an enemy of person as well as scene. He had already understoodthe avalanches, the heat, the cold, the shortness of life, but thesewere things of places, of scene—mute, extravagant manifestations ofunthinking nature, not motivated save by gravity and radiation. Here,now, in this stridulent Chion he recognized a thinking enemy! Chion darted off, turned at a distance, tauntingly crying: Tomorrow I will be big enough to kill you! And he vanished around a rock. More children ran, giggling, by Sim. Which of them would be friends,enemies? How could friends and enemies come about in this impossible,quick life time? There was no time to make either, was there? Dark, as if knowing his thoughts, drew him away. As they searched fordesired foods, she whispered fiercely in his ear. Enemies are madeover things like stolen foods; gifts of long grasses make friends.Enemies come, too, from opinions and thoughts. In five seconds you'vemade an enemy for life. Life's so short enemies must be made quickly.And she laughed with an irony strange for one so young, who was growingolder before her rightful time. You must fight to protect yourself.Others, superstitious ones, will try killing you. There is a belief, aridiculous belief, that if one kills another, the murderer partakes ofthe life energy of the slain, and therefore will live an extra day. Yousee? As long as that is believed, you're in danger. But Sim was not listening. Bursting from a flock of delicate girls whotomorrow would be tall, quieter, and who day after that would gainbreasts and the next day take husbands, Sim caught sight of one smallgirl whose hair was a violet blue flame. She ran past, brushed Sim, their bodies touched. Her eyes, white assilver coins, shone at him. He knew then that he'd found a friend, alove, a wife, one who'd a week from now lie with him atop the funeralpyre as sunlight undressed their flesh from bone. Only the glance, but it held them in mid-motion, one instant. Your name? he shouted after her. Lyte! she called laughingly back. I'm Sim, he answered, confused and bewildered. Sim! she repeated it, flashing on. I'll remember! Dark nudged his ribs. Here, eat , she said to the distracted boy.Eat or you'll never get big enough to catch her. From nowhere, Chion appeared, running by. Lyte! he mocked, dancingmalevolently along and away. Lyte! I'll remember Lyte, too! Dark stood tall and reed slender, shaking her dark ebony clouds ofhair, sadly. I see your life before you, little Sim. You'll needweapons soon to fight for this Lyte one. Now, hurry—the sun's coming! They ran back to the caves. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the setting of the story?

The story begins at night when Sim is born. He and his family are inside of the cold cave. The cave had a thick fog in it that originally obscured his dad from view. The cave is where people on the planet spend most of their time. During the two hours of the day that they are able to venture out into the valley, they enjoy the beautiful scenery of greenery until they have to return to their cave tunnels. When the time is up, the sun returns and its rays scorch and kill everything in the valley.

What is the relationship between Dark and Sim? [SEP] <s> THE CREATURES THAT TIME FORGOT By RAY BRADBURY Mad, impossible world! Sun-blasted by day, cold-wracked by night—and life condensed by radiation into eight days! Sim eyed the Ship—if he only dared reach it and escape! ... but it was more than half an hour distant—the limit of life itself! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1946. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] During the night, Sim was born. He lay wailing upon the cold cavestones. His blood beat through him a thousand pulses each minute. Hegrew, steadily. Into his mouth his mother with feverish hands put the food. Thenightmare of living was begun. Almost instantly at birth his eyes grewalert, and then, without half understanding why, filled with bright,insistent terror. He gagged upon the food, choked and wailed. He lookedabout, blindly. There was a thick fog. It cleared. The outlines of the cave appeared.And a man loomed up, insane and wild and terrible. A man with a dyingface. Old, withered by winds, baked like adobe in the heat. The man wascrouched in a far corner of the cave, his eyes whitening to one side ofhis face, listening to the far wind trumpeting up above on the frozennight planet. Sim's mother, trembling, now and again, staring at the man, fed Simpebble-fruits, valley-grasses and ice-nipples broken from the cavernentrances, and eating, eliminating, eating again, he grew larger,larger. The man in the corner of the cave was his father! The man's eyes wereall that was alive in his face. He held a crude stone dagger in hiswithered hands and his jaw hung loose and senseless. Then, with a widening focus, Sim saw the old people sitting in thetunnel beyond this living quarter. And as he watched, they began to die. Their agonies filled the cave. They melted like waxen images, theirfaces collapsed inward on their sharp bones, their teeth protruded. Oneminute their faces were mature, fairly smooth, alive, electric. Thenext minute a desication and burning away of their flesh occurred. Sim thrashed in his mother's grasp. She held him. No, no, she soothedhim, quietly, earnestly, looking to see if this, too, would cause herhusband to rise again. With a soft swift padding of naked feet, Sim's father ran across thecave. Sim's mother screamed. Sim felt himself torn loose from hergrasp. He fell upon the stones, rolling, shrieking with his new, moistlungs! With a soft padding of naked feet Sim's father ran across the cave. The webbed face of his father jerked over him, the knife was poised.It was like one of those prenatal nightmares he'd had while stillin his mother's flesh. In the next few blazing, impossible instantsquestions flicked through his brain. The knife was high, suspended,ready to destroy him. But the whole question of life in this cave, thedying people, the withering and the insanity, surged through Sim'snew, small head. How was it that he understood? A newborn child? Can anewborn child think, see, understand, interpret? No. It was wrong! Itwas impossible. Yet it was happening! To him. He had been alive an hournow. And in the next instant perhaps dead! His mother flung herself upon the back of his father, and beat down theweapon. Sim caught the terrific backwash of emotion from both theirconflicting minds. Let me kill him! shouted the father, breathingharshly, sobbingly. What has he to live for? No, no! insisted the mother, and her body, frail and old as it was,stretched across the huge body of the father, tearing at his weapon.He must live! There may be a future for him! He may live longer thanus, and be young! The father fell back against a stone crib. Lying there, staring,eyes glittering, Sim saw another figure inside that stone crib. Agirl-child, quietly feeding itself, moving its delicate hands toprocure food. His sister. The mother wrenched the dagger from her husband's grasp, stood up,weeping and pushing back her cloud of stiffening gray hair. Her mouthtrembled and jerked. I'll kill you! she said, glaring down at herhusband. Leave my children alone. The old man spat tiredly, bitterly, and looked vacantly into the stonecrib, at the little girl. One-eighth of her life's over, already,he gasped. And she doesn't know it. What's the use? As Sim watched, his own mother seemed to shift and take a tortured,smoke-like form. The thin bony face broke out into a maze of wrinkles.She was shaken with pain and had to sit by him, shuddering and cuddlingthe knife to her shriveled breasts. She, like the old people in thetunnel, was aging, dying. Sim cried steadily. Everywhere he looked was horror. A mind came tomeet his own. Instinctively he glanced toward the stone crib. Dark, hissister, returned his glance. Their minds brushed like straying fingers.He relaxed somewhat. He began to learn. The father sighed, shut his lids down over his green eyes. Feed thechild, he said, exhaustedly. Hurry. It is almost dawn and it is ourlast day of living, woman. Feed him. Make him grow. Sim quieted, and images, out of the terror, floated to him. This was a planet next to the sun. The nights burned with cold, thedays were like torches of fire. It was a violent, impossible world. Thepeople lived in the cliffs to escape the incredible ice and the day offlame. Only at dawn and sunset was the air breath-sweet, flower-strong,and then the cave peoples brought their children out into a stony,barren valley. At dawn the ice thawed into creeks and rivers, at sunsetthe day-fires died and cooled. In the intervals of even, livabletemperature the people lived, ran, played, loved, free of the caverns;all life on the planet jumped, burst into life. Plants grew instantly,birds were flung like pellets across the sky. Smaller, legged animallife rushed frantically through the rocks; everything tried to getits living down in the brief hour of respite. It was an unbearable planet. Sim understood this, a matter of hoursafter birth. Racial memory bloomed in him. He would live his entirelife in the caves, with two hours a day outside. Here, in stonechannels of air he would talk, talk incessantly with his people, sleepnever, think, think and lie upon his back, dreaming; but never sleeping. And he would live exactly eight days. <doc-sep>The violence of this thought evacuated his bowels. Eight days. Eight short days. It was wrong, impossible, but a fact. Even while in hismother's flesh some racial knowledge had told him he was being formedrapidly, shaped and propelled out swiftly. Birth was quick as a knife. Childhood was over in a flash. Adolescencewas a sheet of lightning. Manhood was a dream, maturity a myth, old agean inescapably quick reality, death a swift certainty. Eight days from now he'd stand half-blind, withering, dying, as hisfather now stood, staring uselessly at his own wife and child. This day was an eighth part of his total life! He must enjoy everysecond of it. He must search his parents' thoughts for knowledge. Because in a few hours they'd be dead. This was so impossibly unfair. Was this all of life? In his prenatalstate hadn't he dreamed of long lives, valleys not of blasted stonebut green foliage and temperate clime? Yes! And if he'd dreamed thenthere must be truth in the visions. How could he seek and find the longlife? Where? And how could he accomplish a life mission that huge anddepressing in eight short, vanishing days? How had his people gotten into such a condition? As if at a button pressed, he saw an image. Metal seeds, blown acrossspace from a distant green world, fighting with long flames, crashingon this bleak planet. From their shattered hulls tumble men and women. When? Long ago. Ten thousand days. The crash victims hid in the cliffsfrom the sun. Fire, ice and floods washed away the wreckage of thehuge metal seeds. The victims were shaped and beaten like iron upona forge. Solar radiations drenched them. Their pulses quickened,two hundred, five hundred, a thousand beats a minute. Their skinsthickened, their blood changed. Old age came rushing. Children wereborn in the caves. Swifter, swifter, swifter the process. Like all thisworld's wild life, the men and women from the crash lived and died in aweek, leaving children to do likewise. So this is life, thought Sim. It was not spoken in his mind, forhe knew no words, he knew only images, old memory, an awareness, atelepathy that could penetrate flesh, rock, metal. So I'm the fivethousandth in a long line of futile sons? What can I do to save myselffrom dying eight days from now? Is there escape? His eyes widened, another image came to focus. Beyond this valley of cliffs, on a low mountain lay a perfect,unscarred metal seed. A metal ship, not rusted or touched by theavalanches. The ship was deserted, whole, intact. It was the only shipof all these that had crashed that was still a unit, still usable. Butit was so far away. There was no one in it to help. This ship, then, onthe far mountain, was the destiny toward which he would grow. There washis only hope of escape. His mind flexed. In this cliff, deep down in a confinement of solitude, worked a handfulof scientists. To these men, when he was old enough and wise enough, hemust go. They, too, dreamed of escape, of long life, of green valleysand temperate weathers. They, too, stared longingly at that distantship upon its high mountain, its metal so perfect it did not rust orage. The cliff groaned. Sim's father lifted his eroded, lifeless face. Dawn's coming, he said. II Morning relaxed the mighty granite cliff muscles. It was the time ofthe Avalanche. The tunnels echoed to running bare feet. Adults, children pushed witheager, hungry eyes toward the outside dawn. From far out, Sim hearda rumble of rock, a scream, a silence. Avalanches fell into valley.Stones that had been biding their time, not quite ready to fall, fora million years let go their bulks, and where they had begun theirjourney as single boulders they smashed upon the valley floor in athousand shrapnels and friction-heated nuggets. Every morning at least one person was caught in the downpour. The cliff people dared the avalanches. It added one more excitement totheir lives, already too short, too headlong, too dangerous. Sim felt himself seized up by his father. He was carried brusquely downthe tunnel for a thousand yards, to where the daylight appeared. Therewas a shining insane light in his father's eyes. Sim could not move. Hesensed what was going to happen. Behind his father, his mother hurried,bringing with her the little sister, Dark. Wait! Be careful! shecried to her husband. Sim felt his father crouch, listening. High in the cliff was a tremor, a shivering. Now! bellowed his father, and leaped out. An avalanche fell down at them! Sim had accelerated impressions of plunging walls, dust, confusion. Hismother screamed! There was a jolting, a plunging. With one last step, Sim's father hurried him forward into the day. Theavalanche thundered behind him. The mouth of the cave, where mother andDark stood back out of the way, was choked with rubble and two bouldersthat weighed a hundred pounds each. The storm thunder of the avalanche passed away to a trickle of sand.Sim's father burst out into laughter. Made it! By the Gods! Made italive! And he looked scornfully at the cliff and spat. Pagh! Mother and sister Dark struggled through the rubble. She cursed herhusband. Fool! You might have killed Sim! I may yet, retorted the father. Sim was not listening. He was fascinated with the remains of anavalanche afront of the next tunnel. A blood stain trickled out fromunder a rise of boulders, soaking into the ground. There was nothingelse to be seen. Someone else had lost the game. Dark ran ahead on lithe, supple feet, naked and certain. The valley air was like a wine filtered between mountains. The heavenwas a restive blue; not the pale scorched atmosphere of full day, northe bloated, bruised black-purple of night, a-riot with sickly shiningstars. This was a tide pool. A place where waves of varying and violenttemperatures struck, receded. Now the tide pool was quiet, cool, andits life moved abroad. Laughter! Far away, Sim heard it. Why laughter? How could any of hispeople find time for laughing? Perhaps later he would discover why. The valley suddenly blushed with impulsive color. Plant-life, thawingin the precipitant dawn, shoved out from most unexpected sources. Itflowered as you watched. Pale green tendrils appeared on scoured rocks.Seconds later, ripe globes of fruit twitched upon the blade-tips.Father gave Sim over to mother and harvested the momentary, volatilecrop, thrust scarlet, blue, yellow fruits into a fur sack which hung athis waist. Mother tugged at the moist new grasses, laid them on Sim'stongue. His senses were being honed to a fine edge. He stored knowledgethirstily. He understood love, marriage, customs, anger, pity, rage,selfishness, shadings and subtleties, realities and reflections. Onething suggested another. The sight of green plant life whirled his mindlike a gyroscope, seeking balance in a world where lack of time forexplanations made a mind seek and interpret on its own. The soft burdenof food gave him knowledge of his system, of energy, of movement. Likea bird newly cracking its way from a shell, he was almost a unit,complete, all-knowing. Heredity had done all this for him. He grewexcited with his ability. <doc-sep>They walked, mother, father and the two children, smelling the smells,watching the birds bounce from wall to wall of the valley likescurrying pebbles and suddenly the father said a strange thing: Remember? Remember what? Sim lay cradled. Was it any effort for them to rememberwhen they'd lived only seven days! The husband and wife looked at each other. Was it only three days ago? said the woman, her body shaking, hereyes closing to think. I can't believe it. It is so unfair. Shesobbed, then drew her hand across her face and bit her parched lips.The wind played at her gray hair. Now is my turn to cry. An hour agoit was you! An hour is half a life. Come, she took her husband's arm. Let us look at everything, becauseit will be our last looking. The sun'll be up in a few minutes, said the old man. We must turnback now. Just one more moment, pleaded the woman. The sun will catch us. Let it catch me then! You don't mean that. I mean nothing, nothing at all, cried the woman. The sun was coming fast. The green in the valley burnt away. Searingwind blasted from over the cliffs. Far away where sun bolts hammeredbattlements of cliff, the huge stone faces shook their contents; thoseavalanches not already powdered down, were now released and fell likemantles. Dark! shouted the father. The girl sprang over the warm floor of thevalley, answering, her hair a black flag behind her. Hands full ofgreen fruits, she joined them. The sun rimmed the horizon with flame, the air convulsed dangerouslywith it, and whistled. The cave people bolted, shouting, picking up their fallen children,bearing vast loads of fruit and grass with them back to their deephideouts. In moments the valley was bare. Except for one small childsomeone had forgotten. He was running far out on the flatness, but hewas not strong enough, and the engulfing heat was drifting down fromthe cliffs even as he was half across the valley. Flowers were burnt into effigies, grasses sucked back into rocks likesinged snakes, flower seeds whirled and fell in the sudden furnaceblast of wind, sown far into gullies and crannies, ready to blossom atsunset tonight, and then go to seed and die again. Sim's father watched that child running, alone, out on the floor ofthe valley. He and his wife and Dark and Sim were safe in the mouth oftheir tunnel. He'll never make it, said father. Do not watch him, woman. It's nota good thing to watch. They turned away. All except Sim, whose eyes had caught a glint ofmetal far away. His heart hammered in him, and his eyes blurred.Far away, atop a low mountain, one of those metal seeds from spacereflected a dazzling ripple of light! It was like one of hisintra-embryo dreams fulfilled! A metal space seed, intact, undamaged,lying on a mountain! There was his future! There was his hopefor survival! There was where he would go in a few days, when hewas—strange thought—a grown man! The sun plunged into the valley like molten lava. The little running child screamed, the sun burned, and the screamingstopped. Sim's mother walked painfully, with sudden age, down the tunnel,paused, reached up, broke off two last icicles that had formed duringthe night. She handed one to her husband, kept the other. We willdrink one last toast. To you, to the children. To you , he nodded to her. To the children. They lifted theicicles. The warmth melted the ice down into their thirsty mouths. <doc-sep>All day the sun seemed to blaze and erupt into the valley. Sim couldnot see it, but the vivid pictorials in his parents' minds weresufficient evidence of the nature of the day fire. The light ran likemercury, sizzling and roasting the caves, poking inward, but neverpenetrating deeply enough. It lighted the caves. It made the hollows ofthe cliff comfortably warm. Sim fought to keep his parents young. But no matter how hard he foughtwith mind and image, they became like mummies before him. His fatherseemed to dissolve from one stage of oldness to another. This is whatwill happen to me soon, though Sim in terror. Sim grew upon himself. He felt the digestive-eliminatory movementsof his body. He was fed every minute, he was continually swallowing,feeding. He began to fit words to images and processes. Such a word waslove. It was not an abstraction, but a process, a stir of breath, asmell of morning air, a flutter of heart, the curve of arm holding him,the look in the suspended face of his mother. He saw the processes,then searched behind her suspended face and there was the word, in herbrain, ready to use. His throat prepared to speak. Life was pushinghim, rushing him along toward oblivion. He sensed the expansion of his fingernails, the adjustments of hiscells, the profusion of his hair, the multiplication of his bones andsinew, the grooving of the soft pale wax of his brain. His brain atbirth as clear as a circle of ice, innocent, unmarked, was, an instantlater, as if hit with a thrown rock, cracked and marked and patternedin a million crevices of thought and discovery. His sister, Dark, ran in and out with other little hothouse children,forever eating. His mother trembled over him, not eating, she had noappetite, her eyes were webbed shut. Sunset, said his father, at last. The day was over. The light faded, a wind sounded. His mother arose. I want to see the outside world once more ... justonce more.... She stared blindly, shivering. His father's eyes were shut, he lay against the wall. I cannot rise, he whispered faintly. I cannot. Dark! The mother croaked, the girl came running. Here, and Sim washanded to the girl. Hold to Sim, Dark, feed him, care for him. Shegave Sim one last fondling touch. Dark said not a word, holding Sim, her great green eyes shining wetly. Go now, said the mother. Take him out into the sunset time. Enjoyyourselves. Pick foods, eat. Play. Dark walked away without looking back. Sim twisted in her grasp,looking over her shoulder with unbelieving, tragic eyes. He cried outand somehow summoned from his lips the first word of his existence. Why...? He saw his mother stiffen. The child spoke! Aye, said his father. Did you hear what he said? I heard, said the mother quietly. The last thing Sim saw of his living parents was his mother weakly,swayingly, slowly moving across the floor to lie beside her silenthusband. That was the last time he ever saw them move. IV The night came and passed and then started the second day. The bodies of all those who had died during the night were carried in afuneral procession to the top of a small hill. The procession was long,the bodies numerous. Dark walked in the procession, holding the newly walking Sim by onehand. Only an hour before dawn Sim had learned to walk. At the top of the hill, Sim saw once again the far off metal seed.Nobody ever looked at it, or spoke of it. Why? Was there some reason?Was it a mirage? Why did they not run toward it? Worship it? Try to getto it and fly away into space? The funeral words were spoken. The bodies were placed upon the groundwhere the sun, in a few minutes, would cremate them. The procession then turned and ran down the hill, eager to have theirfew minutes of free time running and playing and laughing in the sweetair. Dark and Sim, chattering like birds, feeding among the rocks, exchangedwhat they knew of life. He was in his second day, she in her third.They were driven, as always, by the mercurial speed of their lives. Another piece of his life opened wide. Fifty young men ran down from the cliffs, holding sharp stones and rockdaggers in their thick hands. Shouting, they ran off toward distantblack, low lines of small rock cliffs. War! The thought stood in Sim's brain. It shocked and beat at him. These menwere running to fight, to kill, over there in those small black cliffswhere other people lived. But why? Wasn't life short enough without fighting, killing? From a great distance he heard the sound of conflict, and it made hisstomach cold. Why, Dark, why? Dark didn't know. Perhaps they would understand tomorrow. Now, therewas the business of eating to sustain and support their lives. WatchingDark was like seeing a lizard forever flickering its pink tongue,forever hungry. Pale children ran on all sides of them. One beetle-like boy scuttled upthe rocks, knocking Sim aside, to take from him a particularly lusciousred berry he had found growing under an outcrop. The child ate hastily of the fruit before Sim could gain his feet. ThenSim hurled himself unsteadily, the two of them fell in a ridiculousjumble, rolling, until Dark pried them, squalling, apart. Sim bled. A part of him stood off, like a god, and said, This shouldnot be. Children should not be this way. It is wrong! Dark slapped the little intruding boy away. Get on! she cried.What's your name, bad one? Chion! laughed the boy. Chion, Chion, Chion! Sim glared at him with all the ferocity in his small, unskilledfeatures. He choked. This was his enemy. It was as if he'd waitedfor an enemy of person as well as scene. He had already understoodthe avalanches, the heat, the cold, the shortness of life, but thesewere things of places, of scene—mute, extravagant manifestations ofunthinking nature, not motivated save by gravity and radiation. Here,now, in this stridulent Chion he recognized a thinking enemy! Chion darted off, turned at a distance, tauntingly crying: Tomorrow I will be big enough to kill you! And he vanished around a rock. More children ran, giggling, by Sim. Which of them would be friends,enemies? How could friends and enemies come about in this impossible,quick life time? There was no time to make either, was there? Dark, as if knowing his thoughts, drew him away. As they searched fordesired foods, she whispered fiercely in his ear. Enemies are madeover things like stolen foods; gifts of long grasses make friends.Enemies come, too, from opinions and thoughts. In five seconds you'vemade an enemy for life. Life's so short enemies must be made quickly.And she laughed with an irony strange for one so young, who was growingolder before her rightful time. You must fight to protect yourself.Others, superstitious ones, will try killing you. There is a belief, aridiculous belief, that if one kills another, the murderer partakes ofthe life energy of the slain, and therefore will live an extra day. Yousee? As long as that is believed, you're in danger. But Sim was not listening. Bursting from a flock of delicate girls whotomorrow would be tall, quieter, and who day after that would gainbreasts and the next day take husbands, Sim caught sight of one smallgirl whose hair was a violet blue flame. She ran past, brushed Sim, their bodies touched. Her eyes, white assilver coins, shone at him. He knew then that he'd found a friend, alove, a wife, one who'd a week from now lie with him atop the funeralpyre as sunlight undressed their flesh from bone. Only the glance, but it held them in mid-motion, one instant. Your name? he shouted after her. Lyte! she called laughingly back. I'm Sim, he answered, confused and bewildered. Sim! she repeated it, flashing on. I'll remember! Dark nudged his ribs. Here, eat , she said to the distracted boy.Eat or you'll never get big enough to catch her. From nowhere, Chion appeared, running by. Lyte! he mocked, dancingmalevolently along and away. Lyte! I'll remember Lyte, too! Dark stood tall and reed slender, shaking her dark ebony clouds ofhair, sadly. I see your life before you, little Sim. You'll needweapons soon to fight for this Lyte one. Now, hurry—the sun's coming! They ran back to the caves. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Dark and Sim?

Dark is the older sister to Sim. When both of their parents die from old age, on the eighth day of their existence, Dark takes over as a carrying role for Sim. She tries her best to impart knowledge to him about friends and enemies. Noticing the interactions Sim is having with other kids his age, she warns him about the violence that his future surely holds due to a new enemy. While she is not his mother and was not born much before him, she does take a protective role. She makes sure he is fed and defends him when he is being bullied.

What is strange about the planet? [SEP] <s> THE CREATURES THAT TIME FORGOT By RAY BRADBURY Mad, impossible world! Sun-blasted by day, cold-wracked by night—and life condensed by radiation into eight days! Sim eyed the Ship—if he only dared reach it and escape! ... but it was more than half an hour distant—the limit of life itself! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1946. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] During the night, Sim was born. He lay wailing upon the cold cavestones. His blood beat through him a thousand pulses each minute. Hegrew, steadily. Into his mouth his mother with feverish hands put the food. Thenightmare of living was begun. Almost instantly at birth his eyes grewalert, and then, without half understanding why, filled with bright,insistent terror. He gagged upon the food, choked and wailed. He lookedabout, blindly. There was a thick fog. It cleared. The outlines of the cave appeared.And a man loomed up, insane and wild and terrible. A man with a dyingface. Old, withered by winds, baked like adobe in the heat. The man wascrouched in a far corner of the cave, his eyes whitening to one side ofhis face, listening to the far wind trumpeting up above on the frozennight planet. Sim's mother, trembling, now and again, staring at the man, fed Simpebble-fruits, valley-grasses and ice-nipples broken from the cavernentrances, and eating, eliminating, eating again, he grew larger,larger. The man in the corner of the cave was his father! The man's eyes wereall that was alive in his face. He held a crude stone dagger in hiswithered hands and his jaw hung loose and senseless. Then, with a widening focus, Sim saw the old people sitting in thetunnel beyond this living quarter. And as he watched, they began to die. Their agonies filled the cave. They melted like waxen images, theirfaces collapsed inward on their sharp bones, their teeth protruded. Oneminute their faces were mature, fairly smooth, alive, electric. Thenext minute a desication and burning away of their flesh occurred. Sim thrashed in his mother's grasp. She held him. No, no, she soothedhim, quietly, earnestly, looking to see if this, too, would cause herhusband to rise again. With a soft swift padding of naked feet, Sim's father ran across thecave. Sim's mother screamed. Sim felt himself torn loose from hergrasp. He fell upon the stones, rolling, shrieking with his new, moistlungs! With a soft padding of naked feet Sim's father ran across the cave. The webbed face of his father jerked over him, the knife was poised.It was like one of those prenatal nightmares he'd had while stillin his mother's flesh. In the next few blazing, impossible instantsquestions flicked through his brain. The knife was high, suspended,ready to destroy him. But the whole question of life in this cave, thedying people, the withering and the insanity, surged through Sim'snew, small head. How was it that he understood? A newborn child? Can anewborn child think, see, understand, interpret? No. It was wrong! Itwas impossible. Yet it was happening! To him. He had been alive an hournow. And in the next instant perhaps dead! His mother flung herself upon the back of his father, and beat down theweapon. Sim caught the terrific backwash of emotion from both theirconflicting minds. Let me kill him! shouted the father, breathingharshly, sobbingly. What has he to live for? No, no! insisted the mother, and her body, frail and old as it was,stretched across the huge body of the father, tearing at his weapon.He must live! There may be a future for him! He may live longer thanus, and be young! The father fell back against a stone crib. Lying there, staring,eyes glittering, Sim saw another figure inside that stone crib. Agirl-child, quietly feeding itself, moving its delicate hands toprocure food. His sister. The mother wrenched the dagger from her husband's grasp, stood up,weeping and pushing back her cloud of stiffening gray hair. Her mouthtrembled and jerked. I'll kill you! she said, glaring down at herhusband. Leave my children alone. The old man spat tiredly, bitterly, and looked vacantly into the stonecrib, at the little girl. One-eighth of her life's over, already,he gasped. And she doesn't know it. What's the use? As Sim watched, his own mother seemed to shift and take a tortured,smoke-like form. The thin bony face broke out into a maze of wrinkles.She was shaken with pain and had to sit by him, shuddering and cuddlingthe knife to her shriveled breasts. She, like the old people in thetunnel, was aging, dying. Sim cried steadily. Everywhere he looked was horror. A mind came tomeet his own. Instinctively he glanced toward the stone crib. Dark, hissister, returned his glance. Their minds brushed like straying fingers.He relaxed somewhat. He began to learn. The father sighed, shut his lids down over his green eyes. Feed thechild, he said, exhaustedly. Hurry. It is almost dawn and it is ourlast day of living, woman. Feed him. Make him grow. Sim quieted, and images, out of the terror, floated to him. This was a planet next to the sun. The nights burned with cold, thedays were like torches of fire. It was a violent, impossible world. Thepeople lived in the cliffs to escape the incredible ice and the day offlame. Only at dawn and sunset was the air breath-sweet, flower-strong,and then the cave peoples brought their children out into a stony,barren valley. At dawn the ice thawed into creeks and rivers, at sunsetthe day-fires died and cooled. In the intervals of even, livabletemperature the people lived, ran, played, loved, free of the caverns;all life on the planet jumped, burst into life. Plants grew instantly,birds were flung like pellets across the sky. Smaller, legged animallife rushed frantically through the rocks; everything tried to getits living down in the brief hour of respite. It was an unbearable planet. Sim understood this, a matter of hoursafter birth. Racial memory bloomed in him. He would live his entirelife in the caves, with two hours a day outside. Here, in stonechannels of air he would talk, talk incessantly with his people, sleepnever, think, think and lie upon his back, dreaming; but never sleeping. And he would live exactly eight days. <doc-sep>The violence of this thought evacuated his bowels. Eight days. Eight short days. It was wrong, impossible, but a fact. Even while in hismother's flesh some racial knowledge had told him he was being formedrapidly, shaped and propelled out swiftly. Birth was quick as a knife. Childhood was over in a flash. Adolescencewas a sheet of lightning. Manhood was a dream, maturity a myth, old agean inescapably quick reality, death a swift certainty. Eight days from now he'd stand half-blind, withering, dying, as hisfather now stood, staring uselessly at his own wife and child. This day was an eighth part of his total life! He must enjoy everysecond of it. He must search his parents' thoughts for knowledge. Because in a few hours they'd be dead. This was so impossibly unfair. Was this all of life? In his prenatalstate hadn't he dreamed of long lives, valleys not of blasted stonebut green foliage and temperate clime? Yes! And if he'd dreamed thenthere must be truth in the visions. How could he seek and find the longlife? Where? And how could he accomplish a life mission that huge anddepressing in eight short, vanishing days? How had his people gotten into such a condition? As if at a button pressed, he saw an image. Metal seeds, blown acrossspace from a distant green world, fighting with long flames, crashingon this bleak planet. From their shattered hulls tumble men and women. When? Long ago. Ten thousand days. The crash victims hid in the cliffsfrom the sun. Fire, ice and floods washed away the wreckage of thehuge metal seeds. The victims were shaped and beaten like iron upona forge. Solar radiations drenched them. Their pulses quickened,two hundred, five hundred, a thousand beats a minute. Their skinsthickened, their blood changed. Old age came rushing. Children wereborn in the caves. Swifter, swifter, swifter the process. Like all thisworld's wild life, the men and women from the crash lived and died in aweek, leaving children to do likewise. So this is life, thought Sim. It was not spoken in his mind, forhe knew no words, he knew only images, old memory, an awareness, atelepathy that could penetrate flesh, rock, metal. So I'm the fivethousandth in a long line of futile sons? What can I do to save myselffrom dying eight days from now? Is there escape? His eyes widened, another image came to focus. Beyond this valley of cliffs, on a low mountain lay a perfect,unscarred metal seed. A metal ship, not rusted or touched by theavalanches. The ship was deserted, whole, intact. It was the only shipof all these that had crashed that was still a unit, still usable. Butit was so far away. There was no one in it to help. This ship, then, onthe far mountain, was the destiny toward which he would grow. There washis only hope of escape. His mind flexed. In this cliff, deep down in a confinement of solitude, worked a handfulof scientists. To these men, when he was old enough and wise enough, hemust go. They, too, dreamed of escape, of long life, of green valleysand temperate weathers. They, too, stared longingly at that distantship upon its high mountain, its metal so perfect it did not rust orage. The cliff groaned. Sim's father lifted his eroded, lifeless face. Dawn's coming, he said. II Morning relaxed the mighty granite cliff muscles. It was the time ofthe Avalanche. The tunnels echoed to running bare feet. Adults, children pushed witheager, hungry eyes toward the outside dawn. From far out, Sim hearda rumble of rock, a scream, a silence. Avalanches fell into valley.Stones that had been biding their time, not quite ready to fall, fora million years let go their bulks, and where they had begun theirjourney as single boulders they smashed upon the valley floor in athousand shrapnels and friction-heated nuggets. Every morning at least one person was caught in the downpour. The cliff people dared the avalanches. It added one more excitement totheir lives, already too short, too headlong, too dangerous. Sim felt himself seized up by his father. He was carried brusquely downthe tunnel for a thousand yards, to where the daylight appeared. Therewas a shining insane light in his father's eyes. Sim could not move. Hesensed what was going to happen. Behind his father, his mother hurried,bringing with her the little sister, Dark. Wait! Be careful! shecried to her husband. Sim felt his father crouch, listening. High in the cliff was a tremor, a shivering. Now! bellowed his father, and leaped out. An avalanche fell down at them! Sim had accelerated impressions of plunging walls, dust, confusion. Hismother screamed! There was a jolting, a plunging. With one last step, Sim's father hurried him forward into the day. Theavalanche thundered behind him. The mouth of the cave, where mother andDark stood back out of the way, was choked with rubble and two bouldersthat weighed a hundred pounds each. The storm thunder of the avalanche passed away to a trickle of sand.Sim's father burst out into laughter. Made it! By the Gods! Made italive! And he looked scornfully at the cliff and spat. Pagh! Mother and sister Dark struggled through the rubble. She cursed herhusband. Fool! You might have killed Sim! I may yet, retorted the father. Sim was not listening. He was fascinated with the remains of anavalanche afront of the next tunnel. A blood stain trickled out fromunder a rise of boulders, soaking into the ground. There was nothingelse to be seen. Someone else had lost the game. Dark ran ahead on lithe, supple feet, naked and certain. The valley air was like a wine filtered between mountains. The heavenwas a restive blue; not the pale scorched atmosphere of full day, northe bloated, bruised black-purple of night, a-riot with sickly shiningstars. This was a tide pool. A place where waves of varying and violenttemperatures struck, receded. Now the tide pool was quiet, cool, andits life moved abroad. Laughter! Far away, Sim heard it. Why laughter? How could any of hispeople find time for laughing? Perhaps later he would discover why. The valley suddenly blushed with impulsive color. Plant-life, thawingin the precipitant dawn, shoved out from most unexpected sources. Itflowered as you watched. Pale green tendrils appeared on scoured rocks.Seconds later, ripe globes of fruit twitched upon the blade-tips.Father gave Sim over to mother and harvested the momentary, volatilecrop, thrust scarlet, blue, yellow fruits into a fur sack which hung athis waist. Mother tugged at the moist new grasses, laid them on Sim'stongue. His senses were being honed to a fine edge. He stored knowledgethirstily. He understood love, marriage, customs, anger, pity, rage,selfishness, shadings and subtleties, realities and reflections. Onething suggested another. The sight of green plant life whirled his mindlike a gyroscope, seeking balance in a world where lack of time forexplanations made a mind seek and interpret on its own. The soft burdenof food gave him knowledge of his system, of energy, of movement. Likea bird newly cracking its way from a shell, he was almost a unit,complete, all-knowing. Heredity had done all this for him. He grewexcited with his ability. <doc-sep>They walked, mother, father and the two children, smelling the smells,watching the birds bounce from wall to wall of the valley likescurrying pebbles and suddenly the father said a strange thing: Remember? Remember what? Sim lay cradled. Was it any effort for them to rememberwhen they'd lived only seven days! The husband and wife looked at each other. Was it only three days ago? said the woman, her body shaking, hereyes closing to think. I can't believe it. It is so unfair. Shesobbed, then drew her hand across her face and bit her parched lips.The wind played at her gray hair. Now is my turn to cry. An hour agoit was you! An hour is half a life. Come, she took her husband's arm. Let us look at everything, becauseit will be our last looking. The sun'll be up in a few minutes, said the old man. We must turnback now. Just one more moment, pleaded the woman. The sun will catch us. Let it catch me then! You don't mean that. I mean nothing, nothing at all, cried the woman. The sun was coming fast. The green in the valley burnt away. Searingwind blasted from over the cliffs. Far away where sun bolts hammeredbattlements of cliff, the huge stone faces shook their contents; thoseavalanches not already powdered down, were now released and fell likemantles. Dark! shouted the father. The girl sprang over the warm floor of thevalley, answering, her hair a black flag behind her. Hands full ofgreen fruits, she joined them. The sun rimmed the horizon with flame, the air convulsed dangerouslywith it, and whistled. The cave people bolted, shouting, picking up their fallen children,bearing vast loads of fruit and grass with them back to their deephideouts. In moments the valley was bare. Except for one small childsomeone had forgotten. He was running far out on the flatness, but hewas not strong enough, and the engulfing heat was drifting down fromthe cliffs even as he was half across the valley. Flowers were burnt into effigies, grasses sucked back into rocks likesinged snakes, flower seeds whirled and fell in the sudden furnaceblast of wind, sown far into gullies and crannies, ready to blossom atsunset tonight, and then go to seed and die again. Sim's father watched that child running, alone, out on the floor ofthe valley. He and his wife and Dark and Sim were safe in the mouth oftheir tunnel. He'll never make it, said father. Do not watch him, woman. It's nota good thing to watch. They turned away. All except Sim, whose eyes had caught a glint ofmetal far away. His heart hammered in him, and his eyes blurred.Far away, atop a low mountain, one of those metal seeds from spacereflected a dazzling ripple of light! It was like one of hisintra-embryo dreams fulfilled! A metal space seed, intact, undamaged,lying on a mountain! There was his future! There was his hopefor survival! There was where he would go in a few days, when hewas—strange thought—a grown man! The sun plunged into the valley like molten lava. The little running child screamed, the sun burned, and the screamingstopped. Sim's mother walked painfully, with sudden age, down the tunnel,paused, reached up, broke off two last icicles that had formed duringthe night. She handed one to her husband, kept the other. We willdrink one last toast. To you, to the children. To you , he nodded to her. To the children. They lifted theicicles. The warmth melted the ice down into their thirsty mouths. <doc-sep>All day the sun seemed to blaze and erupt into the valley. Sim couldnot see it, but the vivid pictorials in his parents' minds weresufficient evidence of the nature of the day fire. The light ran likemercury, sizzling and roasting the caves, poking inward, but neverpenetrating deeply enough. It lighted the caves. It made the hollows ofthe cliff comfortably warm. Sim fought to keep his parents young. But no matter how hard he foughtwith mind and image, they became like mummies before him. His fatherseemed to dissolve from one stage of oldness to another. This is whatwill happen to me soon, though Sim in terror. Sim grew upon himself. He felt the digestive-eliminatory movementsof his body. He was fed every minute, he was continually swallowing,feeding. He began to fit words to images and processes. Such a word waslove. It was not an abstraction, but a process, a stir of breath, asmell of morning air, a flutter of heart, the curve of arm holding him,the look in the suspended face of his mother. He saw the processes,then searched behind her suspended face and there was the word, in herbrain, ready to use. His throat prepared to speak. Life was pushinghim, rushing him along toward oblivion. He sensed the expansion of his fingernails, the adjustments of hiscells, the profusion of his hair, the multiplication of his bones andsinew, the grooving of the soft pale wax of his brain. His brain atbirth as clear as a circle of ice, innocent, unmarked, was, an instantlater, as if hit with a thrown rock, cracked and marked and patternedin a million crevices of thought and discovery. His sister, Dark, ran in and out with other little hothouse children,forever eating. His mother trembled over him, not eating, she had noappetite, her eyes were webbed shut. Sunset, said his father, at last. The day was over. The light faded, a wind sounded. His mother arose. I want to see the outside world once more ... justonce more.... She stared blindly, shivering. His father's eyes were shut, he lay against the wall. I cannot rise, he whispered faintly. I cannot. Dark! The mother croaked, the girl came running. Here, and Sim washanded to the girl. Hold to Sim, Dark, feed him, care for him. Shegave Sim one last fondling touch. Dark said not a word, holding Sim, her great green eyes shining wetly. Go now, said the mother. Take him out into the sunset time. Enjoyyourselves. Pick foods, eat. Play. Dark walked away without looking back. Sim twisted in her grasp,looking over her shoulder with unbelieving, tragic eyes. He cried outand somehow summoned from his lips the first word of his existence. Why...? He saw his mother stiffen. The child spoke! Aye, said his father. Did you hear what he said? I heard, said the mother quietly. The last thing Sim saw of his living parents was his mother weakly,swayingly, slowly moving across the floor to lie beside her silenthusband. That was the last time he ever saw them move. IV The night came and passed and then started the second day. The bodies of all those who had died during the night were carried in afuneral procession to the top of a small hill. The procession was long,the bodies numerous. Dark walked in the procession, holding the newly walking Sim by onehand. Only an hour before dawn Sim had learned to walk. At the top of the hill, Sim saw once again the far off metal seed.Nobody ever looked at it, or spoke of it. Why? Was there some reason?Was it a mirage? Why did they not run toward it? Worship it? Try to getto it and fly away into space? The funeral words were spoken. The bodies were placed upon the groundwhere the sun, in a few minutes, would cremate them. The procession then turned and ran down the hill, eager to have theirfew minutes of free time running and playing and laughing in the sweetair. Dark and Sim, chattering like birds, feeding among the rocks, exchangedwhat they knew of life. He was in his second day, she in her third.They were driven, as always, by the mercurial speed of their lives. Another piece of his life opened wide. Fifty young men ran down from the cliffs, holding sharp stones and rockdaggers in their thick hands. Shouting, they ran off toward distantblack, low lines of small rock cliffs. War! The thought stood in Sim's brain. It shocked and beat at him. These menwere running to fight, to kill, over there in those small black cliffswhere other people lived. But why? Wasn't life short enough without fighting, killing? From a great distance he heard the sound of conflict, and it made hisstomach cold. Why, Dark, why? Dark didn't know. Perhaps they would understand tomorrow. Now, therewas the business of eating to sustain and support their lives. WatchingDark was like seeing a lizard forever flickering its pink tongue,forever hungry. Pale children ran on all sides of them. One beetle-like boy scuttled upthe rocks, knocking Sim aside, to take from him a particularly lusciousred berry he had found growing under an outcrop. The child ate hastily of the fruit before Sim could gain his feet. ThenSim hurled himself unsteadily, the two of them fell in a ridiculousjumble, rolling, until Dark pried them, squalling, apart. Sim bled. A part of him stood off, like a god, and said, This shouldnot be. Children should not be this way. It is wrong! Dark slapped the little intruding boy away. Get on! she cried.What's your name, bad one? Chion! laughed the boy. Chion, Chion, Chion! Sim glared at him with all the ferocity in his small, unskilledfeatures. He choked. This was his enemy. It was as if he'd waitedfor an enemy of person as well as scene. He had already understoodthe avalanches, the heat, the cold, the shortness of life, but thesewere things of places, of scene—mute, extravagant manifestations ofunthinking nature, not motivated save by gravity and radiation. Here,now, in this stridulent Chion he recognized a thinking enemy! Chion darted off, turned at a distance, tauntingly crying: Tomorrow I will be big enough to kill you! And he vanished around a rock. More children ran, giggling, by Sim. Which of them would be friends,enemies? How could friends and enemies come about in this impossible,quick life time? There was no time to make either, was there? Dark, as if knowing his thoughts, drew him away. As they searched fordesired foods, she whispered fiercely in his ear. Enemies are madeover things like stolen foods; gifts of long grasses make friends.Enemies come, too, from opinions and thoughts. In five seconds you'vemade an enemy for life. Life's so short enemies must be made quickly.And she laughed with an irony strange for one so young, who was growingolder before her rightful time. You must fight to protect yourself.Others, superstitious ones, will try killing you. There is a belief, aridiculous belief, that if one kills another, the murderer partakes ofthe life energy of the slain, and therefore will live an extra day. Yousee? As long as that is believed, you're in danger. But Sim was not listening. Bursting from a flock of delicate girls whotomorrow would be tall, quieter, and who day after that would gainbreasts and the next day take husbands, Sim caught sight of one smallgirl whose hair was a violet blue flame. She ran past, brushed Sim, their bodies touched. Her eyes, white assilver coins, shone at him. He knew then that he'd found a friend, alove, a wife, one who'd a week from now lie with him atop the funeralpyre as sunlight undressed their flesh from bone. Only the glance, but it held them in mid-motion, one instant. Your name? he shouted after her. Lyte! she called laughingly back. I'm Sim, he answered, confused and bewildered. Sim! she repeated it, flashing on. I'll remember! Dark nudged his ribs. Here, eat , she said to the distracted boy.Eat or you'll never get big enough to catch her. From nowhere, Chion appeared, running by. Lyte! he mocked, dancingmalevolently along and away. Lyte! I'll remember Lyte, too! Dark stood tall and reed slender, shaking her dark ebony clouds ofhair, sadly. I see your life before you, little Sim. You'll needweapons soon to fight for this Lyte one. Now, hurry—the sun's coming! They ran back to the caves. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is strange about the planet?

The planet is strange because of its extremes. The people that live on the planet have to spend most of their time in the caves because during most of the day the sun is too powerful and kills everything that it touches. At night, there is a cold, burning sensation. There are about two hours during the day, dawn and sunset, where the people are able to venture into the valley. During this time, the rivers flow, the flowers bloom, and the people enjoy the livable temperatures outside. Even more strange on the planet is the extreme aging that people go through. People only live 8 days. As a result, they mature, understand, grow, and age at an incredible pace.

How does Sim gain his knowledge and absorb his surroundings? [SEP] <s> THE CREATURES THAT TIME FORGOT By RAY BRADBURY Mad, impossible world! Sun-blasted by day, cold-wracked by night—and life condensed by radiation into eight days! Sim eyed the Ship—if he only dared reach it and escape! ... but it was more than half an hour distant—the limit of life itself! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1946. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] During the night, Sim was born. He lay wailing upon the cold cavestones. His blood beat through him a thousand pulses each minute. Hegrew, steadily. Into his mouth his mother with feverish hands put the food. Thenightmare of living was begun. Almost instantly at birth his eyes grewalert, and then, without half understanding why, filled with bright,insistent terror. He gagged upon the food, choked and wailed. He lookedabout, blindly. There was a thick fog. It cleared. The outlines of the cave appeared.And a man loomed up, insane and wild and terrible. A man with a dyingface. Old, withered by winds, baked like adobe in the heat. The man wascrouched in a far corner of the cave, his eyes whitening to one side ofhis face, listening to the far wind trumpeting up above on the frozennight planet. Sim's mother, trembling, now and again, staring at the man, fed Simpebble-fruits, valley-grasses and ice-nipples broken from the cavernentrances, and eating, eliminating, eating again, he grew larger,larger. The man in the corner of the cave was his father! The man's eyes wereall that was alive in his face. He held a crude stone dagger in hiswithered hands and his jaw hung loose and senseless. Then, with a widening focus, Sim saw the old people sitting in thetunnel beyond this living quarter. And as he watched, they began to die. Their agonies filled the cave. They melted like waxen images, theirfaces collapsed inward on their sharp bones, their teeth protruded. Oneminute their faces were mature, fairly smooth, alive, electric. Thenext minute a desication and burning away of their flesh occurred. Sim thrashed in his mother's grasp. She held him. No, no, she soothedhim, quietly, earnestly, looking to see if this, too, would cause herhusband to rise again. With a soft swift padding of naked feet, Sim's father ran across thecave. Sim's mother screamed. Sim felt himself torn loose from hergrasp. He fell upon the stones, rolling, shrieking with his new, moistlungs! With a soft padding of naked feet Sim's father ran across the cave. The webbed face of his father jerked over him, the knife was poised.It was like one of those prenatal nightmares he'd had while stillin his mother's flesh. In the next few blazing, impossible instantsquestions flicked through his brain. The knife was high, suspended,ready to destroy him. But the whole question of life in this cave, thedying people, the withering and the insanity, surged through Sim'snew, small head. How was it that he understood? A newborn child? Can anewborn child think, see, understand, interpret? No. It was wrong! Itwas impossible. Yet it was happening! To him. He had been alive an hournow. And in the next instant perhaps dead! His mother flung herself upon the back of his father, and beat down theweapon. Sim caught the terrific backwash of emotion from both theirconflicting minds. Let me kill him! shouted the father, breathingharshly, sobbingly. What has he to live for? No, no! insisted the mother, and her body, frail and old as it was,stretched across the huge body of the father, tearing at his weapon.He must live! There may be a future for him! He may live longer thanus, and be young! The father fell back against a stone crib. Lying there, staring,eyes glittering, Sim saw another figure inside that stone crib. Agirl-child, quietly feeding itself, moving its delicate hands toprocure food. His sister. The mother wrenched the dagger from her husband's grasp, stood up,weeping and pushing back her cloud of stiffening gray hair. Her mouthtrembled and jerked. I'll kill you! she said, glaring down at herhusband. Leave my children alone. The old man spat tiredly, bitterly, and looked vacantly into the stonecrib, at the little girl. One-eighth of her life's over, already,he gasped. And she doesn't know it. What's the use? As Sim watched, his own mother seemed to shift and take a tortured,smoke-like form. The thin bony face broke out into a maze of wrinkles.She was shaken with pain and had to sit by him, shuddering and cuddlingthe knife to her shriveled breasts. She, like the old people in thetunnel, was aging, dying. Sim cried steadily. Everywhere he looked was horror. A mind came tomeet his own. Instinctively he glanced toward the stone crib. Dark, hissister, returned his glance. Their minds brushed like straying fingers.He relaxed somewhat. He began to learn. The father sighed, shut his lids down over his green eyes. Feed thechild, he said, exhaustedly. Hurry. It is almost dawn and it is ourlast day of living, woman. Feed him. Make him grow. Sim quieted, and images, out of the terror, floated to him. This was a planet next to the sun. The nights burned with cold, thedays were like torches of fire. It was a violent, impossible world. Thepeople lived in the cliffs to escape the incredible ice and the day offlame. Only at dawn and sunset was the air breath-sweet, flower-strong,and then the cave peoples brought their children out into a stony,barren valley. At dawn the ice thawed into creeks and rivers, at sunsetthe day-fires died and cooled. In the intervals of even, livabletemperature the people lived, ran, played, loved, free of the caverns;all life on the planet jumped, burst into life. Plants grew instantly,birds were flung like pellets across the sky. Smaller, legged animallife rushed frantically through the rocks; everything tried to getits living down in the brief hour of respite. It was an unbearable planet. Sim understood this, a matter of hoursafter birth. Racial memory bloomed in him. He would live his entirelife in the caves, with two hours a day outside. Here, in stonechannels of air he would talk, talk incessantly with his people, sleepnever, think, think and lie upon his back, dreaming; but never sleeping. And he would live exactly eight days. <doc-sep>The violence of this thought evacuated his bowels. Eight days. Eight short days. It was wrong, impossible, but a fact. Even while in hismother's flesh some racial knowledge had told him he was being formedrapidly, shaped and propelled out swiftly. Birth was quick as a knife. Childhood was over in a flash. Adolescencewas a sheet of lightning. Manhood was a dream, maturity a myth, old agean inescapably quick reality, death a swift certainty. Eight days from now he'd stand half-blind, withering, dying, as hisfather now stood, staring uselessly at his own wife and child. This day was an eighth part of his total life! He must enjoy everysecond of it. He must search his parents' thoughts for knowledge. Because in a few hours they'd be dead. This was so impossibly unfair. Was this all of life? In his prenatalstate hadn't he dreamed of long lives, valleys not of blasted stonebut green foliage and temperate clime? Yes! And if he'd dreamed thenthere must be truth in the visions. How could he seek and find the longlife? Where? And how could he accomplish a life mission that huge anddepressing in eight short, vanishing days? How had his people gotten into such a condition? As if at a button pressed, he saw an image. Metal seeds, blown acrossspace from a distant green world, fighting with long flames, crashingon this bleak planet. From their shattered hulls tumble men and women. When? Long ago. Ten thousand days. The crash victims hid in the cliffsfrom the sun. Fire, ice and floods washed away the wreckage of thehuge metal seeds. The victims were shaped and beaten like iron upona forge. Solar radiations drenched them. Their pulses quickened,two hundred, five hundred, a thousand beats a minute. Their skinsthickened, their blood changed. Old age came rushing. Children wereborn in the caves. Swifter, swifter, swifter the process. Like all thisworld's wild life, the men and women from the crash lived and died in aweek, leaving children to do likewise. So this is life, thought Sim. It was not spoken in his mind, forhe knew no words, he knew only images, old memory, an awareness, atelepathy that could penetrate flesh, rock, metal. So I'm the fivethousandth in a long line of futile sons? What can I do to save myselffrom dying eight days from now? Is there escape? His eyes widened, another image came to focus. Beyond this valley of cliffs, on a low mountain lay a perfect,unscarred metal seed. A metal ship, not rusted or touched by theavalanches. The ship was deserted, whole, intact. It was the only shipof all these that had crashed that was still a unit, still usable. Butit was so far away. There was no one in it to help. This ship, then, onthe far mountain, was the destiny toward which he would grow. There washis only hope of escape. His mind flexed. In this cliff, deep down in a confinement of solitude, worked a handfulof scientists. To these men, when he was old enough and wise enough, hemust go. They, too, dreamed of escape, of long life, of green valleysand temperate weathers. They, too, stared longingly at that distantship upon its high mountain, its metal so perfect it did not rust orage. The cliff groaned. Sim's father lifted his eroded, lifeless face. Dawn's coming, he said. II Morning relaxed the mighty granite cliff muscles. It was the time ofthe Avalanche. The tunnels echoed to running bare feet. Adults, children pushed witheager, hungry eyes toward the outside dawn. From far out, Sim hearda rumble of rock, a scream, a silence. Avalanches fell into valley.Stones that had been biding their time, not quite ready to fall, fora million years let go their bulks, and where they had begun theirjourney as single boulders they smashed upon the valley floor in athousand shrapnels and friction-heated nuggets. Every morning at least one person was caught in the downpour. The cliff people dared the avalanches. It added one more excitement totheir lives, already too short, too headlong, too dangerous. Sim felt himself seized up by his father. He was carried brusquely downthe tunnel for a thousand yards, to where the daylight appeared. Therewas a shining insane light in his father's eyes. Sim could not move. Hesensed what was going to happen. Behind his father, his mother hurried,bringing with her the little sister, Dark. Wait! Be careful! shecried to her husband. Sim felt his father crouch, listening. High in the cliff was a tremor, a shivering. Now! bellowed his father, and leaped out. An avalanche fell down at them! Sim had accelerated impressions of plunging walls, dust, confusion. Hismother screamed! There was a jolting, a plunging. With one last step, Sim's father hurried him forward into the day. Theavalanche thundered behind him. The mouth of the cave, where mother andDark stood back out of the way, was choked with rubble and two bouldersthat weighed a hundred pounds each. The storm thunder of the avalanche passed away to a trickle of sand.Sim's father burst out into laughter. Made it! By the Gods! Made italive! And he looked scornfully at the cliff and spat. Pagh! Mother and sister Dark struggled through the rubble. She cursed herhusband. Fool! You might have killed Sim! I may yet, retorted the father. Sim was not listening. He was fascinated with the remains of anavalanche afront of the next tunnel. A blood stain trickled out fromunder a rise of boulders, soaking into the ground. There was nothingelse to be seen. Someone else had lost the game. Dark ran ahead on lithe, supple feet, naked and certain. The valley air was like a wine filtered between mountains. The heavenwas a restive blue; not the pale scorched atmosphere of full day, northe bloated, bruised black-purple of night, a-riot with sickly shiningstars. This was a tide pool. A place where waves of varying and violenttemperatures struck, receded. Now the tide pool was quiet, cool, andits life moved abroad. Laughter! Far away, Sim heard it. Why laughter? How could any of hispeople find time for laughing? Perhaps later he would discover why. The valley suddenly blushed with impulsive color. Plant-life, thawingin the precipitant dawn, shoved out from most unexpected sources. Itflowered as you watched. Pale green tendrils appeared on scoured rocks.Seconds later, ripe globes of fruit twitched upon the blade-tips.Father gave Sim over to mother and harvested the momentary, volatilecrop, thrust scarlet, blue, yellow fruits into a fur sack which hung athis waist. Mother tugged at the moist new grasses, laid them on Sim'stongue. His senses were being honed to a fine edge. He stored knowledgethirstily. He understood love, marriage, customs, anger, pity, rage,selfishness, shadings and subtleties, realities and reflections. Onething suggested another. The sight of green plant life whirled his mindlike a gyroscope, seeking balance in a world where lack of time forexplanations made a mind seek and interpret on its own. The soft burdenof food gave him knowledge of his system, of energy, of movement. Likea bird newly cracking its way from a shell, he was almost a unit,complete, all-knowing. Heredity had done all this for him. He grewexcited with his ability. <doc-sep>They walked, mother, father and the two children, smelling the smells,watching the birds bounce from wall to wall of the valley likescurrying pebbles and suddenly the father said a strange thing: Remember? Remember what? Sim lay cradled. Was it any effort for them to rememberwhen they'd lived only seven days! The husband and wife looked at each other. Was it only three days ago? said the woman, her body shaking, hereyes closing to think. I can't believe it. It is so unfair. Shesobbed, then drew her hand across her face and bit her parched lips.The wind played at her gray hair. Now is my turn to cry. An hour agoit was you! An hour is half a life. Come, she took her husband's arm. Let us look at everything, becauseit will be our last looking. The sun'll be up in a few minutes, said the old man. We must turnback now. Just one more moment, pleaded the woman. The sun will catch us. Let it catch me then! You don't mean that. I mean nothing, nothing at all, cried the woman. The sun was coming fast. The green in the valley burnt away. Searingwind blasted from over the cliffs. Far away where sun bolts hammeredbattlements of cliff, the huge stone faces shook their contents; thoseavalanches not already powdered down, were now released and fell likemantles. Dark! shouted the father. The girl sprang over the warm floor of thevalley, answering, her hair a black flag behind her. Hands full ofgreen fruits, she joined them. The sun rimmed the horizon with flame, the air convulsed dangerouslywith it, and whistled. The cave people bolted, shouting, picking up their fallen children,bearing vast loads of fruit and grass with them back to their deephideouts. In moments the valley was bare. Except for one small childsomeone had forgotten. He was running far out on the flatness, but hewas not strong enough, and the engulfing heat was drifting down fromthe cliffs even as he was half across the valley. Flowers were burnt into effigies, grasses sucked back into rocks likesinged snakes, flower seeds whirled and fell in the sudden furnaceblast of wind, sown far into gullies and crannies, ready to blossom atsunset tonight, and then go to seed and die again. Sim's father watched that child running, alone, out on the floor ofthe valley. He and his wife and Dark and Sim were safe in the mouth oftheir tunnel. He'll never make it, said father. Do not watch him, woman. It's nota good thing to watch. They turned away. All except Sim, whose eyes had caught a glint ofmetal far away. His heart hammered in him, and his eyes blurred.Far away, atop a low mountain, one of those metal seeds from spacereflected a dazzling ripple of light! It was like one of hisintra-embryo dreams fulfilled! A metal space seed, intact, undamaged,lying on a mountain! There was his future! There was his hopefor survival! There was where he would go in a few days, when hewas—strange thought—a grown man! The sun plunged into the valley like molten lava. The little running child screamed, the sun burned, and the screamingstopped. Sim's mother walked painfully, with sudden age, down the tunnel,paused, reached up, broke off two last icicles that had formed duringthe night. She handed one to her husband, kept the other. We willdrink one last toast. To you, to the children. To you , he nodded to her. To the children. They lifted theicicles. The warmth melted the ice down into their thirsty mouths. <doc-sep>All day the sun seemed to blaze and erupt into the valley. Sim couldnot see it, but the vivid pictorials in his parents' minds weresufficient evidence of the nature of the day fire. The light ran likemercury, sizzling and roasting the caves, poking inward, but neverpenetrating deeply enough. It lighted the caves. It made the hollows ofthe cliff comfortably warm. Sim fought to keep his parents young. But no matter how hard he foughtwith mind and image, they became like mummies before him. His fatherseemed to dissolve from one stage of oldness to another. This is whatwill happen to me soon, though Sim in terror. Sim grew upon himself. He felt the digestive-eliminatory movementsof his body. He was fed every minute, he was continually swallowing,feeding. He began to fit words to images and processes. Such a word waslove. It was not an abstraction, but a process, a stir of breath, asmell of morning air, a flutter of heart, the curve of arm holding him,the look in the suspended face of his mother. He saw the processes,then searched behind her suspended face and there was the word, in herbrain, ready to use. His throat prepared to speak. Life was pushinghim, rushing him along toward oblivion. He sensed the expansion of his fingernails, the adjustments of hiscells, the profusion of his hair, the multiplication of his bones andsinew, the grooving of the soft pale wax of his brain. His brain atbirth as clear as a circle of ice, innocent, unmarked, was, an instantlater, as if hit with a thrown rock, cracked and marked and patternedin a million crevices of thought and discovery. His sister, Dark, ran in and out with other little hothouse children,forever eating. His mother trembled over him, not eating, she had noappetite, her eyes were webbed shut. Sunset, said his father, at last. The day was over. The light faded, a wind sounded. His mother arose. I want to see the outside world once more ... justonce more.... She stared blindly, shivering. His father's eyes were shut, he lay against the wall. I cannot rise, he whispered faintly. I cannot. Dark! The mother croaked, the girl came running. Here, and Sim washanded to the girl. Hold to Sim, Dark, feed him, care for him. Shegave Sim one last fondling touch. Dark said not a word, holding Sim, her great green eyes shining wetly. Go now, said the mother. Take him out into the sunset time. Enjoyyourselves. Pick foods, eat. Play. Dark walked away without looking back. Sim twisted in her grasp,looking over her shoulder with unbelieving, tragic eyes. He cried outand somehow summoned from his lips the first word of his existence. Why...? He saw his mother stiffen. The child spoke! Aye, said his father. Did you hear what he said? I heard, said the mother quietly. The last thing Sim saw of his living parents was his mother weakly,swayingly, slowly moving across the floor to lie beside her silenthusband. That was the last time he ever saw them move. IV The night came and passed and then started the second day. The bodies of all those who had died during the night were carried in afuneral procession to the top of a small hill. The procession was long,the bodies numerous. Dark walked in the procession, holding the newly walking Sim by onehand. Only an hour before dawn Sim had learned to walk. At the top of the hill, Sim saw once again the far off metal seed.Nobody ever looked at it, or spoke of it. Why? Was there some reason?Was it a mirage? Why did they not run toward it? Worship it? Try to getto it and fly away into space? The funeral words were spoken. The bodies were placed upon the groundwhere the sun, in a few minutes, would cremate them. The procession then turned and ran down the hill, eager to have theirfew minutes of free time running and playing and laughing in the sweetair. Dark and Sim, chattering like birds, feeding among the rocks, exchangedwhat they knew of life. He was in his second day, she in her third.They were driven, as always, by the mercurial speed of their lives. Another piece of his life opened wide. Fifty young men ran down from the cliffs, holding sharp stones and rockdaggers in their thick hands. Shouting, they ran off toward distantblack, low lines of small rock cliffs. War! The thought stood in Sim's brain. It shocked and beat at him. These menwere running to fight, to kill, over there in those small black cliffswhere other people lived. But why? Wasn't life short enough without fighting, killing? From a great distance he heard the sound of conflict, and it made hisstomach cold. Why, Dark, why? Dark didn't know. Perhaps they would understand tomorrow. Now, therewas the business of eating to sustain and support their lives. WatchingDark was like seeing a lizard forever flickering its pink tongue,forever hungry. Pale children ran on all sides of them. One beetle-like boy scuttled upthe rocks, knocking Sim aside, to take from him a particularly lusciousred berry he had found growing under an outcrop. The child ate hastily of the fruit before Sim could gain his feet. ThenSim hurled himself unsteadily, the two of them fell in a ridiculousjumble, rolling, until Dark pried them, squalling, apart. Sim bled. A part of him stood off, like a god, and said, This shouldnot be. Children should not be this way. It is wrong! Dark slapped the little intruding boy away. Get on! she cried.What's your name, bad one? Chion! laughed the boy. Chion, Chion, Chion! Sim glared at him with all the ferocity in his small, unskilledfeatures. He choked. This was his enemy. It was as if he'd waitedfor an enemy of person as well as scene. He had already understoodthe avalanches, the heat, the cold, the shortness of life, but thesewere things of places, of scene—mute, extravagant manifestations ofunthinking nature, not motivated save by gravity and radiation. Here,now, in this stridulent Chion he recognized a thinking enemy! Chion darted off, turned at a distance, tauntingly crying: Tomorrow I will be big enough to kill you! And he vanished around a rock. More children ran, giggling, by Sim. Which of them would be friends,enemies? How could friends and enemies come about in this impossible,quick life time? There was no time to make either, was there? Dark, as if knowing his thoughts, drew him away. As they searched fordesired foods, she whispered fiercely in his ear. Enemies are madeover things like stolen foods; gifts of long grasses make friends.Enemies come, too, from opinions and thoughts. In five seconds you'vemade an enemy for life. Life's so short enemies must be made quickly.And she laughed with an irony strange for one so young, who was growingolder before her rightful time. You must fight to protect yourself.Others, superstitious ones, will try killing you. There is a belief, aridiculous belief, that if one kills another, the murderer partakes ofthe life energy of the slain, and therefore will live an extra day. Yousee? As long as that is believed, you're in danger. But Sim was not listening. Bursting from a flock of delicate girls whotomorrow would be tall, quieter, and who day after that would gainbreasts and the next day take husbands, Sim caught sight of one smallgirl whose hair was a violet blue flame. She ran past, brushed Sim, their bodies touched. Her eyes, white assilver coins, shone at him. He knew then that he'd found a friend, alove, a wife, one who'd a week from now lie with him atop the funeralpyre as sunlight undressed their flesh from bone. Only the glance, but it held them in mid-motion, one instant. Your name? he shouted after her. Lyte! she called laughingly back. I'm Sim, he answered, confused and bewildered. Sim! she repeated it, flashing on. I'll remember! Dark nudged his ribs. Here, eat , she said to the distracted boy.Eat or you'll never get big enough to catch her. From nowhere, Chion appeared, running by. Lyte! he mocked, dancingmalevolently along and away. Lyte! I'll remember Lyte, too! Dark stood tall and reed slender, shaking her dark ebony clouds ofhair, sadly. I see your life before you, little Sim. You'll needweapons soon to fight for this Lyte one. Now, hurry—the sun's coming! They ran back to the caves. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does Sim gain his knowledge and absorb his surroundings?

During his first day, Sim knows no words and has not yet spoken. Yet, he gains a lot of knowledge from images, old memories, and a telepathic type of awareness that seems to penetrate everything. He observes much of his surroundings and is upset by his analysis of the horror that occurs every day on the planet. On the second day of his existence, Sim readily and eagerly acquires more knowledge about social customs and how his society worked.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT By ADAM CHASE [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.] The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare. How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero. Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village. He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body. He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a Kumaji raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy. He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips. He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish. Poisoned. He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table. The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything. He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away. Earthman! a quavering voice called. Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black. Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said: What happened here? They're gone. All gone. Yes, but what happened? The Kumaji— You're Kumaji. This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone. But you stayed here— To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water. <doc-sep>Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves. When did it happen? Steve demanded. Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses. Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat.... They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them. <doc-sep>Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he couldfind some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the wayhe felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—ordeath. Come on, Steve said, making up his mind. The unicopter can hold twoin a pinch. You're going after them? I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long. Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember. Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell. I'm not going anyplace, young fellow. But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without— I'm staying, the old man said, still without self-pity, justmatter-of-factly. The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'llneed every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons? No, Steve said. Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck. But you can't— Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only homeI'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow. Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a smallmetal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. Itcould do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet. <doc-sep>Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran backto the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could berefused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himselfairborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again. The old man's voice called after him: Tell the people ... hurry ...Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out theirtrail ... but hurry.... The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, onhate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people. Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand andwasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air anda whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of theslow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's MiddleEast—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life hereon the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast ofburden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walkedbeside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high withthe swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sandswith agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Stevecould see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had toride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost fivehundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them.... Hullo! Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came stridingclumsily through the sand toward him. Cantwell's the name, Steve said.I'm one of you. Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. Cantwell. Yeah, Iremember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doinghere now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake? The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as TobiasWhiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was aboy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat inhis eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably inhis mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he waswell-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was abig muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he hadhardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become SteveCantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with theKumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with theothers—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of anew colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.Perhaps that explained his bitterness. So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell. The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.They hardly seemed to be moving at all. Is my aunt all right? Stevesaid. She was the only family he remembered. Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. I hate to be the one to tell youthis. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who diedfrom the poisoned water last night. For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt waspity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness. <doc-sep>The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be apretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched withlines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. Who is he, Dad? thegirl said. Young Cantwell. Remember? So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet tenyears ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.She was a woman now.... Steve Cantwell? Mary said. Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'msorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about youraunt. If there's anything I can do.... Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was aslim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a timelike this was little short of amazing, especially since it wascompletely genuine. He appreciated it. Tobias Whiting said: Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could getalong with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you knowthat. He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. But Inever got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will bepoor again. We could have been rich. Steve asked, What happened to all your profits? Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'llnever see it again. Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful toher. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-poundingand hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came upto recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as TobiasWhiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all ofthem, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming. But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It wascomforting and reassuring. <doc-sep>Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared. The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks. And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji. But why? someone asked. Why? At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji. None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand. Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said. Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us? That's what I was told, Steve said. All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight. No? someone asked. No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness. <doc-sep>Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going? N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry. Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter? Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far. He'll crash in the desert? Crash or crash-land, Steve said. Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent. We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack. Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go. Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying. Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis? Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise. That's good enough for me, Steve said. A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted. <doc-sep>The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or thlotback , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune. On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now. It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said. The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there. No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right. To go—to them? I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry. Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What can we do? Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on. North? North. And if by some miracle we find him? Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you? As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir thlots . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender. They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent. Tobias Whiting was in there. <doc-sep>Mary! he cried. My God! Mary.... We came for you, Dad, she said coldly. To stop you. To ... to killyou if necessary. Mary.... Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why? We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to livethe sort of life I planned for you. You.... Whiting, Steve said, did you tell them yet? No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want tomake sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our.... Dad! Our money, and all those deaths? It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'lltorture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. Icouldn't stand to see them hurt you. They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing. You won't have to, Whiting said. I'll tell them when we reach thelarger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me. Then we've got to get out of here tonight, Steve said. The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the thlot skin wallof their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.When darkness came, if the guard were not increased.... They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence anddistaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, Dad, I don'twant you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you weredoing it for me.... I've made up my mind, Tobias Whiting said. Mary turned to Steve, in despair. Steve, she said. Steve.Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand. Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Stevesilenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see themhurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that.... Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had onewilling prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willingone yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only oneguard, the man outside, came.... <doc-sep>Darkness in the Kumaji encampment. Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert. Are you asleep? Mary asked. No, Steve said. Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if hewasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him! Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting'svoice surprised him. I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I— I'm going to kill you, Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out asSteve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throatand closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again. Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping againstSteve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought thethick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing. The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbedout wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and theguard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the campseemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tighteningfingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—ordeath for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seekanother. <doc-sep>They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him. When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man.... Steve! It was Mary, calling his name and crying. It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad— Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face. My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain.... Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly. You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want? Yes, Dad. Oh, yes! You can get her out of here, Cantwell? I think so, Steve said. Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary. She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him? Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them. I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man.... <doc-sep>Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blownnight. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across thesand to where the thlots were hobbled for the night. He hardlyremembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessarydeath. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the thlots .The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the nightto see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade hedecapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across theother's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. Inthe darkness he flung Mary on the thlot's bare back in front of him,and they glided off across the sand. Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark foreffective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly allnight and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in anydirection. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail. Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,Steve, do you have to tell them? We can tell them this, Steve said. Your father died a hero's death,sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction. And not—not what he'd planned to do at first. No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man canmake a mistake, can't he? I love you, Steve. I love you. Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would allreach Oasis City in safety. With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Steve Cantwell grew up in a desert village on Sirius' second planet, he lived with his aunt. It is one of the human colonies, and it has never been accepted by the Kumaji tribesmen - the natives who have been raiding the settlements for years. Steve went to Earth to get an education, but now he came back to the planet. He flew from Oasis City to his native village on a unicopter only to find the deserted buildings and poisoned water. A Kumaji, who lived with the earthmen, tells him that the natives poisoned the well - three people died, and everybody else had to leave their home and walk to Oasis City through the desert wasteland. Now the Kumaji are looking for them to kill. The man stayed here to die since he’s too old to flee or fight. Steve gives him his water canteen and flies away to find the other citizens. Hours later, he spots a caravan with camels. He first meets Tobias Whiting, who was the most successful man in the village when Steve was a child. The man greets him coldly and soon informs Steve that his aunt was one of the people who died from the poisoned water. Then he introduces him to his daughter Mary, the young woman who charms Steve. Tobias says he had a profitable business, but all his money is gone now. Three days later, he disappears, taking Steve’s unicopter with him. The other members suppose that Tobias decided to trade the caravan’s location for his profits, thus betraying them. Mary and Steve take some food and head towards the Kumaji base to the north of the caravan since Tobias probably decided to fly there. Four days later, they spot the empty unicopter and realize that Tobias must’ve reached the base by now. They keep walking and soon surrender to the Kumajis, who put them in a circular tent where they meet Tobias. He explains to Mary that he wants to give her the life she deserves. Now he’s determined to tell the Kumaji everything since his daughter got captured, and the Kumaji might torture her for information. Steve devises an escape plan: at night, he makes Tobias scream for a second to make one of the guards come in. Steve kills this one Kumaji, but the guard manages to lethally wound Tobias while fighting with the attacker. Whiting blesses Mary and Steve and orders them to leave, promising that he’ll deceive the Kumaji and not share the true location of the caravan. The couple runs from the tent, and Steve kills several more guards before gliding off on the thlot’s - desert animal - back with Mary. They reach the caravan two days later and decide to tell everyone that Whiting initially went to the Kumaji to save everyone. Mary admits to Steve that she loves him.

Who is Tobias Whiting and what happens to him throughout the story? [SEP] <s> HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT By ADAM CHASE [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.] The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare. How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero. Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village. He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body. He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a Kumaji raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy. He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips. He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish. Poisoned. He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table. The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything. He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away. Earthman! a quavering voice called. Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black. Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said: What happened here? They're gone. All gone. Yes, but what happened? The Kumaji— You're Kumaji. This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone. But you stayed here— To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water. <doc-sep>Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves. When did it happen? Steve demanded. Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses. Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat.... They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them. <doc-sep>Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he couldfind some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the wayhe felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—ordeath. Come on, Steve said, making up his mind. The unicopter can hold twoin a pinch. You're going after them? I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long. Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember. Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell. I'm not going anyplace, young fellow. But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without— I'm staying, the old man said, still without self-pity, justmatter-of-factly. The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'llneed every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons? No, Steve said. Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck. But you can't— Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only homeI'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow. Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a smallmetal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. Itcould do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet. <doc-sep>Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran backto the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could berefused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himselfairborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again. The old man's voice called after him: Tell the people ... hurry ...Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out theirtrail ... but hurry.... The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, onhate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people. Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand andwasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air anda whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of theslow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's MiddleEast—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life hereon the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast ofburden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walkedbeside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high withthe swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sandswith agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Stevecould see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had toride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost fivehundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them.... Hullo! Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came stridingclumsily through the sand toward him. Cantwell's the name, Steve said.I'm one of you. Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. Cantwell. Yeah, Iremember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doinghere now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake? The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as TobiasWhiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was aboy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat inhis eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably inhis mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he waswell-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was abig muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he hadhardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become SteveCantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with theKumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with theothers—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of anew colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.Perhaps that explained his bitterness. So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell. The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.They hardly seemed to be moving at all. Is my aunt all right? Stevesaid. She was the only family he remembered. Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. I hate to be the one to tell youthis. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who diedfrom the poisoned water last night. For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt waspity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness. <doc-sep>The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be apretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched withlines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. Who is he, Dad? thegirl said. Young Cantwell. Remember? So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet tenyears ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.She was a woman now.... Steve Cantwell? Mary said. Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'msorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about youraunt. If there's anything I can do.... Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was aslim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a timelike this was little short of amazing, especially since it wascompletely genuine. He appreciated it. Tobias Whiting said: Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could getalong with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you knowthat. He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. But Inever got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will bepoor again. We could have been rich. Steve asked, What happened to all your profits? Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'llnever see it again. Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful toher. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-poundingand hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came upto recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as TobiasWhiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all ofthem, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming. But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It wascomforting and reassuring. <doc-sep>Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared. The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks. And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji. But why? someone asked. Why? At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji. None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand. Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said. Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us? That's what I was told, Steve said. All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight. No? someone asked. No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness. <doc-sep>Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going? N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry. Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter? Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far. He'll crash in the desert? Crash or crash-land, Steve said. Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent. We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack. Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go. Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying. Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis? Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise. That's good enough for me, Steve said. A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted. <doc-sep>The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or thlotback , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune. On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now. It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said. The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there. No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right. To go—to them? I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry. Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What can we do? Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on. North? North. And if by some miracle we find him? Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you? As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir thlots . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender. They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent. Tobias Whiting was in there. <doc-sep>Mary! he cried. My God! Mary.... We came for you, Dad, she said coldly. To stop you. To ... to killyou if necessary. Mary.... Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why? We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to livethe sort of life I planned for you. You.... Whiting, Steve said, did you tell them yet? No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want tomake sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our.... Dad! Our money, and all those deaths? It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'lltorture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. Icouldn't stand to see them hurt you. They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing. You won't have to, Whiting said. I'll tell them when we reach thelarger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me. Then we've got to get out of here tonight, Steve said. The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the thlot skin wallof their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.When darkness came, if the guard were not increased.... They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence anddistaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, Dad, I don'twant you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you weredoing it for me.... I've made up my mind, Tobias Whiting said. Mary turned to Steve, in despair. Steve, she said. Steve.Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand. Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Stevesilenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see themhurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that.... Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had onewilling prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willingone yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only oneguard, the man outside, came.... <doc-sep>Darkness in the Kumaji encampment. Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert. Are you asleep? Mary asked. No, Steve said. Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if hewasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him! Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting'svoice surprised him. I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I— I'm going to kill you, Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out asSteve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throatand closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again. Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping againstSteve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought thethick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing. The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbedout wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and theguard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the campseemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tighteningfingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—ordeath for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seekanother. <doc-sep>They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him. When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man.... Steve! It was Mary, calling his name and crying. It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad— Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face. My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain.... Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly. You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want? Yes, Dad. Oh, yes! You can get her out of here, Cantwell? I think so, Steve said. Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary. She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him? Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them. I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man.... <doc-sep>Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blownnight. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across thesand to where the thlots were hobbled for the night. He hardlyremembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessarydeath. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the thlots .The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the nightto see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade hedecapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across theother's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. Inthe darkness he flung Mary on the thlot's bare back in front of him,and they glided off across the sand. Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark foreffective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly allnight and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in anydirection. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail. Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,Steve, do you have to tell them? We can tell them this, Steve said. Your father died a hero's death,sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction. And not—not what he'd planned to do at first. No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man canmake a mistake, can't he? I love you, Steve. I love you. Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would allreach Oasis City in safety. With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Tobias Whiting and what happens to him throughout the story?

Tobias is a well-muscled, handsome man in his mid-forties. He is the Colony’s official trader with the Kumajis. Steve believed him to have been the most successful man in the Colony before the events of the story. The water in his village gets poisoned by the Kumaji. He, together with his daughter and other citizens, is forced to abandon his home and walk through the desert to Oasis City, leaving all his treasures and assets behind. The Kumajis are trying to chase them and kill the Colony. At some point in their journey, he meets Steve, who found the caravan on his unicopter. Several days later, Tobias decides to steal the unicopter and fly to the Kumaji’s base fifty miles due north of their stop and trade the caravan’s location for his money. He’s kept in one of the tents, and soon Mary and Steve join him. Now that his daughter is a prisoner, he’s eager to share the location of the caravan and save her from torture. At night Steve whispers that he will kill Tobias, and the man screams. Steve quickly silences him and attacks the coming guard. The Kumaji loses the battle with Steve but stabs Tobias in the stomach. He realizes that he won’t be able to leave the camp alive, so he blesses Mary and Steve and promises to give the Kumaji the wrong direction and save the caravan.

Describe the Setting of the story. [SEP] <s> HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT By ADAM CHASE [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.] The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare. How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero. Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village. He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body. He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a Kumaji raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy. He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips. He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish. Poisoned. He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table. The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything. He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away. Earthman! a quavering voice called. Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black. Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said: What happened here? They're gone. All gone. Yes, but what happened? The Kumaji— You're Kumaji. This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone. But you stayed here— To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water. <doc-sep>Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves. When did it happen? Steve demanded. Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses. Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat.... They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them. <doc-sep>Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he couldfind some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the wayhe felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—ordeath. Come on, Steve said, making up his mind. The unicopter can hold twoin a pinch. You're going after them? I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long. Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember. Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell. I'm not going anyplace, young fellow. But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without— I'm staying, the old man said, still without self-pity, justmatter-of-factly. The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'llneed every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons? No, Steve said. Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck. But you can't— Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only homeI'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow. Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a smallmetal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. Itcould do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet. <doc-sep>Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran backto the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could berefused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himselfairborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again. The old man's voice called after him: Tell the people ... hurry ...Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out theirtrail ... but hurry.... The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, onhate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people. Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand andwasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air anda whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of theslow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's MiddleEast—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life hereon the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast ofburden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walkedbeside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high withthe swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sandswith agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Stevecould see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had toride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost fivehundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them.... Hullo! Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came stridingclumsily through the sand toward him. Cantwell's the name, Steve said.I'm one of you. Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. Cantwell. Yeah, Iremember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doinghere now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake? The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as TobiasWhiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was aboy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat inhis eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably inhis mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he waswell-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was abig muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he hadhardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become SteveCantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with theKumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with theothers—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of anew colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.Perhaps that explained his bitterness. So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell. The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.They hardly seemed to be moving at all. Is my aunt all right? Stevesaid. She was the only family he remembered. Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. I hate to be the one to tell youthis. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who diedfrom the poisoned water last night. For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt waspity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness. <doc-sep>The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be apretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched withlines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. Who is he, Dad? thegirl said. Young Cantwell. Remember? So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet tenyears ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.She was a woman now.... Steve Cantwell? Mary said. Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'msorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about youraunt. If there's anything I can do.... Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was aslim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a timelike this was little short of amazing, especially since it wascompletely genuine. He appreciated it. Tobias Whiting said: Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could getalong with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you knowthat. He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. But Inever got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will bepoor again. We could have been rich. Steve asked, What happened to all your profits? Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'llnever see it again. Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful toher. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-poundingand hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came upto recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as TobiasWhiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all ofthem, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming. But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It wascomforting and reassuring. <doc-sep>Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared. The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks. And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji. But why? someone asked. Why? At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji. None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand. Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said. Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us? That's what I was told, Steve said. All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight. No? someone asked. No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness. <doc-sep>Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going? N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry. Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter? Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far. He'll crash in the desert? Crash or crash-land, Steve said. Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent. We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack. Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go. Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying. Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis? Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise. That's good enough for me, Steve said. A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted. <doc-sep>The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or thlotback , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune. On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now. It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said. The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there. No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right. To go—to them? I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry. Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What can we do? Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on. North? North. And if by some miracle we find him? Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you? As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir thlots . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender. They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent. Tobias Whiting was in there. <doc-sep>Mary! he cried. My God! Mary.... We came for you, Dad, she said coldly. To stop you. To ... to killyou if necessary. Mary.... Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why? We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to livethe sort of life I planned for you. You.... Whiting, Steve said, did you tell them yet? No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want tomake sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our.... Dad! Our money, and all those deaths? It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'lltorture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. Icouldn't stand to see them hurt you. They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing. You won't have to, Whiting said. I'll tell them when we reach thelarger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me. Then we've got to get out of here tonight, Steve said. The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the thlot skin wallof their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.When darkness came, if the guard were not increased.... They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence anddistaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, Dad, I don'twant you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you weredoing it for me.... I've made up my mind, Tobias Whiting said. Mary turned to Steve, in despair. Steve, she said. Steve.Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand. Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Stevesilenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see themhurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that.... Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had onewilling prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willingone yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only oneguard, the man outside, came.... <doc-sep>Darkness in the Kumaji encampment. Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert. Are you asleep? Mary asked. No, Steve said. Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if hewasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him! Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting'svoice surprised him. I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I— I'm going to kill you, Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out asSteve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throatand closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again. Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping againstSteve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought thethick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing. The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbedout wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and theguard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the campseemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tighteningfingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—ordeath for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seekanother. <doc-sep>They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him. When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man.... Steve! It was Mary, calling his name and crying. It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad— Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face. My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain.... Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly. You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want? Yes, Dad. Oh, yes! You can get her out of here, Cantwell? I think so, Steve said. Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary. She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him? Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them. I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man.... <doc-sep>Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blownnight. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across thesand to where the thlots were hobbled for the night. He hardlyremembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessarydeath. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the thlots .The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the nightto see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade hedecapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across theother's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. Inthe darkness he flung Mary on the thlot's bare back in front of him,and they glided off across the sand. Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark foreffective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly allnight and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in anydirection. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail. Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,Steve, do you have to tell them? We can tell them this, Steve said. Your father died a hero's death,sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction. And not—not what he'd planned to do at first. No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man canmake a mistake, can't he? I love you, Steve. I love you. Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would allreach Oasis City in safety. With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the Setting of the story.

The story is set in the twenty-second century: the Earth government is seeking colonies in many places. One of them is on Sirius’ second planet. Steve spent his early childhood here in a human settlement in the middle of a desert, but he went to Earth to get an education. Now he got back to Oasis City, which is built at the confluence of two underground rivers and is 500 miles from his home Colony. At the beginning, Steve flies across the desert to his village: it looks abandoned. He walks from the well with water to his aunt’s house and soon finds the dying Kumaji. Later, Steve flies above the desert dunes and spots the caravan. He lands there and spends the next several days with the people walking east to Oasis City. Then Steve and Mary go to the north - to the Kumaji base. They surrender, and the Kumaji take them both to a small encampment. In a secular tent, they find Mary’s Father. When it’s dark, Mary and Steve sneak out of the tent and soon glide off across the sand on the thlot’s back.

What is the significance of the Kumaji's in the story? [SEP] <s> HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT By ADAM CHASE [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.] The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare. How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero. Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village. He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body. He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a Kumaji raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy. He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips. He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish. Poisoned. He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table. The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything. He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away. Earthman! a quavering voice called. Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black. Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said: What happened here? They're gone. All gone. Yes, but what happened? The Kumaji— You're Kumaji. This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone. But you stayed here— To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water. <doc-sep>Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves. When did it happen? Steve demanded. Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses. Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat.... They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them. <doc-sep>Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he couldfind some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the wayhe felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—ordeath. Come on, Steve said, making up his mind. The unicopter can hold twoin a pinch. You're going after them? I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long. Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember. Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell. I'm not going anyplace, young fellow. But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without— I'm staying, the old man said, still without self-pity, justmatter-of-factly. The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'llneed every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons? No, Steve said. Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck. But you can't— Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only homeI'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow. Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a smallmetal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. Itcould do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet. <doc-sep>Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran backto the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could berefused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himselfairborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again. The old man's voice called after him: Tell the people ... hurry ...Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out theirtrail ... but hurry.... The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, onhate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people. Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand andwasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air anda whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of theslow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's MiddleEast—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life hereon the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast ofburden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walkedbeside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high withthe swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sandswith agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Stevecould see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had toride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost fivehundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them.... Hullo! Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came stridingclumsily through the sand toward him. Cantwell's the name, Steve said.I'm one of you. Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. Cantwell. Yeah, Iremember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doinghere now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake? The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as TobiasWhiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was aboy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat inhis eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably inhis mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he waswell-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was abig muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he hadhardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become SteveCantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with theKumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with theothers—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of anew colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.Perhaps that explained his bitterness. So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell. The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.They hardly seemed to be moving at all. Is my aunt all right? Stevesaid. She was the only family he remembered. Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. I hate to be the one to tell youthis. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who diedfrom the poisoned water last night. For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt waspity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness. <doc-sep>The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be apretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched withlines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. Who is he, Dad? thegirl said. Young Cantwell. Remember? So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet tenyears ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.She was a woman now.... Steve Cantwell? Mary said. Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'msorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about youraunt. If there's anything I can do.... Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was aslim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a timelike this was little short of amazing, especially since it wascompletely genuine. He appreciated it. Tobias Whiting said: Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could getalong with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you knowthat. He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. But Inever got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will bepoor again. We could have been rich. Steve asked, What happened to all your profits? Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'llnever see it again. Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful toher. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-poundingand hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came upto recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as TobiasWhiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all ofthem, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming. But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It wascomforting and reassuring. <doc-sep>Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared. The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks. And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji. But why? someone asked. Why? At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji. None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand. Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said. Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us? That's what I was told, Steve said. All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight. No? someone asked. No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness. <doc-sep>Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going? N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry. Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter? Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far. He'll crash in the desert? Crash or crash-land, Steve said. Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent. We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack. Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go. Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying. Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis? Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise. That's good enough for me, Steve said. A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted. <doc-sep>The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or thlotback , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune. On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now. It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said. The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there. No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right. To go—to them? I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry. Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What can we do? Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on. North? North. And if by some miracle we find him? Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you? As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir thlots . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender. They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent. Tobias Whiting was in there. <doc-sep>Mary! he cried. My God! Mary.... We came for you, Dad, she said coldly. To stop you. To ... to killyou if necessary. Mary.... Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why? We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to livethe sort of life I planned for you. You.... Whiting, Steve said, did you tell them yet? No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want tomake sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our.... Dad! Our money, and all those deaths? It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'lltorture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. Icouldn't stand to see them hurt you. They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing. You won't have to, Whiting said. I'll tell them when we reach thelarger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me. Then we've got to get out of here tonight, Steve said. The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the thlot skin wallof their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.When darkness came, if the guard were not increased.... They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence anddistaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, Dad, I don'twant you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you weredoing it for me.... I've made up my mind, Tobias Whiting said. Mary turned to Steve, in despair. Steve, she said. Steve.Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand. Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Stevesilenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see themhurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that.... Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had onewilling prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willingone yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only oneguard, the man outside, came.... <doc-sep>Darkness in the Kumaji encampment. Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert. Are you asleep? Mary asked. No, Steve said. Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if hewasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him! Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting'svoice surprised him. I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I— I'm going to kill you, Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out asSteve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throatand closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again. Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping againstSteve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought thethick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing. The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbedout wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and theguard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the campseemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tighteningfingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—ordeath for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seekanother. <doc-sep>They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him. When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man.... Steve! It was Mary, calling his name and crying. It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad— Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face. My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain.... Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly. You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want? Yes, Dad. Oh, yes! You can get her out of here, Cantwell? I think so, Steve said. Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary. She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him? Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them. I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man.... <doc-sep>Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blownnight. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across thesand to where the thlots were hobbled for the night. He hardlyremembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessarydeath. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the thlots .The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the nightto see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade hedecapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across theother's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. Inthe darkness he flung Mary on the thlot's bare back in front of him,and they glided off across the sand. Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark foreffective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly allnight and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in anydirection. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail. Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,Steve, do you have to tell them? We can tell them this, Steve said. Your father died a hero's death,sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction. And not—not what he'd planned to do at first. No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man canmake a mistake, can't he? I love you, Steve. I love you. Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would allreach Oasis City in safety. With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the Kumaji's in the story?

The Kumaji are the native tribesmen, and they have been raiding the Colony for many years. They also killed Steve’s parents in the past. Now they poison the village’s well, and his aunt dies from this water. They practically force the citizens to leave their homes and walk through the desert. The Kumaji are looking for the caravan to kill everyone else who remains alive. They have Tobias’ money which upsets him and makes him initially betray his people and try to trade their location for his fortune. They take him, Steve, and Mary captive and then end up being unable to stop the last two from running away.

What is the significance of the old man in the story? [SEP] <s> HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT By ADAM CHASE [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.] The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare. How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero. Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village. He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body. He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a Kumaji raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy. He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips. He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish. Poisoned. He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table. The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything. He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away. Earthman! a quavering voice called. Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black. Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said: What happened here? They're gone. All gone. Yes, but what happened? The Kumaji— You're Kumaji. This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone. But you stayed here— To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water. <doc-sep>Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves. When did it happen? Steve demanded. Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses. Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat.... They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them. <doc-sep>Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he couldfind some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the wayhe felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—ordeath. Come on, Steve said, making up his mind. The unicopter can hold twoin a pinch. You're going after them? I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long. Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember. Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell. I'm not going anyplace, young fellow. But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without— I'm staying, the old man said, still without self-pity, justmatter-of-factly. The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'llneed every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons? No, Steve said. Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck. But you can't— Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only homeI'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow. Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a smallmetal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. Itcould do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet. <doc-sep>Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran backto the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could berefused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himselfairborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again. The old man's voice called after him: Tell the people ... hurry ...Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out theirtrail ... but hurry.... The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, onhate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people. Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand andwasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air anda whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of theslow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's MiddleEast—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life hereon the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast ofburden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walkedbeside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high withthe swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sandswith agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Stevecould see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had toride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost fivehundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them.... Hullo! Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came stridingclumsily through the sand toward him. Cantwell's the name, Steve said.I'm one of you. Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. Cantwell. Yeah, Iremember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doinghere now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake? The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as TobiasWhiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was aboy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat inhis eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably inhis mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he waswell-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was abig muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he hadhardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become SteveCantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with theKumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with theothers—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of anew colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.Perhaps that explained his bitterness. So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell. The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.They hardly seemed to be moving at all. Is my aunt all right? Stevesaid. She was the only family he remembered. Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. I hate to be the one to tell youthis. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who diedfrom the poisoned water last night. For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt waspity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness. <doc-sep>The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be apretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched withlines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. Who is he, Dad? thegirl said. Young Cantwell. Remember? So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet tenyears ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.She was a woman now.... Steve Cantwell? Mary said. Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'msorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about youraunt. If there's anything I can do.... Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was aslim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a timelike this was little short of amazing, especially since it wascompletely genuine. He appreciated it. Tobias Whiting said: Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could getalong with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you knowthat. He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. But Inever got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will bepoor again. We could have been rich. Steve asked, What happened to all your profits? Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'llnever see it again. Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful toher. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-poundingand hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came upto recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as TobiasWhiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all ofthem, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming. But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It wascomforting and reassuring. <doc-sep>Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared. The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks. And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji. But why? someone asked. Why? At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji. None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand. Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said. Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us? That's what I was told, Steve said. All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight. No? someone asked. No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness. <doc-sep>Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going? N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry. Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter? Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far. He'll crash in the desert? Crash or crash-land, Steve said. Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent. We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack. Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go. Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying. Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis? Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise. That's good enough for me, Steve said. A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted. <doc-sep>The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or thlotback , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune. On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now. It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said. The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there. No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right. To go—to them? I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry. Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What can we do? Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on. North? North. And if by some miracle we find him? Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you? As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir thlots . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender. They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent. Tobias Whiting was in there. <doc-sep>Mary! he cried. My God! Mary.... We came for you, Dad, she said coldly. To stop you. To ... to killyou if necessary. Mary.... Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why? We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to livethe sort of life I planned for you. You.... Whiting, Steve said, did you tell them yet? No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want tomake sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our.... Dad! Our money, and all those deaths? It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'lltorture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. Icouldn't stand to see them hurt you. They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing. You won't have to, Whiting said. I'll tell them when we reach thelarger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me. Then we've got to get out of here tonight, Steve said. The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the thlot skin wallof their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.When darkness came, if the guard were not increased.... They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence anddistaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, Dad, I don'twant you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you weredoing it for me.... I've made up my mind, Tobias Whiting said. Mary turned to Steve, in despair. Steve, she said. Steve.Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand. Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Stevesilenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see themhurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that.... Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had onewilling prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willingone yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only oneguard, the man outside, came.... <doc-sep>Darkness in the Kumaji encampment. Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert. Are you asleep? Mary asked. No, Steve said. Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if hewasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him! Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting'svoice surprised him. I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I— I'm going to kill you, Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out asSteve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throatand closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again. Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping againstSteve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought thethick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing. The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbedout wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and theguard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the campseemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tighteningfingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—ordeath for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seekanother. <doc-sep>They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him. When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man.... Steve! It was Mary, calling his name and crying. It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad— Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face. My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain.... Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly. You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want? Yes, Dad. Oh, yes! You can get her out of here, Cantwell? I think so, Steve said. Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary. She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him? Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them. I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man.... <doc-sep>Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blownnight. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across thesand to where the thlots were hobbled for the night. He hardlyremembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessarydeath. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the thlots .The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the nightto see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade hedecapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across theother's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. Inthe darkness he flung Mary on the thlot's bare back in front of him,and they glided off across the sand. Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark foreffective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly allnight and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in anydirection. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail. Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,Steve, do you have to tell them? We can tell them this, Steve said. Your father died a hero's death,sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction. And not—not what he'd planned to do at first. No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man canmake a mistake, can't he? I love you, Steve. I love you. Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would allreach Oasis City in safety. With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the old man in the story?

When Steve arrives at the Colony, he sees deserted buildings and realizes that the well water is poisoned. The old man - the Kumaji who lived with the humans - tells him that the day before, three people died from the poisoned drinking water. The Kumaji are behind this and are trying to locate the others who left the Colony. They want to find the caravan, and even though the desert wind will wipe out the humans' trail, they still need to be informed about this danger. Knowing all of this allows Steve to find the caravan and eventually save them from the Kumaji, who could learn their location from Tobias Whiting.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now nolonger a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field, describesa strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into one of theseevenings. But, if you do, beware—beware of the Knights! dream town by ... HENRY SLESAR The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Whowas to tell she had some rather startling interests? The woman in thedoorway looked like Mom inthe homier political cartoons.She was plump, apple-cheeked,white-haired. Shewore a fussy, old-fashionednightgown, and was busilyclutching a worn house-robearound her expansive middle.She blinked at Sol Becker'srain-flattened hair and hang-dogexpression, and said:What is it? What do youwant? I'm sorry— Sol's voicewas pained. The man in thediner said you might put meup. I had my car stolen: ahitchhiker; going to Salinas ...He was puffing. Hitchhiker? I don't understand.She clucked at thesight of the pool of water hewas creating in her foyer.Well, come inside, for heaven'ssake. You're soaking! Thanks, Sol said gratefully. With the door firmly shutbehind him, the warm interiorof the little house coveredhim like a blanket. Heshivered, and let the warmthseep over him. I'm terriblysorry. I know how late it is.He looked at his watch, butthe face was too misty tomake out the hour. Must be nearly three, thewoman sniffed. You couldn'thave come at a worse time. Iwas just on my way tocourt— The words slid by him. IfI could just stay overnight.Until the morning. I couldcall some friends in San Fernando.I'm very susceptible tohead colds, he added inanely. Well, take those shoes off,first, the woman grumbled.You can undress in the parlor,if you'll keep off the rug.You won't mind using thesofa? No, of course not. I'd behappy to pay— Oh, tush, nobody's askingyou to pay. This isn't a hotel.You mind if I go back upstairs?They're gonna missme at the palace. No, of course not, Solsaid. He followed her intothe darkened parlor, andwatched as she turned thescrew on a hurricane-stylelamp, shedding a yellow poolof light over half a flowerysofa and a doily-covered wingchair. You go on up. I'll beperfectly fine. Guess you can use a towel,though. I'll get you one,then I'm going up. We wakepretty early in this house.Breakfast's at seven; you'llhave to be up if you wantany. I really can't thank youenough— Tush, the woman said.She scurried out, and returneda moment later with athick bath towel. Sorry Ican't give you any bedding.But you'll find it nice andwarm in here. She squintedat the dim face of a ship's-wheelclock on the mantle,and made a noise with hertongue. Three-thirty! sheexclaimed. I'll miss thewhole execution ... The what? Goodnight, young man,Mom said firmly. She padded off, leaving Solholding the towel. He pattedhis face, and then scrubbedthe wet tangle of brown hair.Carefully, he stepped off thecarpet and onto the stonefloor in front of the fireplace.He removed hisdrenched coat and suit jacket,and squeezed water outover the ashes. He stripped down to hisunderwear, wondering aboutnext morning's possible embarrassment,and decided touse the damp bath towel as ablanket. The sofa was downyand comfortable. He curledup under the towel, shiveredonce, and closed his eyes. <doc-sep> He was tired and verysleepy, and his customarynightly review was limited toa few detached thoughtsabout the wedding he wassupposed to attend in Salinasthat weekend ... the hoodlumwho had responded to hisgood-nature by dumping himout of his own car ... the sloggingwalk to the village ...the little round woman whowas hurrying off, like theWhite Rabbit, to some mysteriousappointment on theupper floor ... Then he went to sleep. A voice awoke him, shrilland questioning. Are you nakkid ? His eyes flew open, and hepulled the towel protectivelyaround his body and glaredat the little girl with the rust-redpigtails. Huh, mister? she said,pushing a finger against herfreckled nose. Are you? No, he said angrily. I'mnot naked. Will you pleasego away? Sally! It was Mom, appearingin the doorway of theparlor. You leave the gentlemanalone. She went offagain. Yes, Sol said. Please letme get dressed. If you don'tmind. The girl didn't move.What time is it? Dunno, Sally shrugged.I like poached eggs. They'remy favorite eggs in the wholeworld. That's good, Sol said desperately.Now why don't yoube a good girl and eat yourpoached eggs. In the kitchen. Ain't ready yet. You goingto stay for breakfast? I'm not going to do anythinguntil you get out ofhere. She put the end of a pigtailin her mouth and sat down onthe chair opposite. I went tothe palace last night. Theyhad an exelution. Please, Sol groaned. Bea good girl, Sally. If you letme get dressed, I'll show youhow to take your thumb off. Oh, that's an old trick. Didyou ever see an exelution? No. Did you ever see a littlegirl with her hidetanned? Huh? Sally! Mom again, sterner.You get out of there, oryou-know-what ... Okay, the girl saidblithely. I'm goin' to the palaceagain. If I brush myteeth. Aren't you ever gonnaget up? She skipped out ofthe room, and Sol hastily satup and reached for histrousers. When he had dressed, theclothes still damp and unpleasantagainst his skin, hewent out of the parlor andfound the kitchen. Mom wasbusy at the stove. He said:Good morning. Breakfast in ten minutes,she said cheerfully. You likepoached eggs? Sure. Do you have a telephone? In the hallway. Party line,so you may have to wait. He tried for fifteen minutesto get through, but therewas a woman on the line whowas terribly upset about acotton dress she had orderedfrom Sears, and was tellingthe world about it. Finally, he got his callthrough to Salinas, and asleepy-voiced Fred, his oldArmy buddy, listened somewhatindifferently to his taleof woe. I might miss thewedding, Sol said unhappily.I'm awfully sorry. Freddidn't seem to be half as sorryas he was. When Sol hungup, he was feeling more despondentthan ever. A man, tall and rangy, witha bobbing Adam's apple anda lined face, came into thehallway. Hullo? he said inquiringly.You the fella hadthe car stolen? Yes. The man scratched his ear.Take you over to SheriffCoogan after breakfast. He'lllet the Stateys know about it.My name's Dawes. Sol accepted a carefulhandshake. Don't get many peoplecomin' into town, Dawessaid, looking at him curiously.Ain't seen a stranger inyears. But you look like therest of us. He chuckled. Mom called out: Breakfast! <doc-sep> At the table, Dawesasked his destination. Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He seemed okay. Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night? That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though. What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full. Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know nothin' ? Arma gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name? Becker. Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically. Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout? Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime. Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes. You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean you dream about the sameplace? Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too. If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly. If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution! Execution, her fathersaid. Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the least Icould do. Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there. Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution? None of your business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car. The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready. Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor. Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you? Fine, Sol said uneasily. The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes. <doc-sep> They crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk. Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage. The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat? Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent. Aw, Willie— Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else. The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night or day. Stranger? Come on ! Dawes said. The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again. A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes. Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit? Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince. Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers. Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does she dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there? Yep. Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right. And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything? I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie? The fat man giggled. Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid. The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them. Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan. The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament. He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man. Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop. Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs. <doc-sep> The fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came. It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen. Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way. My poor Vincent, shesobbed. Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage. He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn. The law's the law, thefat man sighed. Sol couldn't hold himselfin. What law? Who's dead?How did it happen? Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of your business? I mean, is it? I don't know, Sol saidmiserably. You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up. They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage. When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her. What happened? How didyour husband die? Please ... You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too? She was shocked at thequestion. Of course! And your husband? Didhe have the same dream? Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door. Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ... He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping. We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he? What killed him? Solsaid. Heart attack. The fat man chuckled. The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid. Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car— The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your car ? Young man, ain'tyou got no respect ? Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination. <doc-sep> He took a walk. The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else. He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes. Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter. Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon? You a stranger? Yes. Thought so. Sol repeated the question. Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is. How—I mean, what kindof place is it? Said you're a stranger? Yes. Then 'tain't your business. That was that. He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody. He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened. Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it. At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story. He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing. At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities. Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal. He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents. He learned little. <doc-sep> At five-thirty, he returnedto the Dawes house, and waspromptly leaped upon bylittle Sally. Hi! Hi! Hi! she said,clutching his right leg andalmost toppling him over.We had a party in school. Ihad chocolate cake. You goin'to stay with us? Just another night, Soltold her, trying to shake thegirl off. If it's okay withyour folks. They haven'tfound my car yet. Sally! Mom was peeringout of the screen door. Youlet Mr. Becker alone and gowash. Your Pa will be homesoon. Oh, pooh, the girl said,her pigtails swinging. Doyou got a girlfriend, mister? No. Sol struggled towardsthe house with herdead weight on his leg.Would you mind? I can'twalk. Would you be my boyfriend? Well, we'll talk about it.If you let go my leg. Inside the house, she said:We're having pot roast. Youstayin'? Of course Mr. Becker'sstayin', Mom said. He's ourguest. That's very kind of you,Sol said. I really wish you'dlet me pay something— Don't want to hear anotherword about pay. <doc-sep> Mr. Dawes came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol. Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker. Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before. Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter? Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity. Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair. Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting. Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be. Supper! Mom called. After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten. He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving. I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy. Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that. Goodnight, Dawes said. Goodnight. He read Sally's copy of Treasure Island for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes. He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ... Then sleep came. <doc-sep> He was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling. The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies. He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him. It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet. He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame. Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat! Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear? Mrs. Dawes! Sol said. Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa! Pa! Look who's here! Willie Dawes appeared. No! Sol thought. This was King Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire. Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker. Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about? Yep, the King said. Andnow you're in it, too. Then I'm only dreaming! Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So that's thesnooper, eh? Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights. Sol said: The Knights? Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked. Now wait a minute— Charlie shouted. Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough— Not quite, said the King. The Knights stepped forward. Wait! Sol screamed. Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake? Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The plot follows Sol, a veteran of the U.S. army who, after picking up a hitchhiker on the way to a wedding, gets his car robbed near a small town. He ends up staying in the house of a young family who are kind enough to host him. They are very nice with him, and even offer him breakfast the next morning. As Sol learns more of the town and the family, he learns that the people in the town share the same dream every night, in a place called the Armagon. He also learns that there was an execution last night in the same place. He follows Willie Dawes, the head of the family, to pick up the body of the person that was executed. They are also accompanied by the sheriff of the town and by a man named Charlie. When Sol sees the body of the executed person, he starts to get worried and starts asking people in the town questions about the Armagon. That night, Sol stays with the Dawes family again, and when he goes to sleep he meets with the townspeople in the Armagon, where it seems that he will be executed.

Who is Willie Dawes, and what are his characteristics? [SEP] <s> Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now nolonger a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field, describesa strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into one of theseevenings. But, if you do, beware—beware of the Knights! dream town by ... HENRY SLESAR The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Whowas to tell she had some rather startling interests? The woman in thedoorway looked like Mom inthe homier political cartoons.She was plump, apple-cheeked,white-haired. Shewore a fussy, old-fashionednightgown, and was busilyclutching a worn house-robearound her expansive middle.She blinked at Sol Becker'srain-flattened hair and hang-dogexpression, and said:What is it? What do youwant? I'm sorry— Sol's voicewas pained. The man in thediner said you might put meup. I had my car stolen: ahitchhiker; going to Salinas ...He was puffing. Hitchhiker? I don't understand.She clucked at thesight of the pool of water hewas creating in her foyer.Well, come inside, for heaven'ssake. You're soaking! Thanks, Sol said gratefully. With the door firmly shutbehind him, the warm interiorof the little house coveredhim like a blanket. Heshivered, and let the warmthseep over him. I'm terriblysorry. I know how late it is.He looked at his watch, butthe face was too misty tomake out the hour. Must be nearly three, thewoman sniffed. You couldn'thave come at a worse time. Iwas just on my way tocourt— The words slid by him. IfI could just stay overnight.Until the morning. I couldcall some friends in San Fernando.I'm very susceptible tohead colds, he added inanely. Well, take those shoes off,first, the woman grumbled.You can undress in the parlor,if you'll keep off the rug.You won't mind using thesofa? No, of course not. I'd behappy to pay— Oh, tush, nobody's askingyou to pay. This isn't a hotel.You mind if I go back upstairs?They're gonna missme at the palace. No, of course not, Solsaid. He followed her intothe darkened parlor, andwatched as she turned thescrew on a hurricane-stylelamp, shedding a yellow poolof light over half a flowerysofa and a doily-covered wingchair. You go on up. I'll beperfectly fine. Guess you can use a towel,though. I'll get you one,then I'm going up. We wakepretty early in this house.Breakfast's at seven; you'llhave to be up if you wantany. I really can't thank youenough— Tush, the woman said.She scurried out, and returneda moment later with athick bath towel. Sorry Ican't give you any bedding.But you'll find it nice andwarm in here. She squintedat the dim face of a ship's-wheelclock on the mantle,and made a noise with hertongue. Three-thirty! sheexclaimed. I'll miss thewhole execution ... The what? Goodnight, young man,Mom said firmly. She padded off, leaving Solholding the towel. He pattedhis face, and then scrubbedthe wet tangle of brown hair.Carefully, he stepped off thecarpet and onto the stonefloor in front of the fireplace.He removed hisdrenched coat and suit jacket,and squeezed water outover the ashes. He stripped down to hisunderwear, wondering aboutnext morning's possible embarrassment,and decided touse the damp bath towel as ablanket. The sofa was downyand comfortable. He curledup under the towel, shiveredonce, and closed his eyes. <doc-sep> He was tired and verysleepy, and his customarynightly review was limited toa few detached thoughtsabout the wedding he wassupposed to attend in Salinasthat weekend ... the hoodlumwho had responded to hisgood-nature by dumping himout of his own car ... the sloggingwalk to the village ...the little round woman whowas hurrying off, like theWhite Rabbit, to some mysteriousappointment on theupper floor ... Then he went to sleep. A voice awoke him, shrilland questioning. Are you nakkid ? His eyes flew open, and hepulled the towel protectivelyaround his body and glaredat the little girl with the rust-redpigtails. Huh, mister? she said,pushing a finger against herfreckled nose. Are you? No, he said angrily. I'mnot naked. Will you pleasego away? Sally! It was Mom, appearingin the doorway of theparlor. You leave the gentlemanalone. She went offagain. Yes, Sol said. Please letme get dressed. If you don'tmind. The girl didn't move.What time is it? Dunno, Sally shrugged.I like poached eggs. They'remy favorite eggs in the wholeworld. That's good, Sol said desperately.Now why don't yoube a good girl and eat yourpoached eggs. In the kitchen. Ain't ready yet. You goingto stay for breakfast? I'm not going to do anythinguntil you get out ofhere. She put the end of a pigtailin her mouth and sat down onthe chair opposite. I went tothe palace last night. Theyhad an exelution. Please, Sol groaned. Bea good girl, Sally. If you letme get dressed, I'll show youhow to take your thumb off. Oh, that's an old trick. Didyou ever see an exelution? No. Did you ever see a littlegirl with her hidetanned? Huh? Sally! Mom again, sterner.You get out of there, oryou-know-what ... Okay, the girl saidblithely. I'm goin' to the palaceagain. If I brush myteeth. Aren't you ever gonnaget up? She skipped out ofthe room, and Sol hastily satup and reached for histrousers. When he had dressed, theclothes still damp and unpleasantagainst his skin, hewent out of the parlor andfound the kitchen. Mom wasbusy at the stove. He said:Good morning. Breakfast in ten minutes,she said cheerfully. You likepoached eggs? Sure. Do you have a telephone? In the hallway. Party line,so you may have to wait. He tried for fifteen minutesto get through, but therewas a woman on the line whowas terribly upset about acotton dress she had orderedfrom Sears, and was tellingthe world about it. Finally, he got his callthrough to Salinas, and asleepy-voiced Fred, his oldArmy buddy, listened somewhatindifferently to his taleof woe. I might miss thewedding, Sol said unhappily.I'm awfully sorry. Freddidn't seem to be half as sorryas he was. When Sol hungup, he was feeling more despondentthan ever. A man, tall and rangy, witha bobbing Adam's apple anda lined face, came into thehallway. Hullo? he said inquiringly.You the fella hadthe car stolen? Yes. The man scratched his ear.Take you over to SheriffCoogan after breakfast. He'lllet the Stateys know about it.My name's Dawes. Sol accepted a carefulhandshake. Don't get many peoplecomin' into town, Dawessaid, looking at him curiously.Ain't seen a stranger inyears. But you look like therest of us. He chuckled. Mom called out: Breakfast! <doc-sep> At the table, Dawesasked his destination. Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He seemed okay. Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night? That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though. What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full. Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know nothin' ? Arma gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name? Becker. Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically. Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout? Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime. Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes. You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean you dream about the sameplace? Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too. If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly. If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution! Execution, her fathersaid. Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the least Icould do. Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there. Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution? None of your business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car. The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready. Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor. Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you? Fine, Sol said uneasily. The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes. <doc-sep> They crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk. Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage. The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat? Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent. Aw, Willie— Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else. The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night or day. Stranger? Come on ! Dawes said. The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again. A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes. Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit? Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince. Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers. Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does she dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there? Yep. Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right. And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything? I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie? The fat man giggled. Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid. The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them. Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan. The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament. He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man. Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop. Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs. <doc-sep> The fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came. It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen. Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way. My poor Vincent, shesobbed. Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage. He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn. The law's the law, thefat man sighed. Sol couldn't hold himselfin. What law? Who's dead?How did it happen? Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of your business? I mean, is it? I don't know, Sol saidmiserably. You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up. They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage. When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her. What happened? How didyour husband die? Please ... You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too? She was shocked at thequestion. Of course! And your husband? Didhe have the same dream? Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door. Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ... He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping. We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he? What killed him? Solsaid. Heart attack. The fat man chuckled. The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid. Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car— The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your car ? Young man, ain'tyou got no respect ? Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination. <doc-sep> He took a walk. The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else. He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes. Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter. Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon? You a stranger? Yes. Thought so. Sol repeated the question. Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is. How—I mean, what kindof place is it? Said you're a stranger? Yes. Then 'tain't your business. That was that. He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody. He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened. Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it. At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story. He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing. At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities. Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal. He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents. He learned little. <doc-sep> At five-thirty, he returnedto the Dawes house, and waspromptly leaped upon bylittle Sally. Hi! Hi! Hi! she said,clutching his right leg andalmost toppling him over.We had a party in school. Ihad chocolate cake. You goin'to stay with us? Just another night, Soltold her, trying to shake thegirl off. If it's okay withyour folks. They haven'tfound my car yet. Sally! Mom was peeringout of the screen door. Youlet Mr. Becker alone and gowash. Your Pa will be homesoon. Oh, pooh, the girl said,her pigtails swinging. Doyou got a girlfriend, mister? No. Sol struggled towardsthe house with herdead weight on his leg.Would you mind? I can'twalk. Would you be my boyfriend? Well, we'll talk about it.If you let go my leg. Inside the house, she said:We're having pot roast. Youstayin'? Of course Mr. Becker'sstayin', Mom said. He's ourguest. That's very kind of you,Sol said. I really wish you'dlet me pay something— Don't want to hear anotherword about pay. <doc-sep> Mr. Dawes came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol. Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker. Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before. Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter? Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity. Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair. Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting. Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be. Supper! Mom called. After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten. He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving. I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy. Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that. Goodnight, Dawes said. Goodnight. He read Sally's copy of Treasure Island for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes. He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ... Then sleep came. <doc-sep> He was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling. The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies. He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him. It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet. He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame. Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat! Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear? Mrs. Dawes! Sol said. Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa! Pa! Look who's here! Willie Dawes appeared. No! Sol thought. This was King Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire. Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker. Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about? Yep, the King said. Andnow you're in it, too. Then I'm only dreaming! Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So that's thesnooper, eh? Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights. Sol said: The Knights? Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked. Now wait a minute— Charlie shouted. Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough— Not quite, said the King. The Knights stepped forward. Wait! Sol screamed. Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake? Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Willie Dawes, and what are his characteristics?

Willie is the head of the family that hosts and helps Sol after his car was stolen. He seems to have a lot of influence in the town, as he helps the sheriff in his day to day tasks and everyone in the town knows him. He is described as a tall and skinny man. He is also married to Mom, which is the woman that first received Sol after his car was stolen. Together she and Willie have a child called Sally. At the end, it is revealed that Willie is actually the king of the Armagon, which is why he has so much influence in the town.

Who is Mrs. Brundage, and what happens to her? [SEP] <s> Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now nolonger a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field, describesa strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into one of theseevenings. But, if you do, beware—beware of the Knights! dream town by ... HENRY SLESAR The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Whowas to tell she had some rather startling interests? The woman in thedoorway looked like Mom inthe homier political cartoons.She was plump, apple-cheeked,white-haired. Shewore a fussy, old-fashionednightgown, and was busilyclutching a worn house-robearound her expansive middle.She blinked at Sol Becker'srain-flattened hair and hang-dogexpression, and said:What is it? What do youwant? I'm sorry— Sol's voicewas pained. The man in thediner said you might put meup. I had my car stolen: ahitchhiker; going to Salinas ...He was puffing. Hitchhiker? I don't understand.She clucked at thesight of the pool of water hewas creating in her foyer.Well, come inside, for heaven'ssake. You're soaking! Thanks, Sol said gratefully. With the door firmly shutbehind him, the warm interiorof the little house coveredhim like a blanket. Heshivered, and let the warmthseep over him. I'm terriblysorry. I know how late it is.He looked at his watch, butthe face was too misty tomake out the hour. Must be nearly three, thewoman sniffed. You couldn'thave come at a worse time. Iwas just on my way tocourt— The words slid by him. IfI could just stay overnight.Until the morning. I couldcall some friends in San Fernando.I'm very susceptible tohead colds, he added inanely. Well, take those shoes off,first, the woman grumbled.You can undress in the parlor,if you'll keep off the rug.You won't mind using thesofa? No, of course not. I'd behappy to pay— Oh, tush, nobody's askingyou to pay. This isn't a hotel.You mind if I go back upstairs?They're gonna missme at the palace. No, of course not, Solsaid. He followed her intothe darkened parlor, andwatched as she turned thescrew on a hurricane-stylelamp, shedding a yellow poolof light over half a flowerysofa and a doily-covered wingchair. You go on up. I'll beperfectly fine. Guess you can use a towel,though. I'll get you one,then I'm going up. We wakepretty early in this house.Breakfast's at seven; you'llhave to be up if you wantany. I really can't thank youenough— Tush, the woman said.She scurried out, and returneda moment later with athick bath towel. Sorry Ican't give you any bedding.But you'll find it nice andwarm in here. She squintedat the dim face of a ship's-wheelclock on the mantle,and made a noise with hertongue. Three-thirty! sheexclaimed. I'll miss thewhole execution ... The what? Goodnight, young man,Mom said firmly. She padded off, leaving Solholding the towel. He pattedhis face, and then scrubbedthe wet tangle of brown hair.Carefully, he stepped off thecarpet and onto the stonefloor in front of the fireplace.He removed hisdrenched coat and suit jacket,and squeezed water outover the ashes. He stripped down to hisunderwear, wondering aboutnext morning's possible embarrassment,and decided touse the damp bath towel as ablanket. The sofa was downyand comfortable. He curledup under the towel, shiveredonce, and closed his eyes. <doc-sep> He was tired and verysleepy, and his customarynightly review was limited toa few detached thoughtsabout the wedding he wassupposed to attend in Salinasthat weekend ... the hoodlumwho had responded to hisgood-nature by dumping himout of his own car ... the sloggingwalk to the village ...the little round woman whowas hurrying off, like theWhite Rabbit, to some mysteriousappointment on theupper floor ... Then he went to sleep. A voice awoke him, shrilland questioning. Are you nakkid ? His eyes flew open, and hepulled the towel protectivelyaround his body and glaredat the little girl with the rust-redpigtails. Huh, mister? she said,pushing a finger against herfreckled nose. Are you? No, he said angrily. I'mnot naked. Will you pleasego away? Sally! It was Mom, appearingin the doorway of theparlor. You leave the gentlemanalone. She went offagain. Yes, Sol said. Please letme get dressed. If you don'tmind. The girl didn't move.What time is it? Dunno, Sally shrugged.I like poached eggs. They'remy favorite eggs in the wholeworld. That's good, Sol said desperately.Now why don't yoube a good girl and eat yourpoached eggs. In the kitchen. Ain't ready yet. You goingto stay for breakfast? I'm not going to do anythinguntil you get out ofhere. She put the end of a pigtailin her mouth and sat down onthe chair opposite. I went tothe palace last night. Theyhad an exelution. Please, Sol groaned. Bea good girl, Sally. If you letme get dressed, I'll show youhow to take your thumb off. Oh, that's an old trick. Didyou ever see an exelution? No. Did you ever see a littlegirl with her hidetanned? Huh? Sally! Mom again, sterner.You get out of there, oryou-know-what ... Okay, the girl saidblithely. I'm goin' to the palaceagain. If I brush myteeth. Aren't you ever gonnaget up? She skipped out ofthe room, and Sol hastily satup and reached for histrousers. When he had dressed, theclothes still damp and unpleasantagainst his skin, hewent out of the parlor andfound the kitchen. Mom wasbusy at the stove. He said:Good morning. Breakfast in ten minutes,she said cheerfully. You likepoached eggs? Sure. Do you have a telephone? In the hallway. Party line,so you may have to wait. He tried for fifteen minutesto get through, but therewas a woman on the line whowas terribly upset about acotton dress she had orderedfrom Sears, and was tellingthe world about it. Finally, he got his callthrough to Salinas, and asleepy-voiced Fred, his oldArmy buddy, listened somewhatindifferently to his taleof woe. I might miss thewedding, Sol said unhappily.I'm awfully sorry. Freddidn't seem to be half as sorryas he was. When Sol hungup, he was feeling more despondentthan ever. A man, tall and rangy, witha bobbing Adam's apple anda lined face, came into thehallway. Hullo? he said inquiringly.You the fella hadthe car stolen? Yes. The man scratched his ear.Take you over to SheriffCoogan after breakfast. He'lllet the Stateys know about it.My name's Dawes. Sol accepted a carefulhandshake. Don't get many peoplecomin' into town, Dawessaid, looking at him curiously.Ain't seen a stranger inyears. But you look like therest of us. He chuckled. Mom called out: Breakfast! <doc-sep> At the table, Dawesasked his destination. Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He seemed okay. Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night? That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though. What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full. Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know nothin' ? Arma gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name? Becker. Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically. Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout? Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime. Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes. You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean you dream about the sameplace? Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too. If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly. If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution! Execution, her fathersaid. Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the least Icould do. Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there. Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution? None of your business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car. The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready. Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor. Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you? Fine, Sol said uneasily. The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes. <doc-sep> They crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk. Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage. The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat? Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent. Aw, Willie— Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else. The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night or day. Stranger? Come on ! Dawes said. The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again. A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes. Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit? Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince. Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers. Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does she dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there? Yep. Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right. And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything? I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie? The fat man giggled. Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid. The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them. Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan. The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament. He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man. Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop. Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs. <doc-sep> The fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came. It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen. Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way. My poor Vincent, shesobbed. Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage. He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn. The law's the law, thefat man sighed. Sol couldn't hold himselfin. What law? Who's dead?How did it happen? Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of your business? I mean, is it? I don't know, Sol saidmiserably. You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up. They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage. When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her. What happened? How didyour husband die? Please ... You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too? She was shocked at thequestion. Of course! And your husband? Didhe have the same dream? Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door. Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ... He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping. We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he? What killed him? Solsaid. Heart attack. The fat man chuckled. The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid. Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car— The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your car ? Young man, ain'tyou got no respect ? Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination. <doc-sep> He took a walk. The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else. He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes. Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter. Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon? You a stranger? Yes. Thought so. Sol repeated the question. Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is. How—I mean, what kindof place is it? Said you're a stranger? Yes. Then 'tain't your business. That was that. He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody. He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened. Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it. At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story. He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing. At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities. Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal. He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents. He learned little. <doc-sep> At five-thirty, he returnedto the Dawes house, and waspromptly leaped upon bylittle Sally. Hi! Hi! Hi! she said,clutching his right leg andalmost toppling him over.We had a party in school. Ihad chocolate cake. You goin'to stay with us? Just another night, Soltold her, trying to shake thegirl off. If it's okay withyour folks. They haven'tfound my car yet. Sally! Mom was peeringout of the screen door. Youlet Mr. Becker alone and gowash. Your Pa will be homesoon. Oh, pooh, the girl said,her pigtails swinging. Doyou got a girlfriend, mister? No. Sol struggled towardsthe house with herdead weight on his leg.Would you mind? I can'twalk. Would you be my boyfriend? Well, we'll talk about it.If you let go my leg. Inside the house, she said:We're having pot roast. Youstayin'? Of course Mr. Becker'sstayin', Mom said. He's ourguest. That's very kind of you,Sol said. I really wish you'dlet me pay something— Don't want to hear anotherword about pay. <doc-sep> Mr. Dawes came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol. Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker. Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before. Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter? Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity. Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair. Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting. Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be. Supper! Mom called. After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten. He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving. I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy. Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that. Goodnight, Dawes said. Goodnight. He read Sally's copy of Treasure Island for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes. He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ... Then sleep came. <doc-sep> He was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling. The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies. He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him. It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet. He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame. Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat! Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear? Mrs. Dawes! Sol said. Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa! Pa! Look who's here! Willie Dawes appeared. No! Sol thought. This was King Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire. Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker. Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about? Yep, the King said. Andnow you're in it, too. Then I'm only dreaming! Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So that's thesnooper, eh? Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights. Sol said: The Knights? Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked. Now wait a minute— Charlie shouted. Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough— Not quite, said the King. The Knights stepped forward. Wait! Sol screamed. Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake? Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Mrs. Brundage, and what happens to her?

Mrs. Brundage is one of the townspeople that live in the town that Sol got robbed in. She and her Husband own a barber shop, in which her husband was the barber. It is revealed that the execution in the Armagon from the first night was in fact Mr. Brundage, and that he was executed for breaking the rules. When Sol and Mr. Dawes picks up the body, she seems very distraught and sad, but she seems to understand the repercussions of her husband’s actions.

Who is Mom, and what are her characteristics? [SEP] <s> Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now nolonger a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field, describesa strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into one of theseevenings. But, if you do, beware—beware of the Knights! dream town by ... HENRY SLESAR The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Whowas to tell she had some rather startling interests? The woman in thedoorway looked like Mom inthe homier political cartoons.She was plump, apple-cheeked,white-haired. Shewore a fussy, old-fashionednightgown, and was busilyclutching a worn house-robearound her expansive middle.She blinked at Sol Becker'srain-flattened hair and hang-dogexpression, and said:What is it? What do youwant? I'm sorry— Sol's voicewas pained. The man in thediner said you might put meup. I had my car stolen: ahitchhiker; going to Salinas ...He was puffing. Hitchhiker? I don't understand.She clucked at thesight of the pool of water hewas creating in her foyer.Well, come inside, for heaven'ssake. You're soaking! Thanks, Sol said gratefully. With the door firmly shutbehind him, the warm interiorof the little house coveredhim like a blanket. Heshivered, and let the warmthseep over him. I'm terriblysorry. I know how late it is.He looked at his watch, butthe face was too misty tomake out the hour. Must be nearly three, thewoman sniffed. You couldn'thave come at a worse time. Iwas just on my way tocourt— The words slid by him. IfI could just stay overnight.Until the morning. I couldcall some friends in San Fernando.I'm very susceptible tohead colds, he added inanely. Well, take those shoes off,first, the woman grumbled.You can undress in the parlor,if you'll keep off the rug.You won't mind using thesofa? No, of course not. I'd behappy to pay— Oh, tush, nobody's askingyou to pay. This isn't a hotel.You mind if I go back upstairs?They're gonna missme at the palace. No, of course not, Solsaid. He followed her intothe darkened parlor, andwatched as she turned thescrew on a hurricane-stylelamp, shedding a yellow poolof light over half a flowerysofa and a doily-covered wingchair. You go on up. I'll beperfectly fine. Guess you can use a towel,though. I'll get you one,then I'm going up. We wakepretty early in this house.Breakfast's at seven; you'llhave to be up if you wantany. I really can't thank youenough— Tush, the woman said.She scurried out, and returneda moment later with athick bath towel. Sorry Ican't give you any bedding.But you'll find it nice andwarm in here. She squintedat the dim face of a ship's-wheelclock on the mantle,and made a noise with hertongue. Three-thirty! sheexclaimed. I'll miss thewhole execution ... The what? Goodnight, young man,Mom said firmly. She padded off, leaving Solholding the towel. He pattedhis face, and then scrubbedthe wet tangle of brown hair.Carefully, he stepped off thecarpet and onto the stonefloor in front of the fireplace.He removed hisdrenched coat and suit jacket,and squeezed water outover the ashes. He stripped down to hisunderwear, wondering aboutnext morning's possible embarrassment,and decided touse the damp bath towel as ablanket. The sofa was downyand comfortable. He curledup under the towel, shiveredonce, and closed his eyes. <doc-sep> He was tired and verysleepy, and his customarynightly review was limited toa few detached thoughtsabout the wedding he wassupposed to attend in Salinasthat weekend ... the hoodlumwho had responded to hisgood-nature by dumping himout of his own car ... the sloggingwalk to the village ...the little round woman whowas hurrying off, like theWhite Rabbit, to some mysteriousappointment on theupper floor ... Then he went to sleep. A voice awoke him, shrilland questioning. Are you nakkid ? His eyes flew open, and hepulled the towel protectivelyaround his body and glaredat the little girl with the rust-redpigtails. Huh, mister? she said,pushing a finger against herfreckled nose. Are you? No, he said angrily. I'mnot naked. Will you pleasego away? Sally! It was Mom, appearingin the doorway of theparlor. You leave the gentlemanalone. She went offagain. Yes, Sol said. Please letme get dressed. If you don'tmind. The girl didn't move.What time is it? Dunno, Sally shrugged.I like poached eggs. They'remy favorite eggs in the wholeworld. That's good, Sol said desperately.Now why don't yoube a good girl and eat yourpoached eggs. In the kitchen. Ain't ready yet. You goingto stay for breakfast? I'm not going to do anythinguntil you get out ofhere. She put the end of a pigtailin her mouth and sat down onthe chair opposite. I went tothe palace last night. Theyhad an exelution. Please, Sol groaned. Bea good girl, Sally. If you letme get dressed, I'll show youhow to take your thumb off. Oh, that's an old trick. Didyou ever see an exelution? No. Did you ever see a littlegirl with her hidetanned? Huh? Sally! Mom again, sterner.You get out of there, oryou-know-what ... Okay, the girl saidblithely. I'm goin' to the palaceagain. If I brush myteeth. Aren't you ever gonnaget up? She skipped out ofthe room, and Sol hastily satup and reached for histrousers. When he had dressed, theclothes still damp and unpleasantagainst his skin, hewent out of the parlor andfound the kitchen. Mom wasbusy at the stove. He said:Good morning. Breakfast in ten minutes,she said cheerfully. You likepoached eggs? Sure. Do you have a telephone? In the hallway. Party line,so you may have to wait. He tried for fifteen minutesto get through, but therewas a woman on the line whowas terribly upset about acotton dress she had orderedfrom Sears, and was tellingthe world about it. Finally, he got his callthrough to Salinas, and asleepy-voiced Fred, his oldArmy buddy, listened somewhatindifferently to his taleof woe. I might miss thewedding, Sol said unhappily.I'm awfully sorry. Freddidn't seem to be half as sorryas he was. When Sol hungup, he was feeling more despondentthan ever. A man, tall and rangy, witha bobbing Adam's apple anda lined face, came into thehallway. Hullo? he said inquiringly.You the fella hadthe car stolen? Yes. The man scratched his ear.Take you over to SheriffCoogan after breakfast. He'lllet the Stateys know about it.My name's Dawes. Sol accepted a carefulhandshake. Don't get many peoplecomin' into town, Dawessaid, looking at him curiously.Ain't seen a stranger inyears. But you look like therest of us. He chuckled. Mom called out: Breakfast! <doc-sep> At the table, Dawesasked his destination. Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He seemed okay. Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night? That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though. What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full. Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know nothin' ? Arma gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name? Becker. Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically. Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout? Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime. Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes. You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean you dream about the sameplace? Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too. If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly. If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution! Execution, her fathersaid. Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the least Icould do. Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there. Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution? None of your business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car. The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready. Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor. Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you? Fine, Sol said uneasily. The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes. <doc-sep> They crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk. Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage. The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat? Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent. Aw, Willie— Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else. The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night or day. Stranger? Come on ! Dawes said. The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again. A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes. Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit? Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince. Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers. Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does she dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there? Yep. Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right. And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything? I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie? The fat man giggled. Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid. The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them. Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan. The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament. He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man. Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop. Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs. <doc-sep> The fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came. It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen. Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way. My poor Vincent, shesobbed. Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage. He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn. The law's the law, thefat man sighed. Sol couldn't hold himselfin. What law? Who's dead?How did it happen? Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of your business? I mean, is it? I don't know, Sol saidmiserably. You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up. They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage. When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her. What happened? How didyour husband die? Please ... You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too? She was shocked at thequestion. Of course! And your husband? Didhe have the same dream? Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door. Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ... He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping. We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he? What killed him? Solsaid. Heart attack. The fat man chuckled. The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid. Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car— The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your car ? Young man, ain'tyou got no respect ? Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination. <doc-sep> He took a walk. The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else. He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes. Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter. Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon? You a stranger? Yes. Thought so. Sol repeated the question. Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is. How—I mean, what kindof place is it? Said you're a stranger? Yes. Then 'tain't your business. That was that. He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody. He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened. Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it. At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story. He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing. At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities. Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal. He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents. He learned little. <doc-sep> At five-thirty, he returnedto the Dawes house, and waspromptly leaped upon bylittle Sally. Hi! Hi! Hi! she said,clutching his right leg andalmost toppling him over.We had a party in school. Ihad chocolate cake. You goin'to stay with us? Just another night, Soltold her, trying to shake thegirl off. If it's okay withyour folks. They haven'tfound my car yet. Sally! Mom was peeringout of the screen door. Youlet Mr. Becker alone and gowash. Your Pa will be homesoon. Oh, pooh, the girl said,her pigtails swinging. Doyou got a girlfriend, mister? No. Sol struggled towardsthe house with herdead weight on his leg.Would you mind? I can'twalk. Would you be my boyfriend? Well, we'll talk about it.If you let go my leg. Inside the house, she said:We're having pot roast. Youstayin'? Of course Mr. Becker'sstayin', Mom said. He's ourguest. That's very kind of you,Sol said. I really wish you'dlet me pay something— Don't want to hear anotherword about pay. <doc-sep> Mr. Dawes came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol. Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker. Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before. Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter? Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity. Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair. Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting. Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be. Supper! Mom called. After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten. He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving. I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy. Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that. Goodnight, Dawes said. Goodnight. He read Sally's copy of Treasure Island for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes. He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ... Then sleep came. <doc-sep> He was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling. The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies. He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him. It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet. He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame. Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat! Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear? Mrs. Dawes! Sol said. Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa! Pa! Look who's here! Willie Dawes appeared. No! Sol thought. This was King Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire. Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker. Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about? Yep, the King said. Andnow you're in it, too. Then I'm only dreaming! Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So that's thesnooper, eh? Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights. Sol said: The Knights? Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked. Now wait a minute— Charlie shouted. Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough— Not quite, said the King. The Knights stepped forward. Wait! Sol screamed. Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake? Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Mom, and what are her characteristics?

Mom is the wife of Willie Dawes, and is the kind woman who received Sol when his car was robbed and he was wet from the rain. She was very kind to give him the sofa, after which she hurried up to her room to attend the Armagon execution. She seems to be a very good mom, and she enjoys cooking for her family. She is very helpful to Sol, but she also makes it clear that she isn’t going to go out of her way to help him more, like he has to sleep on the sofa and that breakfast is at 7.

What is the significance of the dream of townspeople? [SEP] <s> Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now nolonger a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field, describesa strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into one of theseevenings. But, if you do, beware—beware of the Knights! dream town by ... HENRY SLESAR The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Whowas to tell she had some rather startling interests? The woman in thedoorway looked like Mom inthe homier political cartoons.She was plump, apple-cheeked,white-haired. Shewore a fussy, old-fashionednightgown, and was busilyclutching a worn house-robearound her expansive middle.She blinked at Sol Becker'srain-flattened hair and hang-dogexpression, and said:What is it? What do youwant? I'm sorry— Sol's voicewas pained. The man in thediner said you might put meup. I had my car stolen: ahitchhiker; going to Salinas ...He was puffing. Hitchhiker? I don't understand.She clucked at thesight of the pool of water hewas creating in her foyer.Well, come inside, for heaven'ssake. You're soaking! Thanks, Sol said gratefully. With the door firmly shutbehind him, the warm interiorof the little house coveredhim like a blanket. Heshivered, and let the warmthseep over him. I'm terriblysorry. I know how late it is.He looked at his watch, butthe face was too misty tomake out the hour. Must be nearly three, thewoman sniffed. You couldn'thave come at a worse time. Iwas just on my way tocourt— The words slid by him. IfI could just stay overnight.Until the morning. I couldcall some friends in San Fernando.I'm very susceptible tohead colds, he added inanely. Well, take those shoes off,first, the woman grumbled.You can undress in the parlor,if you'll keep off the rug.You won't mind using thesofa? No, of course not. I'd behappy to pay— Oh, tush, nobody's askingyou to pay. This isn't a hotel.You mind if I go back upstairs?They're gonna missme at the palace. No, of course not, Solsaid. He followed her intothe darkened parlor, andwatched as she turned thescrew on a hurricane-stylelamp, shedding a yellow poolof light over half a flowerysofa and a doily-covered wingchair. You go on up. I'll beperfectly fine. Guess you can use a towel,though. I'll get you one,then I'm going up. We wakepretty early in this house.Breakfast's at seven; you'llhave to be up if you wantany. I really can't thank youenough— Tush, the woman said.She scurried out, and returneda moment later with athick bath towel. Sorry Ican't give you any bedding.But you'll find it nice andwarm in here. She squintedat the dim face of a ship's-wheelclock on the mantle,and made a noise with hertongue. Three-thirty! sheexclaimed. I'll miss thewhole execution ... The what? Goodnight, young man,Mom said firmly. She padded off, leaving Solholding the towel. He pattedhis face, and then scrubbedthe wet tangle of brown hair.Carefully, he stepped off thecarpet and onto the stonefloor in front of the fireplace.He removed hisdrenched coat and suit jacket,and squeezed water outover the ashes. He stripped down to hisunderwear, wondering aboutnext morning's possible embarrassment,and decided touse the damp bath towel as ablanket. The sofa was downyand comfortable. He curledup under the towel, shiveredonce, and closed his eyes. <doc-sep> He was tired and verysleepy, and his customarynightly review was limited toa few detached thoughtsabout the wedding he wassupposed to attend in Salinasthat weekend ... the hoodlumwho had responded to hisgood-nature by dumping himout of his own car ... the sloggingwalk to the village ...the little round woman whowas hurrying off, like theWhite Rabbit, to some mysteriousappointment on theupper floor ... Then he went to sleep. A voice awoke him, shrilland questioning. Are you nakkid ? His eyes flew open, and hepulled the towel protectivelyaround his body and glaredat the little girl with the rust-redpigtails. Huh, mister? she said,pushing a finger against herfreckled nose. Are you? No, he said angrily. I'mnot naked. Will you pleasego away? Sally! It was Mom, appearingin the doorway of theparlor. You leave the gentlemanalone. She went offagain. Yes, Sol said. Please letme get dressed. If you don'tmind. The girl didn't move.What time is it? Dunno, Sally shrugged.I like poached eggs. They'remy favorite eggs in the wholeworld. That's good, Sol said desperately.Now why don't yoube a good girl and eat yourpoached eggs. In the kitchen. Ain't ready yet. You goingto stay for breakfast? I'm not going to do anythinguntil you get out ofhere. She put the end of a pigtailin her mouth and sat down onthe chair opposite. I went tothe palace last night. Theyhad an exelution. Please, Sol groaned. Bea good girl, Sally. If you letme get dressed, I'll show youhow to take your thumb off. Oh, that's an old trick. Didyou ever see an exelution? No. Did you ever see a littlegirl with her hidetanned? Huh? Sally! Mom again, sterner.You get out of there, oryou-know-what ... Okay, the girl saidblithely. I'm goin' to the palaceagain. If I brush myteeth. Aren't you ever gonnaget up? She skipped out ofthe room, and Sol hastily satup and reached for histrousers. When he had dressed, theclothes still damp and unpleasantagainst his skin, hewent out of the parlor andfound the kitchen. Mom wasbusy at the stove. He said:Good morning. Breakfast in ten minutes,she said cheerfully. You likepoached eggs? Sure. Do you have a telephone? In the hallway. Party line,so you may have to wait. He tried for fifteen minutesto get through, but therewas a woman on the line whowas terribly upset about acotton dress she had orderedfrom Sears, and was tellingthe world about it. Finally, he got his callthrough to Salinas, and asleepy-voiced Fred, his oldArmy buddy, listened somewhatindifferently to his taleof woe. I might miss thewedding, Sol said unhappily.I'm awfully sorry. Freddidn't seem to be half as sorryas he was. When Sol hungup, he was feeling more despondentthan ever. A man, tall and rangy, witha bobbing Adam's apple anda lined face, came into thehallway. Hullo? he said inquiringly.You the fella hadthe car stolen? Yes. The man scratched his ear.Take you over to SheriffCoogan after breakfast. He'lllet the Stateys know about it.My name's Dawes. Sol accepted a carefulhandshake. Don't get many peoplecomin' into town, Dawessaid, looking at him curiously.Ain't seen a stranger inyears. But you look like therest of us. He chuckled. Mom called out: Breakfast! <doc-sep> At the table, Dawesasked his destination. Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He seemed okay. Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night? That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though. What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full. Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know nothin' ? Arma gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name? Becker. Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically. Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout? Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime. Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes. You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean you dream about the sameplace? Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too. If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly. If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution! Execution, her fathersaid. Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the least Icould do. Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there. Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution? None of your business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car. The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready. Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor. Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you? Fine, Sol said uneasily. The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes. <doc-sep> They crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk. Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage. The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat? Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent. Aw, Willie— Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else. The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night or day. Stranger? Come on ! Dawes said. The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again. A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes. Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit? Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince. Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers. Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does she dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there? Yep. Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right. And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything? I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie? The fat man giggled. Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid. The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them. Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan. The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament. He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man. Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop. Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs. <doc-sep> The fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came. It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen. Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way. My poor Vincent, shesobbed. Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage. He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn. The law's the law, thefat man sighed. Sol couldn't hold himselfin. What law? Who's dead?How did it happen? Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of your business? I mean, is it? I don't know, Sol saidmiserably. You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up. They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage. When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her. What happened? How didyour husband die? Please ... You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too? She was shocked at thequestion. Of course! And your husband? Didhe have the same dream? Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door. Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ... He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping. We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he? What killed him? Solsaid. Heart attack. The fat man chuckled. The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid. Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car— The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your car ? Young man, ain'tyou got no respect ? Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination. <doc-sep> He took a walk. The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else. He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes. Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter. Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon? You a stranger? Yes. Thought so. Sol repeated the question. Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is. How—I mean, what kindof place is it? Said you're a stranger? Yes. Then 'tain't your business. That was that. He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody. He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened. Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it. At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story. He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing. At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities. Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal. He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents. He learned little. <doc-sep> At five-thirty, he returnedto the Dawes house, and waspromptly leaped upon bylittle Sally. Hi! Hi! Hi! she said,clutching his right leg andalmost toppling him over.We had a party in school. Ihad chocolate cake. You goin'to stay with us? Just another night, Soltold her, trying to shake thegirl off. If it's okay withyour folks. They haven'tfound my car yet. Sally! Mom was peeringout of the screen door. Youlet Mr. Becker alone and gowash. Your Pa will be homesoon. Oh, pooh, the girl said,her pigtails swinging. Doyou got a girlfriend, mister? No. Sol struggled towardsthe house with herdead weight on his leg.Would you mind? I can'twalk. Would you be my boyfriend? Well, we'll talk about it.If you let go my leg. Inside the house, she said:We're having pot roast. Youstayin'? Of course Mr. Becker'sstayin', Mom said. He's ourguest. That's very kind of you,Sol said. I really wish you'dlet me pay something— Don't want to hear anotherword about pay. <doc-sep> Mr. Dawes came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol. Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker. Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before. Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter? Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity. Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair. Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting. Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be. Supper! Mom called. After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten. He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving. I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy. Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that. Goodnight, Dawes said. Goodnight. He read Sally's copy of Treasure Island for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes. He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ... Then sleep came. <doc-sep> He was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling. The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies. He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him. It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet. He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame. Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat! Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear? Mrs. Dawes! Sol said. Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa! Pa! Look who's here! Willie Dawes appeared. No! Sol thought. This was King Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire. Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker. Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about? Yep, the King said. Andnow you're in it, too. Then I'm only dreaming! Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So that's thesnooper, eh? Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights. Sol said: The Knights? Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked. Now wait a minute— Charlie shouted. Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough— Not quite, said the King. The Knights stepped forward. Wait! Sol screamed. Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake? Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the dream of townspeople?

The dream of the townspeople is what makes the town unique, and what puts Sol in danger. At the beginning Sol thought that the Dawes family shared a dream, but then he learned that everyone in the town had the same dream every night together. Also, the dream is a courtroom style, where Dawes is the king and can execute people. Charlie, the fat man that helps Dawes, is one of the knights in the Armagon. At the end, Sol attends this shared dream and it is implied that he is going to be killed by Dawes and the others.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> PRIME DIFFERENCE By ALAN E. NOURSE Illustrated by SCHOENHEER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be? I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife. Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge— It's so permanent . Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved. You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime. So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long. Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped. She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case. <doc-sep>Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it. I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week. But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along. Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there. Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive. That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today. I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear. Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome. Marge had quite a spy system. She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added. She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then. Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned. Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm. I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent. Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy— Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie. As I said, a guy gets fed up. And maybe opportunity would only knock once. And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me. <doc-sep>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was. From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances. The law didn't leave a man much leeway. But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone. Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway. Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou. <doc-sep>I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a— He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth? I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models. Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences— I was shaking my head. I want a Super Deluxe model, I told him. He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward— I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom. We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted. The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory. And that was all there was to it. <doc-sep>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today. I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face. Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother. I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it. I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do. But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night. George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid. If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court. And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too. George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks. He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears. I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course. Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win. With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. <doc-sep>At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, shesaid. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could cleanthe whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up theworkshop. After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged astrategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of woodshavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next.A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An openpaint can would have a cover on it. I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. Iswore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun. So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a whileto take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-doorroutine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had abattle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. Itwas that predictable. She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it woreher down. She didn't go into the workshop any more. As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win. Eventually. If you're really persistent. Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an houror two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the bigcloset in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me amanual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night,there he was, just waiting to be put to work. After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd leftthere, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him andswitched on the free-behavior circuits. Go to it, Brother, I said. George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into thehouse. Five minutes later, I heard them fighting. It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab onthe corner and headed uptown. We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to startfor work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car,business suit on, briefcase under his arm. I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked intothe workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned himoff and then drove away in the car. Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me! <doc-sep>Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front. For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit. Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all. He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine. Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over. But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off. George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax. So I did. Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful. And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid. I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office. Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram. Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is. There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had. But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model. <doc-sep>Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be havinga remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I washardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid outfor me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it broughtme up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had agood fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it. I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound tomellow sometime. But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little toomuch. One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she reallymeant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, whichhappened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) bycandlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chieflybecause I liked it. We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like oldtimes. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Margeagain—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair,almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, notglint. As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night,she was practically ravishing. What are you doing to her? I asked George Prime later, out in theworkshop. Why, nothing, said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't foolme with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use whenI'm guilty and pretending to be innocent. There must be something . George Prime shrugged. Any woman will warm up if you spend enough timetelling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attentionto her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I cangive you page references. I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic textsrun into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tellwhen an odd bit of information will come in useful. Well, you must be doing quite a job, I said. I'd never managed towarm Marge up much. I try, said George Prime. Oh, I'm not complaining, I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime'sfeelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because itwas in character. I was just curious. Of course, George. I'm really delighted that you're doing so well. Thank you, George. But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeousredhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battleexcept maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, andwondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand. <doc-sep>The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of aliquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. Whatare you doing out on the street? He gave me my martyred look. Just buying some bourbon. You were out. But you're not supposed to be off the premises— Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but herhusband wouldn't let me, could I? Well, certainly not— You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to getsuspicious. No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint— I'm sorry, George Prime said contritely. It seemed the right thingto do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgmentcenter maintained. We had quite an argument. Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense, I snapped. Idon't want it to happen again. The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I wasbeginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—Icould snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in fora complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nicejob. Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathizedwith my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss,despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. Afterdinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look andsaid she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home bythe fire. I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the livingroom and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affairI'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favoriteperfume. Georgie? she said. Uh? Do you still love me? I set the paper down and stared at her. How's that? Of course Istill— Well, sometimes you don't act much like it. Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight. Damn thatperfume! Oh, said Marge. In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep— Sleep, said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in hervoice. Now I knew that things were out of hand. The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at thecorner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in anearly movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at thecorner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage. Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the livingroom windows. George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eightlong years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactlyfighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little,the lights went off. George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right. <doc-sep>I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited. George Prime didn't come out. It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover. Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done. I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him. But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced. What check? I asked. The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth. The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly. Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account. He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them. What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy. That's been closed out for two weeks. I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through. I came up with a horrible thought. Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon. I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda. When? I choked out. Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock— I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon— Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime. For how long? <doc-sep>When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house. They were gone. I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android. Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around. I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink. My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings. It was indecent. Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early! I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here! Of course. Where did you think I'd be? But I thought—I mean the ticket office— She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you? Then—you knew? Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace. Bermuda, I said. And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest. Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before.... I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him? I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss. Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was never like this— I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened. That Marge always had been a sly one. I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda. <doc-sep>Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but thelaugh was on her, after all. As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makesJeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look prettysad by comparison. She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers.As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated. A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct anyslippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow. One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'llgo to Hawaii. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

George Faircloth, a husband who has an eight-year marriage with Marge Faircloth, is unsatisfied with his wife as he thinks she is annoying and unbearable. He desires but cannot divorce her as the law and society are critical of the divorce. His colleague, Harry Folsom, suggests he get an illegal Ego Prime, a technology that can produce a human duplicate possessing all the human features and functions, after he becomes fed up with his wife after a fight over his new secretary. He goes to the black market, goes through all the examinations needed for the technology, and buys a Super Deluxe Prime, George Prime, to hide in his workshop in the garage. The workshop is his sanctuary that he keeps for years after a long fight with Marge, a place where Marge cannot go in. He sets up George Prime and orders it to pretend him whenever he goes out to have some extramarital affairs with women in his office. George Prime does an excellent job on that as it behaves completely identical to George Faircloth, except that it gives Marge Faircloth more pleasure than George Faircloth does. At first, George Faircloth enjoys the freedom of playing around with women and not having to worry about Marge’s hysteria. But after a while, as he realizes that Marge has been more mellow and sweet whenever he is at home, catching George Prime on the street once when it is not supposed to be outside according to his order, he starts to suspect whether his choice is correct or not. One day, he leaves his date and comes home early, seeing George Prime have sexual affairs with Marge. Gripped by the anger, he tries to recall George Prime coming back to the garage, but it doesn’t respond due to the lack of the first logical opportunity for it to return. After that, through the conversation with George Prime, he realizes that things are out of his control as he cannot decide specifically what George Prime will do. Even worse, he finds out that his money is spent through the signature of George Prime as their signatures both have legal effects, and that he cannot call the police to fix it as he couldn’t explain the situation of illegal George Prime. George Prime and Marge Faircloth leave for Bermuda with his money. Marge comes home when he feels desperate in his house and comforts him. He soon realizes that it is not Marge Faircloth but Marge Prime, his wife’s duplicate and that his wife had already found out his trick long before. In the end, George Faircloth lives happily with Marge Prime, and Marge Faircloth lives happily with George Prime. Both of them are satisfied with the duplicates as they would satisfy their needs in the marriage.

What is the significance of the “Prime” technology? [SEP] <s> PRIME DIFFERENCE By ALAN E. NOURSE Illustrated by SCHOENHEER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be? I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife. Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge— It's so permanent . Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved. You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime. So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long. Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped. She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case. <doc-sep>Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it. I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week. But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along. Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there. Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive. That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today. I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear. Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome. Marge had quite a spy system. She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added. She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then. Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned. Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm. I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent. Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy— Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie. As I said, a guy gets fed up. And maybe opportunity would only knock once. And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me. <doc-sep>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was. From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances. The law didn't leave a man much leeway. But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone. Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway. Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou. <doc-sep>I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a— He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth? I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models. Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences— I was shaking my head. I want a Super Deluxe model, I told him. He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward— I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom. We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted. The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory. And that was all there was to it. <doc-sep>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today. I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face. Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother. I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it. I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do. But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night. George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid. If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court. And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too. George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks. He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears. I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course. Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win. With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. <doc-sep>At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, shesaid. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could cleanthe whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up theworkshop. After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged astrategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of woodshavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next.A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An openpaint can would have a cover on it. I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. Iswore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun. So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a whileto take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-doorroutine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had abattle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. Itwas that predictable. She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it woreher down. She didn't go into the workshop any more. As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win. Eventually. If you're really persistent. Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an houror two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the bigcloset in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me amanual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night,there he was, just waiting to be put to work. After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd leftthere, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him andswitched on the free-behavior circuits. Go to it, Brother, I said. George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into thehouse. Five minutes later, I heard them fighting. It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab onthe corner and headed uptown. We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to startfor work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car,business suit on, briefcase under his arm. I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked intothe workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned himoff and then drove away in the car. Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me! <doc-sep>Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front. For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit. Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all. He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine. Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over. But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off. George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax. So I did. Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful. And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid. I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office. Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram. Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is. There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had. But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model. <doc-sep>Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be havinga remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I washardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid outfor me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it broughtme up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had agood fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it. I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound tomellow sometime. But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little toomuch. One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she reallymeant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, whichhappened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) bycandlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chieflybecause I liked it. We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like oldtimes. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Margeagain—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair,almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, notglint. As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night,she was practically ravishing. What are you doing to her? I asked George Prime later, out in theworkshop. Why, nothing, said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't foolme with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use whenI'm guilty and pretending to be innocent. There must be something . George Prime shrugged. Any woman will warm up if you spend enough timetelling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attentionto her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I cangive you page references. I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic textsrun into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tellwhen an odd bit of information will come in useful. Well, you must be doing quite a job, I said. I'd never managed towarm Marge up much. I try, said George Prime. Oh, I'm not complaining, I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime'sfeelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because itwas in character. I was just curious. Of course, George. I'm really delighted that you're doing so well. Thank you, George. But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeousredhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battleexcept maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, andwondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand. <doc-sep>The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of aliquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. Whatare you doing out on the street? He gave me my martyred look. Just buying some bourbon. You were out. But you're not supposed to be off the premises— Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but herhusband wouldn't let me, could I? Well, certainly not— You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to getsuspicious. No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint— I'm sorry, George Prime said contritely. It seemed the right thingto do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgmentcenter maintained. We had quite an argument. Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense, I snapped. Idon't want it to happen again. The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I wasbeginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—Icould snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in fora complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nicejob. Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathizedwith my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss,despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. Afterdinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look andsaid she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home bythe fire. I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the livingroom and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affairI'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favoriteperfume. Georgie? she said. Uh? Do you still love me? I set the paper down and stared at her. How's that? Of course Istill— Well, sometimes you don't act much like it. Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight. Damn thatperfume! Oh, said Marge. In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep— Sleep, said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in hervoice. Now I knew that things were out of hand. The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at thecorner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in anearly movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at thecorner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage. Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the livingroom windows. George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eightlong years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactlyfighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little,the lights went off. George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right. <doc-sep>I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited. George Prime didn't come out. It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover. Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done. I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him. But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced. What check? I asked. The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth. The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly. Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account. He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them. What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy. That's been closed out for two weeks. I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through. I came up with a horrible thought. Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon. I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda. When? I choked out. Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock— I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon— Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime. For how long? <doc-sep>When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house. They were gone. I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android. Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around. I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink. My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings. It was indecent. Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early! I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here! Of course. Where did you think I'd be? But I thought—I mean the ticket office— She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you? Then—you knew? Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace. Bermuda, I said. And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest. Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before.... I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him? I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss. Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was never like this— I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened. That Marge always had been a sly one. I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda. <doc-sep>Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but thelaugh was on her, after all. As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makesJeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look prettysad by comparison. She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers.As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated. A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct anyslippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow. One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'llgo to Hawaii. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the “Prime” technology?

The Ego Prime is a technology that produces a robotic duplicate of a person. This duplicate is based on a neuro-pantograph with a humanlike body and soul. The duplicate is identical to a real person, including the habits, thought processes, physiological functions, or even the handwritten legal signature that one person may have. The only difference between the real person and one’s duplicate is that the duplicate has a finger-depression button hidden underneath the hair above the ear. Throughout the story, George, a husband who has been tired of his wife, buys a George Prime, the duplicate of himself, to deal with his wife and have sexual affairs with other women around his office. However, he finds out that George Prime leaves with her wife, and his wife, Marge Faircloth, sends her duplicate Marge Prime to accompany her, just as he did to her. The exchange of their duplicates to escape from the unsatisfying marriage contributes to most of the story. Prime technology plays a significant role as duplicates can satisfy human needs better than a natural person. Due to this characteristic of being able to meet one’s demand by their logical inferences and inability to feel annoyed, the duplicates of both sides become the ideal mates for each person, both George and Marge, ending the story with both of them living with the Primes. Without Prime Technology, the story would not have developed.

How is the theme of marriage explored throughout the story? [SEP] <s> PRIME DIFFERENCE By ALAN E. NOURSE Illustrated by SCHOENHEER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be? I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife. Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge— It's so permanent . Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved. You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime. So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long. Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped. She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case. <doc-sep>Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it. I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week. But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along. Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there. Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive. That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today. I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear. Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome. Marge had quite a spy system. She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added. She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then. Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned. Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm. I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent. Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy— Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie. As I said, a guy gets fed up. And maybe opportunity would only knock once. And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me. <doc-sep>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was. From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances. The law didn't leave a man much leeway. But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone. Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway. Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou. <doc-sep>I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a— He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth? I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models. Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences— I was shaking my head. I want a Super Deluxe model, I told him. He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward— I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom. We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted. The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory. And that was all there was to it. <doc-sep>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today. I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face. Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother. I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it. I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do. But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night. George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid. If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court. And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too. George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks. He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears. I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course. Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win. With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. <doc-sep>At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, shesaid. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could cleanthe whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up theworkshop. After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged astrategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of woodshavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next.A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An openpaint can would have a cover on it. I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. Iswore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun. So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a whileto take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-doorroutine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had abattle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. Itwas that predictable. She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it woreher down. She didn't go into the workshop any more. As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win. Eventually. If you're really persistent. Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an houror two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the bigcloset in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me amanual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night,there he was, just waiting to be put to work. After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd leftthere, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him andswitched on the free-behavior circuits. Go to it, Brother, I said. George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into thehouse. Five minutes later, I heard them fighting. It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab onthe corner and headed uptown. We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to startfor work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car,business suit on, briefcase under his arm. I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked intothe workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned himoff and then drove away in the car. Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me! <doc-sep>Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front. For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit. Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all. He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine. Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over. But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off. George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax. So I did. Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful. And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid. I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office. Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram. Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is. There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had. But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model. <doc-sep>Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be havinga remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I washardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid outfor me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it broughtme up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had agood fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it. I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound tomellow sometime. But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little toomuch. One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she reallymeant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, whichhappened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) bycandlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chieflybecause I liked it. We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like oldtimes. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Margeagain—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair,almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, notglint. As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night,she was practically ravishing. What are you doing to her? I asked George Prime later, out in theworkshop. Why, nothing, said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't foolme with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use whenI'm guilty and pretending to be innocent. There must be something . George Prime shrugged. Any woman will warm up if you spend enough timetelling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attentionto her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I cangive you page references. I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic textsrun into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tellwhen an odd bit of information will come in useful. Well, you must be doing quite a job, I said. I'd never managed towarm Marge up much. I try, said George Prime. Oh, I'm not complaining, I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime'sfeelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because itwas in character. I was just curious. Of course, George. I'm really delighted that you're doing so well. Thank you, George. But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeousredhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battleexcept maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, andwondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand. <doc-sep>The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of aliquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. Whatare you doing out on the street? He gave me my martyred look. Just buying some bourbon. You were out. But you're not supposed to be off the premises— Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but herhusband wouldn't let me, could I? Well, certainly not— You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to getsuspicious. No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint— I'm sorry, George Prime said contritely. It seemed the right thingto do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgmentcenter maintained. We had quite an argument. Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense, I snapped. Idon't want it to happen again. The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I wasbeginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—Icould snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in fora complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nicejob. Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathizedwith my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss,despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. Afterdinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look andsaid she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home bythe fire. I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the livingroom and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affairI'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favoriteperfume. Georgie? she said. Uh? Do you still love me? I set the paper down and stared at her. How's that? Of course Istill— Well, sometimes you don't act much like it. Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight. Damn thatperfume! Oh, said Marge. In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep— Sleep, said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in hervoice. Now I knew that things were out of hand. The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at thecorner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in anearly movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at thecorner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage. Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the livingroom windows. George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eightlong years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactlyfighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little,the lights went off. George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right. <doc-sep>I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited. George Prime didn't come out. It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover. Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done. I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him. But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced. What check? I asked. The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth. The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly. Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account. He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them. What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy. That's been closed out for two weeks. I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through. I came up with a horrible thought. Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon. I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda. When? I choked out. Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock— I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon— Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime. For how long? <doc-sep>When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house. They were gone. I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android. Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around. I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink. My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings. It was indecent. Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early! I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here! Of course. Where did you think I'd be? But I thought—I mean the ticket office— She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you? Then—you knew? Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace. Bermuda, I said. And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest. Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before.... I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him? I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss. Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was never like this— I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened. That Marge always had been a sly one. I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda. <doc-sep>Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but thelaugh was on her, after all. As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makesJeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look prettysad by comparison. She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers.As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated. A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct anyslippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow. One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'llgo to Hawaii. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How is the theme of marriage explored throughout the story?

The story starts with a husband, George Faircloth, who is unsatisfied with his marriage, trying to escape from his wife without communicating with her. Throughout the story, he uses Prime Technology, a technology that can produce an identical duplicate of a human, to deal with his wife’s complaints and other annoying interactions with him. However, when he finds out that George Prime, his duplicate, gets along better with his wife than him and finally leaves him behind together, he realizes what he has done wrong. When he feels desperate, his wife’s duplicate comes to stay with him, and he finally finds his wife’s duplicate better than his wife. The central theme of the story is the marriage relationship. The beginning of the story reveals a marriage failure where both the husband and the wife are not satisfied with each other after years-long marriage. Their solutions are not to communicate with each other or change for the better but to escape from each other through Prime technology. In the middle of the story, where George Faircloth once finds his wife adorable again due to George Prime’s effort, it shows the importance of communication and mutual support in the marriage, which is lacking in their relationship. The ending of the story, where both of them live with the duplicates of each other, indicates that a good relationship in marriage is to listen to and satisfy what each other needs with proper communication.

What is the relationship between George Faircloth and Marge Faircloth? [SEP] <s> PRIME DIFFERENCE By ALAN E. NOURSE Illustrated by SCHOENHEER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be? I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife. Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge— It's so permanent . Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved. You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime. So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long. Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped. She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case. <doc-sep>Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it. I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week. But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along. Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there. Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive. That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today. I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear. Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome. Marge had quite a spy system. She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added. She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then. Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned. Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm. I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent. Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy— Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie. As I said, a guy gets fed up. And maybe opportunity would only knock once. And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me. <doc-sep>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was. From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances. The law didn't leave a man much leeway. But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone. Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway. Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou. <doc-sep>I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a— He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth? I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models. Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences— I was shaking my head. I want a Super Deluxe model, I told him. He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward— I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom. We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted. The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory. And that was all there was to it. <doc-sep>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today. I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face. Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother. I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it. I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do. But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night. George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid. If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court. And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too. George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks. He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears. I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course. Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win. With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. <doc-sep>At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, shesaid. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could cleanthe whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up theworkshop. After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged astrategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of woodshavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next.A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An openpaint can would have a cover on it. I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. Iswore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun. So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a whileto take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-doorroutine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had abattle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. Itwas that predictable. She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it woreher down. She didn't go into the workshop any more. As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win. Eventually. If you're really persistent. Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an houror two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the bigcloset in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me amanual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night,there he was, just waiting to be put to work. After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd leftthere, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him andswitched on the free-behavior circuits. Go to it, Brother, I said. George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into thehouse. Five minutes later, I heard them fighting. It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab onthe corner and headed uptown. We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to startfor work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car,business suit on, briefcase under his arm. I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked intothe workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned himoff and then drove away in the car. Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me! <doc-sep>Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front. For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit. Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all. He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine. Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over. But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off. George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax. So I did. Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful. And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid. I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office. Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram. Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is. There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had. But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model. <doc-sep>Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be havinga remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I washardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid outfor me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it broughtme up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had agood fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it. I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound tomellow sometime. But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little toomuch. One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she reallymeant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, whichhappened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) bycandlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chieflybecause I liked it. We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like oldtimes. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Margeagain—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair,almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, notglint. As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night,she was practically ravishing. What are you doing to her? I asked George Prime later, out in theworkshop. Why, nothing, said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't foolme with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use whenI'm guilty and pretending to be innocent. There must be something . George Prime shrugged. Any woman will warm up if you spend enough timetelling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attentionto her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I cangive you page references. I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic textsrun into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tellwhen an odd bit of information will come in useful. Well, you must be doing quite a job, I said. I'd never managed towarm Marge up much. I try, said George Prime. Oh, I'm not complaining, I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime'sfeelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because itwas in character. I was just curious. Of course, George. I'm really delighted that you're doing so well. Thank you, George. But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeousredhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battleexcept maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, andwondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand. <doc-sep>The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of aliquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. Whatare you doing out on the street? He gave me my martyred look. Just buying some bourbon. You were out. But you're not supposed to be off the premises— Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but herhusband wouldn't let me, could I? Well, certainly not— You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to getsuspicious. No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint— I'm sorry, George Prime said contritely. It seemed the right thingto do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgmentcenter maintained. We had quite an argument. Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense, I snapped. Idon't want it to happen again. The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I wasbeginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—Icould snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in fora complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nicejob. Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathizedwith my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss,despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. Afterdinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look andsaid she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home bythe fire. I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the livingroom and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affairI'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favoriteperfume. Georgie? she said. Uh? Do you still love me? I set the paper down and stared at her. How's that? Of course Istill— Well, sometimes you don't act much like it. Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight. Damn thatperfume! Oh, said Marge. In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep— Sleep, said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in hervoice. Now I knew that things were out of hand. The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at thecorner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in anearly movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at thecorner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage. Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the livingroom windows. George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eightlong years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactlyfighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little,the lights went off. George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right. <doc-sep>I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited. George Prime didn't come out. It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover. Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done. I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him. But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced. What check? I asked. The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth. The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly. Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account. He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them. What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy. That's been closed out for two weeks. I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through. I came up with a horrible thought. Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon. I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda. When? I choked out. Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock— I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon— Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime. For how long? <doc-sep>When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house. They were gone. I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android. Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around. I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink. My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings. It was indecent. Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early! I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here! Of course. Where did you think I'd be? But I thought—I mean the ticket office— She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you? Then—you knew? Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace. Bermuda, I said. And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest. Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before.... I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him? I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss. Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was never like this— I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened. That Marge always had been a sly one. I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda. <doc-sep>Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but thelaugh was on her, after all. As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makesJeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look prettysad by comparison. She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers.As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated. A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct anyslippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow. One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'llgo to Hawaii. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between George Faircloth and Marge Faircloth?

George Faircloth and Marge Faircloth are husband and wife. They have married for 8 years. Their relationship is toxic and unsatisfying. George is fed up with Marge’s constant complaints, grievance, and crying. Marge is unsatisfied with George’s inattention to her and his possible affairs with women in his office, so she often spies on George’s office life, which irritates George more. They are constantly in fight. Their way of communicating with each other is to attack and fight, and they haven’t seen each other carefully and sweetly for a long time. Their relationship is to conquer and be conquered repeatedly, fighting all the time.

Who is Harry Folsom and what role does he play in the story? [SEP] <s> PRIME DIFFERENCE By ALAN E. NOURSE Illustrated by SCHOENHEER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be? I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife. Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge— It's so permanent . Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved. You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime. So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long. Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped. She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case. <doc-sep>Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it. I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week. But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along. Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there. Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive. That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today. I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear. Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome. Marge had quite a spy system. She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added. She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then. Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned. Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm. I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent. Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy— Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie. As I said, a guy gets fed up. And maybe opportunity would only knock once. And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me. <doc-sep>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was. From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances. The law didn't leave a man much leeway. But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone. Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway. Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou. <doc-sep>I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a— He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth? I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models. Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences— I was shaking my head. I want a Super Deluxe model, I told him. He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward— I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom. We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted. The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory. And that was all there was to it. <doc-sep>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today. I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face. Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother. I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it. I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do. But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night. George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid. If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court. And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too. George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks. He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears. I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course. Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win. With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. <doc-sep>At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, shesaid. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could cleanthe whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up theworkshop. After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged astrategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of woodshavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next.A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An openpaint can would have a cover on it. I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. Iswore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun. So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a whileto take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-doorroutine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had abattle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. Itwas that predictable. She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it woreher down. She didn't go into the workshop any more. As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win. Eventually. If you're really persistent. Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an houror two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the bigcloset in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me amanual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night,there he was, just waiting to be put to work. After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd leftthere, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him andswitched on the free-behavior circuits. Go to it, Brother, I said. George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into thehouse. Five minutes later, I heard them fighting. It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab onthe corner and headed uptown. We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to startfor work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car,business suit on, briefcase under his arm. I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked intothe workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned himoff and then drove away in the car. Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me! <doc-sep>Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front. For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit. Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all. He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine. Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over. But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off. George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax. So I did. Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful. And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid. I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office. Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram. Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is. There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had. But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model. <doc-sep>Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be havinga remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I washardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid outfor me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it broughtme up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had agood fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it. I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound tomellow sometime. But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little toomuch. One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she reallymeant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, whichhappened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) bycandlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chieflybecause I liked it. We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like oldtimes. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Margeagain—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair,almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, notglint. As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night,she was practically ravishing. What are you doing to her? I asked George Prime later, out in theworkshop. Why, nothing, said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't foolme with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use whenI'm guilty and pretending to be innocent. There must be something . George Prime shrugged. Any woman will warm up if you spend enough timetelling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attentionto her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I cangive you page references. I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic textsrun into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tellwhen an odd bit of information will come in useful. Well, you must be doing quite a job, I said. I'd never managed towarm Marge up much. I try, said George Prime. Oh, I'm not complaining, I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime'sfeelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because itwas in character. I was just curious. Of course, George. I'm really delighted that you're doing so well. Thank you, George. But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeousredhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battleexcept maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, andwondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand. <doc-sep>The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of aliquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. Whatare you doing out on the street? He gave me my martyred look. Just buying some bourbon. You were out. But you're not supposed to be off the premises— Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but herhusband wouldn't let me, could I? Well, certainly not— You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to getsuspicious. No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint— I'm sorry, George Prime said contritely. It seemed the right thingto do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgmentcenter maintained. We had quite an argument. Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense, I snapped. Idon't want it to happen again. The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I wasbeginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—Icould snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in fora complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nicejob. Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathizedwith my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss,despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. Afterdinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look andsaid she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home bythe fire. I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the livingroom and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affairI'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favoriteperfume. Georgie? she said. Uh? Do you still love me? I set the paper down and stared at her. How's that? Of course Istill— Well, sometimes you don't act much like it. Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight. Damn thatperfume! Oh, said Marge. In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep— Sleep, said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in hervoice. Now I knew that things were out of hand. The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at thecorner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in anearly movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at thecorner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage. Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the livingroom windows. George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eightlong years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactlyfighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little,the lights went off. George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right. <doc-sep>I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited. George Prime didn't come out. It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover. Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done. I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him. But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced. What check? I asked. The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth. The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly. Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account. He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them. What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy. That's been closed out for two weeks. I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through. I came up with a horrible thought. Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon. I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda. When? I choked out. Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock— I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon— Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime. For how long? <doc-sep>When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house. They were gone. I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android. Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around. I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink. My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings. It was indecent. Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early! I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here! Of course. Where did you think I'd be? But I thought—I mean the ticket office— She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you? Then—you knew? Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace. Bermuda, I said. And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest. Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before.... I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him? I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss. Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was never like this— I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened. That Marge always had been a sly one. I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda. <doc-sep>Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but thelaugh was on her, after all. As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makesJeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look prettysad by comparison. She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers.As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated. A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct anyslippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow. One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'llgo to Hawaii. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Harry Folsom and what role does he play in the story?

Harry Folsom is a colleague of George Faircloth, a husband fed up with his wife. He also has a wife who is unbearable to him, but he gets the chance to escape from her once in a while. In addition, he has a friend who knows how to get the Ego Prime, a technology to produce duplicate people from natural human beings, from the black market. Harry is the person who inspires and provides the resource for George to get an illegal Ego Prime, which contributes to the whole story.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was— GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY By CHARLES V. DE VET Illustrated by TURPIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it? He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground. Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain? His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time? Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here. Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them: The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy. The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low. Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever. That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently. A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk.... <doc-sep>One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. Heturned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on itsbottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his lastseveral messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it outimpatiently and began reading. The first was from himself: YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUTWITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUNDA TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER. VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OFESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHERTHAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOWI REPAIR SCOUT. SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 ANHOUR AGO. SMOKY The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message timewas six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary fortwo-way exchange. DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TOKEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOUDIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THATCAME OUT WAS DATA INSUFFICIENT. TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAILALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOINGEVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK. SS II Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His reportfollowed: ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWOHOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY. SMOKY The ship's next message read: INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE USANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE. SS II His own reply perplexed Kaiser: LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES? SMOKY The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he: WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NOREASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RESPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW? SS II The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next: TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZYLETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was thelast on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently theydecided to humor him. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick. He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as thoughconvalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to hisforehead. Cool. No fever anyway. He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back atthe date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twentyhours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching thecommunicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit. SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? ANDHOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER ORBOTH. SMOKY Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and triedto sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep andwakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream. It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was backhome again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He hadrealized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not lovehim. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. Andthough it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him bypersistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and bycaring for their house only in a slovenly way. Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delightin helping his sister torment Kaiser. <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout. After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now. Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground. The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm. Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study. Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river. One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached. The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm. The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup. <doc-sep>They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and nowmost of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring andpiping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with theirlips and drew into their mouths. They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so itwas not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. Theproportion was roughly fifty-fifty. Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawinghis plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep hisbreathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaisergagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations todisplay no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't takemuch more of this. A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near andthey turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. Theentire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectorsfollowed. They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them withan easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they hadfew natural enemies. Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, andcame to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in threehaphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study theirconstruction more closely this time. They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, builtof blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. Howthey were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiserdid not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, andall apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had tohave sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons. The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in acircle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four otherswere built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers untilthe top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the nextabove. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and foundthem dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves. The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser andhe wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored andreturned to the scout. The Soscites II sent little that helped during the next twelve hoursand Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to thescout. The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in fora soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bentinward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying thefuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing. <doc-sep>Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it hadto be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheetmetal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had onhand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no wayto do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to itthe rest of the day. That evening, Kaiser received information from the Soscites II thatwas at least definite: SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'TLIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOUHAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SANDWORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM ANDWE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW! SOSCITES II Kaiser's reply was short and succinct: WHAT THE HELL? SMOKY Soscites II's next communication followed within twenty minutes andwas signed by the ship's doctor: JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GETTHIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBERTHAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPTINADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOSTCERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HADSO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTINGITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHENWE FINISH WITH SAM. J. G. ZARWELL Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, thathis mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunkand stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with verylittle clear thought, for several hours—until the next communicationcame in: WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE ANDAPPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY INEATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOUWHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED. CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: ITKEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE ANDMIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY.THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION ISTHAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVEYOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZEDTHE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM. SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BITBEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned aboutthe trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no closefriends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best inspace, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer peoplehere, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that hewould have been more contented living in a crowded city. His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew becausehe was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his workwell and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have likedhim better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that theyrespected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike. The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. Hehadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fellinstantly asleep. The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke: SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCHDISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS. FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THINLIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATIONCHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM ANDPERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM. SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTECOULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WEBELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITHYOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CANGAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUSIT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY. WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS.IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAITWORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST. SS II By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress andanxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establishbetter contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, heset to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an ideaoccurred to him. Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut inhis arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain wouldsupply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slowdrops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleedingstopped. That checked pretty well with the ship's theory. Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closinghis eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to himthat he could determine the texture of each better than before, butthe test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he triedreading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stoodout sharp and clear! Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of thesymbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfortof the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, hewaited. The result surprised and pleased him. The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moistureon his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet beenhere. As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlierreadings. <doc-sep>During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchangedmessages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked atrepairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before. He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemedto drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times hehad decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success instraightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been asubdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning thesymbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one reallyimportant problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becomingdiscouraged. At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. Hesent out a terse message to the Soscites II : TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MOREINTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE ISANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, ANDIF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURNIN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT. SMOKY Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticedthat a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river atthe native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and hewondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a gianthorseshoe. He intended to find out. Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out thedoorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness onhis shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from thefirst native settlement. He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmisehad been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in theriver, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. Thisgroup was decidedly more advanced than the first! They were little different in actual physical appearance; the changewas mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor wasmore subdued, less repugnant. By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed tounderstand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank andcalled to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. Thefirst male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously agesture of friendship. The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleanedpart of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it. The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowedthe mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given himand waited with some trepidation for a reaction. <doc-sep>As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from thenative settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would reactto the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated byhis digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly atpeace with this world. Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noiseof some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just incase. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged thebeast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds asit went. The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair ofshorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already inthe water when he arrived and were very friendly. That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowdedaround as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—andoften nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He haddifficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As heneared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle andpulled him under. Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he wasclowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held himhelpless. They sank deeper. When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream ofbubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his kneeup into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached thesurface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until hisfeet hit the river bottom. As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet andseemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, tryingto think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, butthere was none. He shrugged helplessly. There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if theyhad the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking forthem—and he packed and started back to the scout. Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyedthe relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, andnow he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against hisbare skin were pleasant to feel. When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. Thetarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to freeit. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spillingthe equipment to the ground. Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles inthe tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenlyhis eyes widened. <doc-sep>Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there. Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever. Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free! Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act. He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him. The first was quite routine: REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID. TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED. GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES. SS II The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it. SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES. SS II Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep. In the morning, another message was waiting: VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the Soscites II beexperiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If theywere, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just asuggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing ofinformation. Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.And the Soscites II would not complete its orbit of the planet fortwo weeks yet. Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown usedto wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about thevicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he wentback inside. Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from thecaptain himself: WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIRSCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER! H. A. HESSE, CAPT. Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with hisfingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from hishands with it and dropped it to the floor. He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregardingthe captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial forserious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience onlyto the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages fromthe ship on his trip. <doc-sep>The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, andwhen Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned tothe village he had visited the day before. However, there were otherseal-people here. And they were almost human! The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—thatwas little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviouslygreater intelligence. This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when heslipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactlyalike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, thesehad no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meethim, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings. Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutesof curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent. One was a female. They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, heunderstood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. Hetried saying tent and wire and tarp as he handled each object,but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amusedhimself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He wasfairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough tocarry on a limited conversation. The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed untilKaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reachedthe river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water. <doc-sep>Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of thecommunicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,then returned and read the message on the tape: STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU. IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING. WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THEPHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURSWILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITSPRESENT ENVIRONMENT. THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVEFORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOURMIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLYINDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MOREINTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU AREBECOMING MORE LIKE THEM. DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY! SS II Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded thecommunicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts. When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in herthroat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. Theyran, still laughing, into the water. Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during thepast week was beginning to turn brown at the roots. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Kaiser is a young man who was unhappily married and decided to join space service to escape his wife and her brother. He was on the mothership, Soscites II, that was finishing its planet-mapping tour. The team put him in a scout ship and sent him to the planet he calls Big Muddy. During the landing, the scout’s bottom bent inward and flattened the fuel tube. At some point, Kaiser finds himself lost because he doesn’t remember what was happening in the last hours, only the fact that he must fix the scout during the next few weeks. He reads the message tape with the mothership and learns that he had a swollen arm, a fever, periods of blankness, and in the middle of the exchange, he started using baby-talk. Now Kaiser feels better and asks for some information on fixing the scout from the mothership’s team. Then, he walks around the scout, looks at the “octopus” testing the environment of Big Muddy, and heads toward a sluggish river and native seal-people. They are short, with the body of a seal, thick arms, and thumbless hands, and have mammalian characteristics. The man spends some time observing them and then looks at their domed buildings. Soon the mothership informs Kaiser that he has probably been invaded by a symbiote, though it is not supposed to harm him. It’s adaptable and tried to give Kaiser what he emotionally desired. Hours later, the team adds that the symbiote can accurately gauge his feelings, and he needs to test this. Kaiser makes a shallow cut - it immediately heels, his sensory perception improves, and now he can control how humidity affects him. He spends a day trying to repair the scout and then leaves for a day walking trip. He meets another group of seal-people. They seem more advanced than the first ones. Kaiser sleeps in a tent and, in the morning, swims with the natives until one of them starts playfully drowning him. He comes back to his ship and realizes that his physical strength has improved. Kaiser manages to partially fix the metal bottom and report the events of the day to the mothership. They tell him that the natives probably have the symbiote and then order him to repair the ship as soon as possible. In the morning, they repeat that he needs to leave very soon, which puzzles Kaiser. The captain sends an angry message with the order to finish repairing the scout. Kaiser goes to the river and takes the communicator with him. The natives look almost human-like now and use syllabism. A female native invites him to the river, but Kaiser hears that the communicator received a message. He walks back and reads that the team has a suspicion the symbiote can alter Kaiser’s mind. The second group of seal-people was not more advanced - he just became more like them. The man destroys the communicator and follows the girl to the river.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was— GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY By CHARLES V. DE VET Illustrated by TURPIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it? He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground. Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain? His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time? Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here. Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them: The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy. The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low. Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever. That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently. A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk.... <doc-sep>One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. Heturned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on itsbottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his lastseveral messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it outimpatiently and began reading. The first was from himself: YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUTWITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUNDA TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER. VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OFESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHERTHAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOWI REPAIR SCOUT. SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 ANHOUR AGO. SMOKY The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message timewas six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary fortwo-way exchange. DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TOKEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOUDIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THATCAME OUT WAS DATA INSUFFICIENT. TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAILALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOINGEVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK. SS II Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His reportfollowed: ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWOHOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY. SMOKY The ship's next message read: INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE USANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE. SS II His own reply perplexed Kaiser: LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES? SMOKY The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he: WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NOREASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RESPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW? SS II The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next: TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZYLETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was thelast on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently theydecided to humor him. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick. He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as thoughconvalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to hisforehead. Cool. No fever anyway. He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back atthe date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twentyhours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching thecommunicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit. SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? ANDHOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER ORBOTH. SMOKY Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and triedto sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep andwakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream. It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was backhome again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He hadrealized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not lovehim. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. Andthough it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him bypersistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and bycaring for their house only in a slovenly way. Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delightin helping his sister torment Kaiser. <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout. After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now. Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground. The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm. Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study. Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river. One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached. The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm. The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup. <doc-sep>They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and nowmost of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring andpiping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with theirlips and drew into their mouths. They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so itwas not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. Theproportion was roughly fifty-fifty. Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawinghis plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep hisbreathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaisergagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations todisplay no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't takemuch more of this. A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near andthey turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. Theentire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectorsfollowed. They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them withan easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they hadfew natural enemies. Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, andcame to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in threehaphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study theirconstruction more closely this time. They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, builtof blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. Howthey were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiserdid not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, andall apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had tohave sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons. The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in acircle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four otherswere built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers untilthe top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the nextabove. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and foundthem dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves. The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser andhe wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored andreturned to the scout. The Soscites II sent little that helped during the next twelve hoursand Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to thescout. The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in fora soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bentinward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying thefuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing. <doc-sep>Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it hadto be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheetmetal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had onhand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no wayto do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to itthe rest of the day. That evening, Kaiser received information from the Soscites II thatwas at least definite: SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'TLIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOUHAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SANDWORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM ANDWE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW! SOSCITES II Kaiser's reply was short and succinct: WHAT THE HELL? SMOKY Soscites II's next communication followed within twenty minutes andwas signed by the ship's doctor: JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GETTHIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBERTHAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPTINADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOSTCERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HADSO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTINGITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHENWE FINISH WITH SAM. J. G. ZARWELL Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, thathis mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunkand stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with verylittle clear thought, for several hours—until the next communicationcame in: WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE ANDAPPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY INEATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOUWHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED. CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: ITKEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE ANDMIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY.THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION ISTHAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVEYOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZEDTHE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM. SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BITBEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned aboutthe trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no closefriends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best inspace, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer peoplehere, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that hewould have been more contented living in a crowded city. His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew becausehe was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his workwell and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have likedhim better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that theyrespected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike. The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. Hehadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fellinstantly asleep. The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke: SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCHDISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS. FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THINLIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATIONCHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM ANDPERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM. SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTECOULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WEBELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITHYOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CANGAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUSIT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY. WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS.IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAITWORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST. SS II By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress andanxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establishbetter contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, heset to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an ideaoccurred to him. Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut inhis arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain wouldsupply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slowdrops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleedingstopped. That checked pretty well with the ship's theory. Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closinghis eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to himthat he could determine the texture of each better than before, butthe test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he triedreading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stoodout sharp and clear! Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of thesymbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfortof the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, hewaited. The result surprised and pleased him. The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moistureon his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet beenhere. As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlierreadings. <doc-sep>During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchangedmessages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked atrepairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before. He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemedto drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times hehad decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success instraightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been asubdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning thesymbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one reallyimportant problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becomingdiscouraged. At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. Hesent out a terse message to the Soscites II : TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MOREINTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE ISANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, ANDIF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURNIN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT. SMOKY Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticedthat a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river atthe native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and hewondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a gianthorseshoe. He intended to find out. Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out thedoorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness onhis shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from thefirst native settlement. He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmisehad been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in theriver, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. Thisgroup was decidedly more advanced than the first! They were little different in actual physical appearance; the changewas mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor wasmore subdued, less repugnant. By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed tounderstand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank andcalled to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. Thefirst male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously agesture of friendship. The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleanedpart of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it. The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowedthe mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given himand waited with some trepidation for a reaction. <doc-sep>As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from thenative settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would reactto the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated byhis digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly atpeace with this world. Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noiseof some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just incase. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged thebeast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds asit went. The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair ofshorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already inthe water when he arrived and were very friendly. That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowdedaround as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—andoften nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He haddifficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As heneared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle andpulled him under. Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he wasclowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held himhelpless. They sank deeper. When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream ofbubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his kneeup into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached thesurface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until hisfeet hit the river bottom. As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet andseemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, tryingto think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, butthere was none. He shrugged helplessly. There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if theyhad the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking forthem—and he packed and started back to the scout. Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyedthe relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, andnow he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against hisbare skin were pleasant to feel. When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. Thetarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to freeit. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spillingthe equipment to the ground. Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles inthe tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenlyhis eyes widened. <doc-sep>Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there. Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever. Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free! Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act. He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him. The first was quite routine: REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID. TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED. GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES. SS II The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it. SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES. SS II Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep. In the morning, another message was waiting: VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the Soscites II beexperiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If theywere, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just asuggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing ofinformation. Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.And the Soscites II would not complete its orbit of the planet fortwo weeks yet. Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown usedto wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about thevicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he wentback inside. Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from thecaptain himself: WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIRSCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER! H. A. HESSE, CAPT. Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with hisfingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from hishands with it and dropped it to the floor. He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregardingthe captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial forserious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience onlyto the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages fromthe ship on his trip. <doc-sep>The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, andwhen Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned tothe village he had visited the day before. However, there were otherseal-people here. And they were almost human! The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—thatwas little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviouslygreater intelligence. This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when heslipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactlyalike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, thesehad no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meethim, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings. Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutesof curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent. One was a female. They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, heunderstood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. Hetried saying tent and wire and tarp as he handled each object,but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amusedhimself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He wasfairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough tocarry on a limited conversation. The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed untilKaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reachedthe river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water. <doc-sep>Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of thecommunicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,then returned and read the message on the tape: STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU. IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING. WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THEPHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURSWILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITSPRESENT ENVIRONMENT. THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVEFORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOURMIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLYINDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MOREINTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU AREBECOMING MORE LIKE THEM. DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY! SS II Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded thecommunicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts. When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in herthroat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. Theyran, still laughing, into the water. Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during thepast week was beginning to turn brown at the roots. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

Kaiser left Earth on a mothership Soscites II, that soon, finishing its planet-mapping tour, approached a planet that the man named Big Muddy. He left the spacecraft in a small scout ship - which had a pilot chair, a communicator, and a bunk - and landed on the muddy surface. The other seven scouts got lost during the previous exploration of new worlds. It is wet, humid, and warm on Big muddy, constantly raining with different intensity. There is a wide sluggish river, which has the shape of a horseshoe, two hundred yards away from the scout and also a chain of hills. Farther, along the stream, there is a group of several hundred domed dwellings, built of mud blocks, packed with river weed and sand. Another group of seal-people lives near the riverbank in the opposite direction of Kaiser's first observational walk.

What is the importance of the seal-people in the story? [SEP] <s> Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was— GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY By CHARLES V. DE VET Illustrated by TURPIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it? He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground. Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain? His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time? Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here. Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them: The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy. The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low. Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever. That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently. A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk.... <doc-sep>One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. Heturned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on itsbottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his lastseveral messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it outimpatiently and began reading. The first was from himself: YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUTWITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUNDA TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER. VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OFESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHERTHAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOWI REPAIR SCOUT. SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 ANHOUR AGO. SMOKY The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message timewas six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary fortwo-way exchange. DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TOKEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOUDIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THATCAME OUT WAS DATA INSUFFICIENT. TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAILALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOINGEVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK. SS II Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His reportfollowed: ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWOHOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY. SMOKY The ship's next message read: INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE USANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE. SS II His own reply perplexed Kaiser: LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES? SMOKY The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he: WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NOREASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RESPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW? SS II The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next: TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZYLETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was thelast on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently theydecided to humor him. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick. He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as thoughconvalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to hisforehead. Cool. No fever anyway. He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back atthe date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twentyhours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching thecommunicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit. SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? ANDHOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER ORBOTH. SMOKY Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and triedto sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep andwakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream. It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was backhome again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He hadrealized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not lovehim. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. Andthough it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him bypersistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and bycaring for their house only in a slovenly way. Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delightin helping his sister torment Kaiser. <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout. After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now. Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground. The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm. Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study. Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river. One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached. The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm. The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup. <doc-sep>They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and nowmost of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring andpiping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with theirlips and drew into their mouths. They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so itwas not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. Theproportion was roughly fifty-fifty. Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawinghis plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep hisbreathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaisergagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations todisplay no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't takemuch more of this. A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near andthey turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. Theentire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectorsfollowed. They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them withan easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they hadfew natural enemies. Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, andcame to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in threehaphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study theirconstruction more closely this time. They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, builtof blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. Howthey were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiserdid not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, andall apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had tohave sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons. The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in acircle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four otherswere built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers untilthe top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the nextabove. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and foundthem dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves. The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser andhe wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored andreturned to the scout. The Soscites II sent little that helped during the next twelve hoursand Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to thescout. The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in fora soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bentinward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying thefuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing. <doc-sep>Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it hadto be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheetmetal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had onhand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no wayto do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to itthe rest of the day. That evening, Kaiser received information from the Soscites II thatwas at least definite: SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'TLIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOUHAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SANDWORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM ANDWE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW! SOSCITES II Kaiser's reply was short and succinct: WHAT THE HELL? SMOKY Soscites II's next communication followed within twenty minutes andwas signed by the ship's doctor: JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GETTHIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBERTHAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPTINADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOSTCERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HADSO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTINGITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHENWE FINISH WITH SAM. J. G. ZARWELL Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, thathis mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunkand stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with verylittle clear thought, for several hours—until the next communicationcame in: WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE ANDAPPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY INEATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOUWHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED. CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: ITKEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE ANDMIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY.THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION ISTHAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVEYOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZEDTHE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM. SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BITBEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned aboutthe trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no closefriends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best inspace, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer peoplehere, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that hewould have been more contented living in a crowded city. His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew becausehe was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his workwell and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have likedhim better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that theyrespected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike. The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. Hehadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fellinstantly asleep. The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke: SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCHDISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS. FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THINLIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATIONCHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM ANDPERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM. SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTECOULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WEBELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITHYOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CANGAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUSIT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY. WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS.IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAITWORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST. SS II By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress andanxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establishbetter contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, heset to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an ideaoccurred to him. Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut inhis arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain wouldsupply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slowdrops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleedingstopped. That checked pretty well with the ship's theory. Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closinghis eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to himthat he could determine the texture of each better than before, butthe test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he triedreading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stoodout sharp and clear! Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of thesymbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfortof the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, hewaited. The result surprised and pleased him. The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moistureon his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet beenhere. As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlierreadings. <doc-sep>During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchangedmessages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked atrepairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before. He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemedto drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times hehad decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success instraightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been asubdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning thesymbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one reallyimportant problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becomingdiscouraged. At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. Hesent out a terse message to the Soscites II : TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MOREINTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE ISANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, ANDIF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURNIN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT. SMOKY Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticedthat a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river atthe native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and hewondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a gianthorseshoe. He intended to find out. Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out thedoorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness onhis shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from thefirst native settlement. He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmisehad been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in theriver, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. Thisgroup was decidedly more advanced than the first! They were little different in actual physical appearance; the changewas mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor wasmore subdued, less repugnant. By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed tounderstand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank andcalled to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. Thefirst male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously agesture of friendship. The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleanedpart of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it. The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowedthe mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given himand waited with some trepidation for a reaction. <doc-sep>As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from thenative settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would reactto the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated byhis digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly atpeace with this world. Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noiseof some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just incase. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged thebeast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds asit went. The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair ofshorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already inthe water when he arrived and were very friendly. That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowdedaround as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—andoften nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He haddifficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As heneared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle andpulled him under. Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he wasclowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held himhelpless. They sank deeper. When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream ofbubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his kneeup into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached thesurface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until hisfeet hit the river bottom. As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet andseemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, tryingto think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, butthere was none. He shrugged helplessly. There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if theyhad the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking forthem—and he packed and started back to the scout. Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyedthe relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, andnow he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against hisbare skin were pleasant to feel. When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. Thetarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to freeit. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spillingthe equipment to the ground. Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles inthe tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenlyhis eyes widened. <doc-sep>Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there. Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever. Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free! Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act. He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him. The first was quite routine: REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID. TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED. GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES. SS II The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it. SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES. SS II Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep. In the morning, another message was waiting: VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the Soscites II beexperiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If theywere, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just asuggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing ofinformation. Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.And the Soscites II would not complete its orbit of the planet fortwo weeks yet. Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown usedto wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about thevicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he wentback inside. Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from thecaptain himself: WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIRSCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER! H. A. HESSE, CAPT. Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with hisfingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from hishands with it and dropped it to the floor. He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregardingthe captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial forserious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience onlyto the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages fromthe ship on his trip. <doc-sep>The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, andwhen Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned tothe village he had visited the day before. However, there were otherseal-people here. And they were almost human! The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—thatwas little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviouslygreater intelligence. This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when heslipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactlyalike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, thesehad no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meethim, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings. Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutesof curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent. One was a female. They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, heunderstood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. Hetried saying tent and wire and tarp as he handled each object,but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amusedhimself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He wasfairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough tocarry on a limited conversation. The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed untilKaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reachedthe river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water. <doc-sep>Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of thecommunicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,then returned and read the message on the tape: STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU. IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING. WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THEPHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURSWILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITSPRESENT ENVIRONMENT. THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVEFORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOURMIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLYINDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MOREINTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU AREBECOMING MORE LIKE THEM. DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY! SS II Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded thecommunicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts. When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in herthroat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. Theyran, still laughing, into the water. Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during thepast week was beginning to turn brown at the roots. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the importance of the seal-people in the story?

Kaiser’s perception of the native groups of seal-people represents how his body is affected by the symbiote that has invaded his system. The first time the man sees them, he considers them mindless repulsive creatures with an unbearable odor and no proper communication system. The second meeting changes his opinion about them - now they seem more advanced in their demeanor and actions, friendlier, and their smell is less repugnant. This change in perception shows that Kaiser has already started changing, becoming more like them. The last meeting with the seal-people makes the man believe that they have more individualistic characteristics. They don’t have the bad odor anymore, just a pleasant scent. They use distinct syllabism, and, finally, living with them and swimming in the river seems more appealing to him than going back to the Soscites II. These seal-people have the same symbiote, which has altered their appearance and mind. At the end, Kaiser practically becomes one of them.

What is the importance of the communication device in the story? [SEP] <s> Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was— GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY By CHARLES V. DE VET Illustrated by TURPIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it? He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground. Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain? His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time? Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here. Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them: The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy. The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low. Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever. That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently. A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk.... <doc-sep>One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. Heturned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on itsbottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his lastseveral messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it outimpatiently and began reading. The first was from himself: YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUTWITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUNDA TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER. VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OFESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHERTHAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOWI REPAIR SCOUT. SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 ANHOUR AGO. SMOKY The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message timewas six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary fortwo-way exchange. DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TOKEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOUDIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THATCAME OUT WAS DATA INSUFFICIENT. TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAILALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOINGEVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK. SS II Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His reportfollowed: ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWOHOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY. SMOKY The ship's next message read: INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE USANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE. SS II His own reply perplexed Kaiser: LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES? SMOKY The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he: WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NOREASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RESPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW? SS II The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next: TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZYLETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was thelast on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently theydecided to humor him. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick. He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as thoughconvalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to hisforehead. Cool. No fever anyway. He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back atthe date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twentyhours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching thecommunicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit. SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? ANDHOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER ORBOTH. SMOKY Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and triedto sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep andwakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream. It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was backhome again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He hadrealized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not lovehim. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. Andthough it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him bypersistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and bycaring for their house only in a slovenly way. Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delightin helping his sister torment Kaiser. <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout. After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now. Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground. The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm. Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study. Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river. One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached. The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm. The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup. <doc-sep>They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and nowmost of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring andpiping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with theirlips and drew into their mouths. They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so itwas not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. Theproportion was roughly fifty-fifty. Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawinghis plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep hisbreathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaisergagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations todisplay no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't takemuch more of this. A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near andthey turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. Theentire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectorsfollowed. They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them withan easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they hadfew natural enemies. Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, andcame to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in threehaphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study theirconstruction more closely this time. They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, builtof blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. Howthey were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiserdid not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, andall apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had tohave sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons. The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in acircle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four otherswere built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers untilthe top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the nextabove. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and foundthem dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves. The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser andhe wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored andreturned to the scout. The Soscites II sent little that helped during the next twelve hoursand Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to thescout. The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in fora soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bentinward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying thefuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing. <doc-sep>Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it hadto be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheetmetal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had onhand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no wayto do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to itthe rest of the day. That evening, Kaiser received information from the Soscites II thatwas at least definite: SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'TLIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOUHAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SANDWORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM ANDWE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW! SOSCITES II Kaiser's reply was short and succinct: WHAT THE HELL? SMOKY Soscites II's next communication followed within twenty minutes andwas signed by the ship's doctor: JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GETTHIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBERTHAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPTINADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOSTCERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HADSO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTINGITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHENWE FINISH WITH SAM. J. G. ZARWELL Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, thathis mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunkand stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with verylittle clear thought, for several hours—until the next communicationcame in: WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE ANDAPPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY INEATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOUWHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED. CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: ITKEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE ANDMIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY.THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION ISTHAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVEYOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZEDTHE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM. SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BITBEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned aboutthe trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no closefriends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best inspace, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer peoplehere, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that hewould have been more contented living in a crowded city. His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew becausehe was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his workwell and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have likedhim better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that theyrespected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike. The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. Hehadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fellinstantly asleep. The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke: SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCHDISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS. FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THINLIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATIONCHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM ANDPERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM. SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTECOULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WEBELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITHYOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CANGAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUSIT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY. WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS.IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAITWORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST. SS II By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress andanxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establishbetter contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, heset to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an ideaoccurred to him. Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut inhis arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain wouldsupply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slowdrops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleedingstopped. That checked pretty well with the ship's theory. Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closinghis eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to himthat he could determine the texture of each better than before, butthe test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he triedreading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stoodout sharp and clear! Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of thesymbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfortof the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, hewaited. The result surprised and pleased him. The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moistureon his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet beenhere. As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlierreadings. <doc-sep>During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchangedmessages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked atrepairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before. He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemedto drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times hehad decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success instraightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been asubdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning thesymbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one reallyimportant problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becomingdiscouraged. At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. Hesent out a terse message to the Soscites II : TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MOREINTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE ISANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, ANDIF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURNIN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT. SMOKY Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticedthat a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river atthe native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and hewondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a gianthorseshoe. He intended to find out. Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out thedoorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness onhis shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from thefirst native settlement. He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmisehad been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in theriver, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. Thisgroup was decidedly more advanced than the first! They were little different in actual physical appearance; the changewas mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor wasmore subdued, less repugnant. By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed tounderstand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank andcalled to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. Thefirst male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously agesture of friendship. The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleanedpart of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it. The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowedthe mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given himand waited with some trepidation for a reaction. <doc-sep>As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from thenative settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would reactto the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated byhis digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly atpeace with this world. Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noiseof some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just incase. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged thebeast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds asit went. The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair ofshorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already inthe water when he arrived and were very friendly. That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowdedaround as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—andoften nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He haddifficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As heneared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle andpulled him under. Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he wasclowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held himhelpless. They sank deeper. When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream ofbubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his kneeup into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached thesurface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until hisfeet hit the river bottom. As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet andseemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, tryingto think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, butthere was none. He shrugged helplessly. There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if theyhad the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking forthem—and he packed and started back to the scout. Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyedthe relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, andnow he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against hisbare skin were pleasant to feel. When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. Thetarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to freeit. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spillingthe equipment to the ground. Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles inthe tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenlyhis eyes widened. <doc-sep>Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there. Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever. Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free! Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act. He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him. The first was quite routine: REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID. TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED. GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES. SS II The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it. SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES. SS II Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep. In the morning, another message was waiting: VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the Soscites II beexperiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If theywere, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just asuggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing ofinformation. Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.And the Soscites II would not complete its orbit of the planet fortwo weeks yet. Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown usedto wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about thevicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he wentback inside. Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from thecaptain himself: WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIRSCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER! H. A. HESSE, CAPT. Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with hisfingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from hishands with it and dropped it to the floor. He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregardingthe captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial forserious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience onlyto the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages fromthe ship on his trip. <doc-sep>The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, andwhen Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned tothe village he had visited the day before. However, there were otherseal-people here. And they were almost human! The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—thatwas little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviouslygreater intelligence. This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when heslipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactlyalike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, thesehad no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meethim, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings. Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutesof curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent. One was a female. They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, heunderstood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. Hetried saying tent and wire and tarp as he handled each object,but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amusedhimself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He wasfairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough tocarry on a limited conversation. The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed untilKaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reachedthe river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water. <doc-sep>Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of thecommunicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,then returned and read the message on the tape: STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU. IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING. WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THEPHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURSWILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITSPRESENT ENVIRONMENT. THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVEFORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOURMIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLYINDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MOREINTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU AREBECOMING MORE LIKE THEM. DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY! SS II Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded thecommunicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts. When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in herthroat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. Theyran, still laughing, into the water. Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during thepast week was beginning to turn brown at the roots. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the importance of the communication device in the story?

The communicator allows Kaiser to receive messages from the mothership and its team. It’s the only mechanism that connects him to other intelligent human beings. Throughout the story, these messages help him understand why he had a fever, swelling, a brief period of blankness, and why he used baby-talk. Using the communication device, the mothership’s team and scientists explain to Kaiser what kind of symbiote lives in his body and how it can gauge his emotional reactions and adapt to various environmental and mental triggers. They manage to ask Keiser to test their theory and later inform him of their findings regarding the planet's climate. They use the tape to order Kaiser to return as soon as possible and finally tell him that the symbiote is probably changing his mind and turning him into someone equal in intelligence to the seal-people.

What is the importance of the baby talk in the story? [SEP] <s> Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was— GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY By CHARLES V. DE VET Illustrated by TURPIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it? He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground. Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain? His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time? Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here. Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them: The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy. The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low. Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever. That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently. A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk.... <doc-sep>One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. Heturned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on itsbottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his lastseveral messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it outimpatiently and began reading. The first was from himself: YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUTWITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUNDA TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER. VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OFESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHERTHAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOWI REPAIR SCOUT. SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 ANHOUR AGO. SMOKY The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message timewas six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary fortwo-way exchange. DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TOKEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOUDIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THATCAME OUT WAS DATA INSUFFICIENT. TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAILALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOINGEVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK. SS II Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His reportfollowed: ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWOHOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY. SMOKY The ship's next message read: INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE USANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE. SS II His own reply perplexed Kaiser: LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES? SMOKY The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he: WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NOREASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RESPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW? SS II The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next: TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZYLETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was thelast on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently theydecided to humor him. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick. He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as thoughconvalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to hisforehead. Cool. No fever anyway. He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back atthe date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twentyhours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching thecommunicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit. SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? ANDHOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER ORBOTH. SMOKY Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and triedto sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep andwakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream. It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was backhome again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He hadrealized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not lovehim. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. Andthough it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him bypersistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and bycaring for their house only in a slovenly way. Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delightin helping his sister torment Kaiser. <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout. After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now. Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground. The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm. Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study. Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river. One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached. The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm. The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup. <doc-sep>They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and nowmost of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring andpiping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with theirlips and drew into their mouths. They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so itwas not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. Theproportion was roughly fifty-fifty. Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawinghis plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep hisbreathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaisergagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations todisplay no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't takemuch more of this. A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near andthey turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. Theentire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectorsfollowed. They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them withan easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they hadfew natural enemies. Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, andcame to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in threehaphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study theirconstruction more closely this time. They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, builtof blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. Howthey were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiserdid not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, andall apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had tohave sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons. The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in acircle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four otherswere built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers untilthe top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the nextabove. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and foundthem dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves. The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser andhe wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored andreturned to the scout. The Soscites II sent little that helped during the next twelve hoursand Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to thescout. The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in fora soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bentinward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying thefuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing. <doc-sep>Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it hadto be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheetmetal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had onhand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no wayto do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to itthe rest of the day. That evening, Kaiser received information from the Soscites II thatwas at least definite: SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'TLIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOUHAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SANDWORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM ANDWE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW! SOSCITES II Kaiser's reply was short and succinct: WHAT THE HELL? SMOKY Soscites II's next communication followed within twenty minutes andwas signed by the ship's doctor: JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GETTHIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBERTHAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPTINADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOSTCERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HADSO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTINGITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHENWE FINISH WITH SAM. J. G. ZARWELL Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, thathis mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunkand stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with verylittle clear thought, for several hours—until the next communicationcame in: WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE ANDAPPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY INEATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOUWHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED. CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: ITKEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE ANDMIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY.THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION ISTHAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVEYOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZEDTHE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM. SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BITBEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned aboutthe trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no closefriends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best inspace, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer peoplehere, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that hewould have been more contented living in a crowded city. His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew becausehe was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his workwell and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have likedhim better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that theyrespected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike. The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. Hehadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fellinstantly asleep. The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke: SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCHDISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS. FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THINLIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATIONCHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM ANDPERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM. SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTECOULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WEBELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITHYOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CANGAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUSIT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY. WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS.IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAITWORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST. SS II By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress andanxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establishbetter contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, heset to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an ideaoccurred to him. Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut inhis arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain wouldsupply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slowdrops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleedingstopped. That checked pretty well with the ship's theory. Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closinghis eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to himthat he could determine the texture of each better than before, butthe test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he triedreading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stoodout sharp and clear! Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of thesymbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfortof the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, hewaited. The result surprised and pleased him. The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moistureon his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet beenhere. As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlierreadings. <doc-sep>During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchangedmessages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked atrepairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before. He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemedto drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times hehad decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success instraightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been asubdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning thesymbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one reallyimportant problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becomingdiscouraged. At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. Hesent out a terse message to the Soscites II : TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MOREINTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE ISANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, ANDIF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURNIN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT. SMOKY Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticedthat a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river atthe native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and hewondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a gianthorseshoe. He intended to find out. Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out thedoorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness onhis shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from thefirst native settlement. He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmisehad been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in theriver, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. Thisgroup was decidedly more advanced than the first! They were little different in actual physical appearance; the changewas mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor wasmore subdued, less repugnant. By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed tounderstand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank andcalled to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. Thefirst male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously agesture of friendship. The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleanedpart of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it. The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowedthe mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given himand waited with some trepidation for a reaction. <doc-sep>As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from thenative settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would reactto the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated byhis digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly atpeace with this world. Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noiseof some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just incase. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged thebeast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds asit went. The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair ofshorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already inthe water when he arrived and were very friendly. That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowdedaround as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—andoften nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He haddifficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As heneared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle andpulled him under. Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he wasclowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held himhelpless. They sank deeper. When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream ofbubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his kneeup into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached thesurface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until hisfeet hit the river bottom. As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet andseemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, tryingto think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, butthere was none. He shrugged helplessly. There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if theyhad the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking forthem—and he packed and started back to the scout. Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyedthe relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, andnow he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against hisbare skin were pleasant to feel. When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. Thetarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to freeit. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spillingthe equipment to the ground. Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles inthe tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenlyhis eyes widened. <doc-sep>Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there. Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever. Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free! Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act. He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him. The first was quite routine: REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID. TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED. GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES. SS II The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it. SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES. SS II Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep. In the morning, another message was waiting: VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the Soscites II beexperiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If theywere, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just asuggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing ofinformation. Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.And the Soscites II would not complete its orbit of the planet fortwo weeks yet. Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown usedto wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about thevicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he wentback inside. Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from thecaptain himself: WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIRSCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER! H. A. HESSE, CAPT. Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with hisfingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from hishands with it and dropped it to the floor. He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregardingthe captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial forserious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience onlyto the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages fromthe ship on his trip. <doc-sep>The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, andwhen Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned tothe village he had visited the day before. However, there were otherseal-people here. And they were almost human! The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—thatwas little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviouslygreater intelligence. This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when heslipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactlyalike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, thesehad no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meethim, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings. Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutesof curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent. One was a female. They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, heunderstood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. Hetried saying tent and wire and tarp as he handled each object,but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amusedhimself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He wasfairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough tocarry on a limited conversation. The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed untilKaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reachedthe river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water. <doc-sep>Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of thecommunicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,then returned and read the message on the tape: STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU. IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING. WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THEPHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURSWILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITSPRESENT ENVIRONMENT. THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVEFORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOURMIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLYINDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MOREINTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU AREBECOMING MORE LIKE THEM. DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY! SS II Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded thecommunicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts. When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in herthroat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. Theyran, still laughing, into the water. Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during thepast week was beginning to turn brown at the roots. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the importance of the baby talk in the story?

The fact that Kaiser at some point uses baby-talk helps Sam and other members of the Soscites II team determine what exactly caused Kaiser’s symptoms and how it can analyze his emotions and use them to give his body what it needs. The main reason why the man uses baby-talk seems to be that he was most happy in his childhood which also underscores his alienation from people, that he is a loner. Kaiser went to space to run away from his wife and her brother, his colleagues respect him but do not like him, and none of them is Kaiser’s friend. He’s naturally unsociable and was happier when he was a kid.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> THE EXPENDABLES BY JIM HARMON It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] You see my problem, Professor? Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured,flashily ringed hands wide. I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing. Really, Mr. Carmen, I said, this isn't the sort of thing you discusswith a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or alawyer. They can't help me. I need an operator in your line. I work for the United States government. I can't become involved inanything illegal. Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit andtouched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. You can't, ProfessorVenetti? Ever hear of the Mafia? I've heard of it, I said uneasily. An old fraternal organizationsomething like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. Itallegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is aresponsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stampingout. We don't even like to see the word in print. I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guyslike me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze onmarks like you pretty easy. You don't have to tell even a third generation American about theMafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for toolong. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false,built up an unendurable threat. All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn'tkill any of these people? He snorted. I haven't killed anybody since early 1943. Please, I said weakly. You needn't incriminate yourself with me. I was in the Marines, Carmen said hotly. Listen, Professor, thesearen't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit thesedays. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my clubhaven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbumswith too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vetsgoing to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno juststows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose myliquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury. I don't suppose you could just go to the police— I saw the answer inhis eyes. No. I don't suppose you could. I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get ridof these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em andthrow them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped enroute by some tipped badge? Quicklime? I suggested automatically. What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind ofscientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifiesthem like.... I forgot, I admitted. I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgottenit wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there'salways traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... Aninteresting problem, at that. I figured you could handle it, Carmen said, leaning back comfortablyin the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. I heard you wereworking on something to get rid of trash for the government. That, I told him, is restricted information. I subcontracted thatwork from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out? Ways, Professor, ways. The government did want me to find a way to dispose ofwastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem anycountry could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now asmall-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help himdispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But theshadow of the Black Hand cooled it off. Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you, Isaid. I'll call you. Don't take too long, Professor, Carmen said cordially. <doc-sep>The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as aneutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it. The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert orin the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors orchanges of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks.The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoningfish and fishermen. Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on theproblem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralizeradioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, etcetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this iseasier written than done. Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy ormatter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. ButI didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocityof light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engagedto work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you handand foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honorsuch time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratoryowned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead ofworking in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. Tothis, I can only smile and nod. But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed. I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by abasic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant systemfor Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter. This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminatedwater. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it wasno breakthrough on the central problem. Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid ofsome damned bodies for Carmen. Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be soprecise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United Statesgovernment, I began experimenting. I cut corners. I bypassed complete safety circuits. I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with thewiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would behappy. I turned the machine on. The lights popped out. There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, butinstead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed thatin the switchbox. I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered andheld. The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take. But there it was. The internal Scale showed zero. I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completelygone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had beenno change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by themechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no suddendischarge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standardanti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder hadgone to zero but never to minus. I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfullyinverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ...by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect sideeffects. I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explainhow my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could everconvince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work. But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassinghow when he was incapable of understanding the explanation. <doc-sep>Yeah, but how does it work? Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking hismirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum. Why do you care? I asked irritably. It will dispose of your bodiesfor you. I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to thatjust for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them windingup in the D.A.'s bathtub. Why not? How could they trace them back to you? You're the scientist, Tony said hotly. I got great respect for thosecrime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talcon it, I don't know. Listen here, Carmen, I said, what makes you think these bodies aregoing somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator. Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can itburn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em upor crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearingcabinets before. Mafia or not, I saw red. Are you daring to suggest that I am workingsome trick with trap doors or sliding panels? Easy, Professor, Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with onepalm. I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just thatyou have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well,everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping thingsthrough. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable? Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctivefeel for the mechanics of physics. I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen, I finally admitted. Itmight go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' thewriters for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, orour future. The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapidcalculation. I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into thefuture. If they do that, they may show up again in six months. Or six million years. You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor. I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I hadheard about the Mafia were getting more distant. See here, Carmen, Icould lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and youwould never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't knowwhere the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go intothe future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly somany years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth willhave moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure.Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wrecka perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatchedmaterials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You willjust have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do. Carmen inhaled deeply. Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds againstany squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out,Professor? I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy theunwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to youwith the regularity of the morning milk run. The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. I'm talking about a bigoperation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators,garbage disposals, waste baskets.... Impractical, I snorted. You don't realize the tremendous amount ofelectrical power these devices require.... Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takesa lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its owngenerators. <doc-sep>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine. Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia— What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically. Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial. Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man— You are ? I said. He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock. You are . I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything. I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine. Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days? There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said. You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one. Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach. Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably.... Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it. There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them. I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work. Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it. Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of. <doc-sep>The closed sedan was warm, even in early December. Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered? Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street. The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme. What? The firing squad? The Expendable, of course. Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it. He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined. A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight. Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder. I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears. The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated. Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem. Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit.... You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy. That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped. Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred. One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished. What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine. Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved. Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area. You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics. No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works. You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen? Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories . My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld. I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it. What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now? This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat. Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's murder . Not, Carmen said, without no corpus delecti . The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training. You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember, you did it with your machine. Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there? <doc-sep>There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning. One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.) The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray. This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks. If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles. I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang. I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door. He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor. The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully. He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the Times . I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants. The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe. Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables? Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too. Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know? I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock. This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health. But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse? The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it. There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell. That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them? I knew what to tell them. <doc-sep>I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk,casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. Itwasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported thereservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or twobefore I could get the gas type into my office. Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bonychest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Ofcourse, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, notshorts and halters like some of the girls. My, she observed it certainly is humid for March, isn't it,Professor Venetti? I agreed that it was. She got her pad and pencil ready. Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royaltiesfor the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full threemonths with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but wewant the payola for what we have coming. Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely donot send the California penal system any chambers equipped with ourpatented field until legislature officially approves them. We got awaywith it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now. Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time inthe next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy systemworking out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams. Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly aco-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances havealways been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you puta more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferiordoors you have covering our efficient, patented field. I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—Ijust wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being onlya figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but TonyCarmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted anymore than me. Even. I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll Ihad stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, Ismoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down thetapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field.I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one.But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him. I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser,reflecting her fierce alertness. Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth. G-men on the way here, he blurted and collapsed into a chair oppositeMiss Brown. Don't revert to type, I warned him. What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC?CIA? FDA? USTD? Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission. The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched theedge of his snap-brim hat as he said it. Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair? Iasked. Not at all, sir, she said dreamily. May I suggest, I said, that we might get more business done if youthen removed yourself from the chair first. Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quitthe vicinity with her usual efficiency. <doc-sep>Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation. You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia? Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back. I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step? The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is? I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more. The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly. I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables? At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame. Clever of them. Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually— He paused dramatically. Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed! I agree, I said reluctantly. Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat. I waved his protests aside. I would agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously. Why? the young man demanded. Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell. Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned? No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design. But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom. Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential. <doc-sep>The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined. While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom. Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve. Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere? Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge. There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal. Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said. Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension? Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded. But too late. There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal. If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space. As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit. I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention. This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable. I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all. If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

A racketeer, Tony Carmen, comes to Professor Venetti, demanding him figure out how to get rid of the corpse in his house without leaving any traces by using the information Professor Venetti has in his job for the U.S. government that is related to the disposal problem of nuclear waste. Tony threatens Professor Venetti that if Professor Venetti does not abide by what he says, his connection with Mafia will cause Professor Venetti a lot of trouble. Afraid of what the Mafia may do, Professor Venetti finally accepts his request. However, professor Venetti does not abide by the safety and careful principles when he invents the machine, which is named Expendable late after by Tony. He does not know how the machine works either; he creates a device that can turn physical mass into nothingness without knowing where the disposed of mass or energy goes. When he gives the machine to Tony, Tony asks how the machine works, but Professor Venetti cannot explain. Later on, Tony sets up the device on the street, ordering Professor Venetti to turn on the machine, which is modified by a boy who used to be a mechanic, and Professor Venetti does. The machine destroys a warehouse, including the people inside. Professor Venetti condemns Tony for committing a crime, but Tony does not care as there is no corpse to prove the crime. Tony persuades Professor Venetti to put the Expendables into business. He leaks the information about the machine through newspapers to attract big corporations to come for them. As they make more profits from the product and go through all the business matters, an agent from Atomic Energy Commission comes. The agent informs them about the ban of their products because there is a research finding that the side effect of their product is the heat transformed from the mass, which results in the rising temperature. Professor Venetti believes that people would not stop using the products even if they knew what environmental damage they would cause. He creates a reverse version of the machine, called Disexpendable, which would consume the excess energy produced by the Expendables. After he completes it, he turns it on. As the Disexpendable operates, the temperature gets colder, and the corpse, once decomposed, appears in the room in front of the agent. At the same time, Tony orders Professor Venetti to turn off the machine.

Who is Tony Carmen and what happens to him in the story? [SEP] <s> THE EXPENDABLES BY JIM HARMON It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] You see my problem, Professor? Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured,flashily ringed hands wide. I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing. Really, Mr. Carmen, I said, this isn't the sort of thing you discusswith a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or alawyer. They can't help me. I need an operator in your line. I work for the United States government. I can't become involved inanything illegal. Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit andtouched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. You can't, ProfessorVenetti? Ever hear of the Mafia? I've heard of it, I said uneasily. An old fraternal organizationsomething like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. Itallegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is aresponsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stampingout. We don't even like to see the word in print. I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guyslike me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze onmarks like you pretty easy. You don't have to tell even a third generation American about theMafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for toolong. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false,built up an unendurable threat. All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn'tkill any of these people? He snorted. I haven't killed anybody since early 1943. Please, I said weakly. You needn't incriminate yourself with me. I was in the Marines, Carmen said hotly. Listen, Professor, thesearen't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit thesedays. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my clubhaven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbumswith too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vetsgoing to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno juststows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose myliquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury. I don't suppose you could just go to the police— I saw the answer inhis eyes. No. I don't suppose you could. I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get ridof these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em andthrow them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped enroute by some tipped badge? Quicklime? I suggested automatically. What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind ofscientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifiesthem like.... I forgot, I admitted. I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgottenit wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there'salways traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... Aninteresting problem, at that. I figured you could handle it, Carmen said, leaning back comfortablyin the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. I heard you wereworking on something to get rid of trash for the government. That, I told him, is restricted information. I subcontracted thatwork from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out? Ways, Professor, ways. The government did want me to find a way to dispose ofwastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem anycountry could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now asmall-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help himdispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But theshadow of the Black Hand cooled it off. Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you, Isaid. I'll call you. Don't take too long, Professor, Carmen said cordially. <doc-sep>The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as aneutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it. The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert orin the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors orchanges of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks.The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoningfish and fishermen. Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on theproblem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralizeradioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, etcetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this iseasier written than done. Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy ormatter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. ButI didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocityof light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engagedto work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you handand foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honorsuch time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratoryowned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead ofworking in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. Tothis, I can only smile and nod. But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed. I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by abasic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant systemfor Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter. This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminatedwater. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it wasno breakthrough on the central problem. Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid ofsome damned bodies for Carmen. Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be soprecise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United Statesgovernment, I began experimenting. I cut corners. I bypassed complete safety circuits. I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with thewiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would behappy. I turned the machine on. The lights popped out. There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, butinstead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed thatin the switchbox. I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered andheld. The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take. But there it was. The internal Scale showed zero. I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completelygone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had beenno change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by themechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no suddendischarge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standardanti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder hadgone to zero but never to minus. I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfullyinverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ...by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect sideeffects. I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explainhow my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could everconvince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work. But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassinghow when he was incapable of understanding the explanation. <doc-sep>Yeah, but how does it work? Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking hismirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum. Why do you care? I asked irritably. It will dispose of your bodiesfor you. I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to thatjust for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them windingup in the D.A.'s bathtub. Why not? How could they trace them back to you? You're the scientist, Tony said hotly. I got great respect for thosecrime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talcon it, I don't know. Listen here, Carmen, I said, what makes you think these bodies aregoing somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator. Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can itburn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em upor crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearingcabinets before. Mafia or not, I saw red. Are you daring to suggest that I am workingsome trick with trap doors or sliding panels? Easy, Professor, Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with onepalm. I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just thatyou have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well,everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping thingsthrough. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable? Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctivefeel for the mechanics of physics. I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen, I finally admitted. Itmight go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' thewriters for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, orour future. The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapidcalculation. I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into thefuture. If they do that, they may show up again in six months. Or six million years. You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor. I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I hadheard about the Mafia were getting more distant. See here, Carmen, Icould lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and youwould never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't knowwhere the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go intothe future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly somany years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth willhave moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure.Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wrecka perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatchedmaterials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You willjust have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do. Carmen inhaled deeply. Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds againstany squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out,Professor? I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy theunwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to youwith the regularity of the morning milk run. The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. I'm talking about a bigoperation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators,garbage disposals, waste baskets.... Impractical, I snorted. You don't realize the tremendous amount ofelectrical power these devices require.... Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takesa lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its owngenerators. <doc-sep>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine. Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia— What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically. Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial. Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man— You are ? I said. He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock. You are . I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything. I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine. Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days? There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said. You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one. Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach. Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably.... Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it. There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them. I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work. Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it. Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of. <doc-sep>The closed sedan was warm, even in early December. Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered? Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street. The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme. What? The firing squad? The Expendable, of course. Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it. He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined. A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight. Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder. I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears. The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated. Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem. Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit.... You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy. That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped. Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred. One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished. What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine. Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved. Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area. You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics. No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works. You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen? Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories . My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld. I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it. What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now? This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat. Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's murder . Not, Carmen said, without no corpus delecti . The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training. You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember, you did it with your machine. Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there? <doc-sep>There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning. One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.) The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray. This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks. If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles. I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang. I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door. He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor. The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully. He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the Times . I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants. The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe. Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables? Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too. Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know? I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock. This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health. But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse? The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it. There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell. That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them? I knew what to tell them. <doc-sep>I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk,casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. Itwasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported thereservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or twobefore I could get the gas type into my office. Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bonychest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Ofcourse, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, notshorts and halters like some of the girls. My, she observed it certainly is humid for March, isn't it,Professor Venetti? I agreed that it was. She got her pad and pencil ready. Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royaltiesfor the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full threemonths with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but wewant the payola for what we have coming. Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely donot send the California penal system any chambers equipped with ourpatented field until legislature officially approves them. We got awaywith it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now. Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time inthe next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy systemworking out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams. Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly aco-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances havealways been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you puta more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferiordoors you have covering our efficient, patented field. I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—Ijust wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being onlya figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but TonyCarmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted anymore than me. Even. I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll Ihad stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, Ismoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down thetapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field.I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one.But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him. I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser,reflecting her fierce alertness. Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth. G-men on the way here, he blurted and collapsed into a chair oppositeMiss Brown. Don't revert to type, I warned him. What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC?CIA? FDA? USTD? Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission. The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched theedge of his snap-brim hat as he said it. Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair? Iasked. Not at all, sir, she said dreamily. May I suggest, I said, that we might get more business done if youthen removed yourself from the chair first. Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quitthe vicinity with her usual efficiency. <doc-sep>Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation. You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia? Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back. I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step? The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is? I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more. The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly. I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables? At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame. Clever of them. Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually— He paused dramatically. Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed! I agree, I said reluctantly. Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat. I waved his protests aside. I would agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously. Why? the young man demanded. Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell. Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned? No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design. But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom. Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential. <doc-sep>The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined. While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom. Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve. Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere? Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge. There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal. Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said. Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension? Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded. But too late. There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal. If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space. As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit. I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention. This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable. I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all. If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Tony Carmen and what happens to him in the story?

Tony Carmen is a racketeer who threatens Professor Venetti to invent the machine to decompose corpses without leaving any traces. He is also a criminal who does not care about killing people, so he orders Professor Venetti to conduct the machine to wipe off the warehouse and the people inside. It is also implied that he kills the corpse he wants to get rid of. When he receives the machine Professor Venetti creates, he gives it to his subordinates and lets them modify it. He takes Professor Venetti to the place where they try the machine's function. He has many connections to business, the mafia, and the news, and he knows how to make profits by manipulating the business work behind the scene. When he realizes how much profit the machine can make after seeing its effects, he persuades Professor Venetti to collaborate with him. He leaks the information through the newspaper to attract the business corporates’ attention. When the agent from Atomic Energy Commission informs the harmful consequences of the machine, he strongly disagrees with the ban on the manufacture and the selling of the device. When Professor Venetti turns on the reverse machine, Tony is panicked, and he shouts to order the professor to turn off the engine.

What are Professor Venetti’s inventions and what do they do? [SEP] <s> THE EXPENDABLES BY JIM HARMON It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] You see my problem, Professor? Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured,flashily ringed hands wide. I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing. Really, Mr. Carmen, I said, this isn't the sort of thing you discusswith a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or alawyer. They can't help me. I need an operator in your line. I work for the United States government. I can't become involved inanything illegal. Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit andtouched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. You can't, ProfessorVenetti? Ever hear of the Mafia? I've heard of it, I said uneasily. An old fraternal organizationsomething like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. Itallegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is aresponsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stampingout. We don't even like to see the word in print. I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guyslike me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze onmarks like you pretty easy. You don't have to tell even a third generation American about theMafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for toolong. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false,built up an unendurable threat. All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn'tkill any of these people? He snorted. I haven't killed anybody since early 1943. Please, I said weakly. You needn't incriminate yourself with me. I was in the Marines, Carmen said hotly. Listen, Professor, thesearen't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit thesedays. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my clubhaven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbumswith too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vetsgoing to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno juststows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose myliquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury. I don't suppose you could just go to the police— I saw the answer inhis eyes. No. I don't suppose you could. I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get ridof these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em andthrow them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped enroute by some tipped badge? Quicklime? I suggested automatically. What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind ofscientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifiesthem like.... I forgot, I admitted. I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgottenit wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there'salways traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... Aninteresting problem, at that. I figured you could handle it, Carmen said, leaning back comfortablyin the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. I heard you wereworking on something to get rid of trash for the government. That, I told him, is restricted information. I subcontracted thatwork from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out? Ways, Professor, ways. The government did want me to find a way to dispose ofwastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem anycountry could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now asmall-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help himdispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But theshadow of the Black Hand cooled it off. Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you, Isaid. I'll call you. Don't take too long, Professor, Carmen said cordially. <doc-sep>The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as aneutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it. The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert orin the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors orchanges of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks.The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoningfish and fishermen. Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on theproblem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralizeradioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, etcetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this iseasier written than done. Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy ormatter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. ButI didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocityof light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engagedto work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you handand foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honorsuch time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratoryowned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead ofworking in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. Tothis, I can only smile and nod. But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed. I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by abasic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant systemfor Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter. This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminatedwater. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it wasno breakthrough on the central problem. Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid ofsome damned bodies for Carmen. Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be soprecise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United Statesgovernment, I began experimenting. I cut corners. I bypassed complete safety circuits. I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with thewiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would behappy. I turned the machine on. The lights popped out. There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, butinstead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed thatin the switchbox. I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered andheld. The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take. But there it was. The internal Scale showed zero. I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completelygone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had beenno change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by themechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no suddendischarge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standardanti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder hadgone to zero but never to minus. I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfullyinverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ...by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect sideeffects. I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explainhow my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could everconvince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work. But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassinghow when he was incapable of understanding the explanation. <doc-sep>Yeah, but how does it work? Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking hismirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum. Why do you care? I asked irritably. It will dispose of your bodiesfor you. I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to thatjust for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them windingup in the D.A.'s bathtub. Why not? How could they trace them back to you? You're the scientist, Tony said hotly. I got great respect for thosecrime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talcon it, I don't know. Listen here, Carmen, I said, what makes you think these bodies aregoing somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator. Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can itburn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em upor crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearingcabinets before. Mafia or not, I saw red. Are you daring to suggest that I am workingsome trick with trap doors or sliding panels? Easy, Professor, Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with onepalm. I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just thatyou have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well,everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping thingsthrough. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable? Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctivefeel for the mechanics of physics. I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen, I finally admitted. Itmight go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' thewriters for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, orour future. The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapidcalculation. I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into thefuture. If they do that, they may show up again in six months. Or six million years. You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor. I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I hadheard about the Mafia were getting more distant. See here, Carmen, Icould lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and youwould never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't knowwhere the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go intothe future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly somany years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth willhave moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure.Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wrecka perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatchedmaterials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You willjust have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do. Carmen inhaled deeply. Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds againstany squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out,Professor? I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy theunwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to youwith the regularity of the morning milk run. The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. I'm talking about a bigoperation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators,garbage disposals, waste baskets.... Impractical, I snorted. You don't realize the tremendous amount ofelectrical power these devices require.... Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takesa lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its owngenerators. <doc-sep>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine. Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia— What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically. Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial. Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man— You are ? I said. He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock. You are . I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything. I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine. Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days? There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said. You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one. Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach. Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably.... Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it. There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them. I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work. Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it. Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of. <doc-sep>The closed sedan was warm, even in early December. Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered? Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street. The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme. What? The firing squad? The Expendable, of course. Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it. He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined. A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight. Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder. I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears. The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated. Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem. Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit.... You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy. That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped. Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred. One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished. What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine. Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved. Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area. You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics. No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works. You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen? Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories . My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld. I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it. What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now? This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat. Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's murder . Not, Carmen said, without no corpus delecti . The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training. You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember, you did it with your machine. Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there? <doc-sep>There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning. One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.) The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray. This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks. If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles. I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang. I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door. He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor. The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully. He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the Times . I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants. The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe. Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables? Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too. Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know? I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock. This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health. But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse? The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it. There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell. That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them? I knew what to tell them. <doc-sep>I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk,casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. Itwasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported thereservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or twobefore I could get the gas type into my office. Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bonychest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Ofcourse, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, notshorts and halters like some of the girls. My, she observed it certainly is humid for March, isn't it,Professor Venetti? I agreed that it was. She got her pad and pencil ready. Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royaltiesfor the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full threemonths with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but wewant the payola for what we have coming. Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely donot send the California penal system any chambers equipped with ourpatented field until legislature officially approves them. We got awaywith it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now. Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time inthe next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy systemworking out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams. Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly aco-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances havealways been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you puta more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferiordoors you have covering our efficient, patented field. I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—Ijust wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being onlya figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but TonyCarmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted anymore than me. Even. I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll Ihad stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, Ismoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down thetapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field.I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one.But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him. I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser,reflecting her fierce alertness. Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth. G-men on the way here, he blurted and collapsed into a chair oppositeMiss Brown. Don't revert to type, I warned him. What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC?CIA? FDA? USTD? Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission. The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched theedge of his snap-brim hat as he said it. Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair? Iasked. Not at all, sir, she said dreamily. May I suggest, I said, that we might get more business done if youthen removed yourself from the chair first. Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quitthe vicinity with her usual efficiency. <doc-sep>Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation. You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia? Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back. I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step? The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is? I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more. The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly. I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables? At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame. Clever of them. Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually— He paused dramatically. Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed! I agree, I said reluctantly. Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat. I waved his protests aside. I would agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously. Why? the young man demanded. Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell. Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned? No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design. But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom. Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential. <doc-sep>The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined. While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom. Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve. Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere? Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge. There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal. Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said. Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension? Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded. But too late. There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal. If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space. As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit. I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention. This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable. I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all. If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are Professor Venetti’s inventions and what do they do?

Professor Venetti’s inventions are the Expendables which can decompose anything into nothingness without apparent side effects. It is first shown to violate the energy conservation rule when Professor Venetti finds it produces nothing after the decomposition, and he does not know where the decomposed particles go. However, later in the story, it is revealed by an investigator of the Atomic Energy Commission that the energy transformed from mass through the machine turns into heat, resulting in the rising global temperature. The other device he creates is Disexpendable, the reverse version of the Expendable. It is a medium-sized drum in a frame with an unturned coolie’s hat at the bottom. Disexpendable has a low-efficiency engine, and it can consume excess energy produced by the Expendable and lower the temperature. Consuming the excess energy also makes the once-decomposed mass back together again, such as the corpse.

How is the theme of global warming explored throughout the story? [SEP] <s> THE EXPENDABLES BY JIM HARMON It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] You see my problem, Professor? Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured,flashily ringed hands wide. I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing. Really, Mr. Carmen, I said, this isn't the sort of thing you discusswith a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or alawyer. They can't help me. I need an operator in your line. I work for the United States government. I can't become involved inanything illegal. Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit andtouched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. You can't, ProfessorVenetti? Ever hear of the Mafia? I've heard of it, I said uneasily. An old fraternal organizationsomething like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. Itallegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is aresponsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stampingout. We don't even like to see the word in print. I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guyslike me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze onmarks like you pretty easy. You don't have to tell even a third generation American about theMafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for toolong. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false,built up an unendurable threat. All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn'tkill any of these people? He snorted. I haven't killed anybody since early 1943. Please, I said weakly. You needn't incriminate yourself with me. I was in the Marines, Carmen said hotly. Listen, Professor, thesearen't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit thesedays. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my clubhaven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbumswith too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vetsgoing to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno juststows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose myliquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury. I don't suppose you could just go to the police— I saw the answer inhis eyes. No. I don't suppose you could. I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get ridof these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em andthrow them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped enroute by some tipped badge? Quicklime? I suggested automatically. What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind ofscientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifiesthem like.... I forgot, I admitted. I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgottenit wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there'salways traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... Aninteresting problem, at that. I figured you could handle it, Carmen said, leaning back comfortablyin the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. I heard you wereworking on something to get rid of trash for the government. That, I told him, is restricted information. I subcontracted thatwork from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out? Ways, Professor, ways. The government did want me to find a way to dispose ofwastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem anycountry could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now asmall-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help himdispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But theshadow of the Black Hand cooled it off. Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you, Isaid. I'll call you. Don't take too long, Professor, Carmen said cordially. <doc-sep>The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as aneutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it. The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert orin the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors orchanges of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks.The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoningfish and fishermen. Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on theproblem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralizeradioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, etcetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this iseasier written than done. Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy ormatter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. ButI didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocityof light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engagedto work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you handand foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honorsuch time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratoryowned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead ofworking in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. Tothis, I can only smile and nod. But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed. I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by abasic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant systemfor Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter. This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminatedwater. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it wasno breakthrough on the central problem. Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid ofsome damned bodies for Carmen. Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be soprecise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United Statesgovernment, I began experimenting. I cut corners. I bypassed complete safety circuits. I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with thewiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would behappy. I turned the machine on. The lights popped out. There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, butinstead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed thatin the switchbox. I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered andheld. The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take. But there it was. The internal Scale showed zero. I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completelygone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had beenno change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by themechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no suddendischarge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standardanti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder hadgone to zero but never to minus. I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfullyinverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ...by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect sideeffects. I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explainhow my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could everconvince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work. But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassinghow when he was incapable of understanding the explanation. <doc-sep>Yeah, but how does it work? Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking hismirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum. Why do you care? I asked irritably. It will dispose of your bodiesfor you. I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to thatjust for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them windingup in the D.A.'s bathtub. Why not? How could they trace them back to you? You're the scientist, Tony said hotly. I got great respect for thosecrime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talcon it, I don't know. Listen here, Carmen, I said, what makes you think these bodies aregoing somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator. Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can itburn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em upor crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearingcabinets before. Mafia or not, I saw red. Are you daring to suggest that I am workingsome trick with trap doors or sliding panels? Easy, Professor, Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with onepalm. I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just thatyou have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well,everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping thingsthrough. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable? Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctivefeel for the mechanics of physics. I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen, I finally admitted. Itmight go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' thewriters for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, orour future. The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapidcalculation. I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into thefuture. If they do that, they may show up again in six months. Or six million years. You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor. I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I hadheard about the Mafia were getting more distant. See here, Carmen, Icould lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and youwould never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't knowwhere the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go intothe future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly somany years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth willhave moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure.Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wrecka perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatchedmaterials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You willjust have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do. Carmen inhaled deeply. Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds againstany squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out,Professor? I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy theunwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to youwith the regularity of the morning milk run. The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. I'm talking about a bigoperation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators,garbage disposals, waste baskets.... Impractical, I snorted. You don't realize the tremendous amount ofelectrical power these devices require.... Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takesa lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its owngenerators. <doc-sep>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine. Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia— What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically. Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial. Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man— You are ? I said. He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock. You are . I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything. I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine. Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days? There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said. You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one. Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach. Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably.... Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it. There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them. I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work. Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it. Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of. <doc-sep>The closed sedan was warm, even in early December. Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered? Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street. The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme. What? The firing squad? The Expendable, of course. Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it. He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined. A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight. Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder. I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears. The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated. Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem. Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit.... You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy. That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped. Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred. One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished. What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine. Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved. Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area. You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics. No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works. You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen? Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories . My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld. I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it. What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now? This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat. Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's murder . Not, Carmen said, without no corpus delecti . The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training. You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember, you did it with your machine. Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there? <doc-sep>There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning. One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.) The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray. This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks. If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles. I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang. I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door. He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor. The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully. He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the Times . I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants. The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe. Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables? Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too. Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know? I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock. This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health. But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse? The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it. There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell. That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them? I knew what to tell them. <doc-sep>I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk,casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. Itwasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported thereservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or twobefore I could get the gas type into my office. Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bonychest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Ofcourse, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, notshorts and halters like some of the girls. My, she observed it certainly is humid for March, isn't it,Professor Venetti? I agreed that it was. She got her pad and pencil ready. Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royaltiesfor the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full threemonths with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but wewant the payola for what we have coming. Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely donot send the California penal system any chambers equipped with ourpatented field until legislature officially approves them. We got awaywith it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now. Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time inthe next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy systemworking out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams. Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly aco-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances havealways been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you puta more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferiordoors you have covering our efficient, patented field. I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—Ijust wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being onlya figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but TonyCarmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted anymore than me. Even. I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll Ihad stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, Ismoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down thetapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field.I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one.But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him. I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser,reflecting her fierce alertness. Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth. G-men on the way here, he blurted and collapsed into a chair oppositeMiss Brown. Don't revert to type, I warned him. What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC?CIA? FDA? USTD? Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission. The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched theedge of his snap-brim hat as he said it. Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair? Iasked. Not at all, sir, she said dreamily. May I suggest, I said, that we might get more business done if youthen removed yourself from the chair first. Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quitthe vicinity with her usual efficiency. <doc-sep>Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation. You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia? Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back. I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step? The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is? I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more. The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly. I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables? At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame. Clever of them. Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually— He paused dramatically. Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed! I agree, I said reluctantly. Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat. I waved his protests aside. I would agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously. Why? the young man demanded. Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell. Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned? No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design. But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom. Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential. <doc-sep>The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined. While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom. Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve. Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere? Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge. There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal. Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said. Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension? Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded. But too late. There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal. If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space. As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit. I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention. This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable. I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all. If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How is the theme of global warming explored throughout the story?

Throughout the story, a racketeer demands a professor create a machine to destroy the dead body he has without leaving any traces. The professor invented the device that can destroy mass into nothingness without knowing where the decomposed particles or mass go. However, later in the story, it reveals that the missing energy is turned into heat under the rule of energy conservation, resulting in a rising global temperature. The officials come to ban the usage and production of the machine, but the professor knows that people will still use it for its convenience, just like what people do concerning the wasteful use of water when it is in dire need. The professor ends up creating a machine whose side effect would cool down the temperature to fix the problem. The theme of global warming is explored through the conflicted balance between convenience and environmental damage. People tend to use what is convenient for them with the knowledge of its ecological harm until the consequence is no longer recoverable. The author tries to imply that if we keep wasting resources and damage the environment for our benefit, global warming will reach a point where the earth is no longer recoverable. It is also mentioned in the professor’s thought when he is thinking about selling the machine that tons of patented perpetual motion machines are created, used, and remain as trash without the means to get rid of them. People don’t care whether there is a solution to get rid of those trash completely or don’t know how, but they still produce and use them. This preference for convenience over the environment indicates that humans would not stop their pollution until they bear the consequence of their deeds, not to mention improve the situation of global warming.

How is the theme of capitalism explored throughout the story? [SEP] <s> THE EXPENDABLES BY JIM HARMON It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] You see my problem, Professor? Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured,flashily ringed hands wide. I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing. Really, Mr. Carmen, I said, this isn't the sort of thing you discusswith a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or alawyer. They can't help me. I need an operator in your line. I work for the United States government. I can't become involved inanything illegal. Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit andtouched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. You can't, ProfessorVenetti? Ever hear of the Mafia? I've heard of it, I said uneasily. An old fraternal organizationsomething like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. Itallegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is aresponsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stampingout. We don't even like to see the word in print. I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guyslike me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze onmarks like you pretty easy. You don't have to tell even a third generation American about theMafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for toolong. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false,built up an unendurable threat. All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn'tkill any of these people? He snorted. I haven't killed anybody since early 1943. Please, I said weakly. You needn't incriminate yourself with me. I was in the Marines, Carmen said hotly. Listen, Professor, thesearen't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit thesedays. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my clubhaven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbumswith too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vetsgoing to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno juststows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose myliquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury. I don't suppose you could just go to the police— I saw the answer inhis eyes. No. I don't suppose you could. I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get ridof these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em andthrow them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped enroute by some tipped badge? Quicklime? I suggested automatically. What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind ofscientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifiesthem like.... I forgot, I admitted. I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgottenit wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there'salways traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... Aninteresting problem, at that. I figured you could handle it, Carmen said, leaning back comfortablyin the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. I heard you wereworking on something to get rid of trash for the government. That, I told him, is restricted information. I subcontracted thatwork from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out? Ways, Professor, ways. The government did want me to find a way to dispose ofwastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem anycountry could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now asmall-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help himdispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But theshadow of the Black Hand cooled it off. Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you, Isaid. I'll call you. Don't take too long, Professor, Carmen said cordially. <doc-sep>The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as aneutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it. The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert orin the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors orchanges of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks.The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoningfish and fishermen. Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on theproblem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralizeradioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, etcetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this iseasier written than done. Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy ormatter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. ButI didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocityof light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engagedto work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you handand foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honorsuch time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratoryowned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead ofworking in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. Tothis, I can only smile and nod. But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed. I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by abasic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant systemfor Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter. This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminatedwater. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it wasno breakthrough on the central problem. Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid ofsome damned bodies for Carmen. Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be soprecise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United Statesgovernment, I began experimenting. I cut corners. I bypassed complete safety circuits. I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with thewiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would behappy. I turned the machine on. The lights popped out. There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, butinstead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed thatin the switchbox. I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered andheld. The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take. But there it was. The internal Scale showed zero. I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completelygone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had beenno change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by themechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no suddendischarge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standardanti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder hadgone to zero but never to minus. I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfullyinverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ...by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect sideeffects. I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explainhow my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could everconvince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work. But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassinghow when he was incapable of understanding the explanation. <doc-sep>Yeah, but how does it work? Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking hismirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum. Why do you care? I asked irritably. It will dispose of your bodiesfor you. I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to thatjust for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them windingup in the D.A.'s bathtub. Why not? How could they trace them back to you? You're the scientist, Tony said hotly. I got great respect for thosecrime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talcon it, I don't know. Listen here, Carmen, I said, what makes you think these bodies aregoing somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator. Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can itburn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em upor crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearingcabinets before. Mafia or not, I saw red. Are you daring to suggest that I am workingsome trick with trap doors or sliding panels? Easy, Professor, Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with onepalm. I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just thatyou have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well,everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping thingsthrough. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable? Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctivefeel for the mechanics of physics. I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen, I finally admitted. Itmight go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' thewriters for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, orour future. The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapidcalculation. I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into thefuture. If they do that, they may show up again in six months. Or six million years. You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor. I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I hadheard about the Mafia were getting more distant. See here, Carmen, Icould lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and youwould never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't knowwhere the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go intothe future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly somany years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth willhave moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure.Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wrecka perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatchedmaterials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You willjust have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do. Carmen inhaled deeply. Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds againstany squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out,Professor? I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy theunwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to youwith the regularity of the morning milk run. The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. I'm talking about a bigoperation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators,garbage disposals, waste baskets.... Impractical, I snorted. You don't realize the tremendous amount ofelectrical power these devices require.... Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takesa lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its owngenerators. <doc-sep>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine. Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia— What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically. Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial. Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man— You are ? I said. He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock. You are . I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything. I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine. Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days? There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said. You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one. Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach. Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably.... Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it. There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them. I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work. Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it. Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of. <doc-sep>The closed sedan was warm, even in early December. Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered? Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street. The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme. What? The firing squad? The Expendable, of course. Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it. He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined. A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight. Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder. I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears. The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated. Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem. Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit.... You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy. That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped. Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred. One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished. What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine. Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved. Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area. You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics. No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works. You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen? Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories . My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld. I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it. What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now? This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat. Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's murder . Not, Carmen said, without no corpus delecti . The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training. You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember, you did it with your machine. Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there? <doc-sep>There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning. One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.) The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray. This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks. If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles. I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang. I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door. He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor. The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully. He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the Times . I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants. The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe. Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables? Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too. Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know? I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock. This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health. But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse? The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it. There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell. That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them? I knew what to tell them. <doc-sep>I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk,casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. Itwasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported thereservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or twobefore I could get the gas type into my office. Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bonychest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Ofcourse, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, notshorts and halters like some of the girls. My, she observed it certainly is humid for March, isn't it,Professor Venetti? I agreed that it was. She got her pad and pencil ready. Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royaltiesfor the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full threemonths with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but wewant the payola for what we have coming. Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely donot send the California penal system any chambers equipped with ourpatented field until legislature officially approves them. We got awaywith it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now. Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time inthe next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy systemworking out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams. Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly aco-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances havealways been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you puta more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferiordoors you have covering our efficient, patented field. I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—Ijust wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being onlya figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but TonyCarmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted anymore than me. Even. I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll Ihad stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, Ismoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down thetapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field.I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one.But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him. I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser,reflecting her fierce alertness. Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth. G-men on the way here, he blurted and collapsed into a chair oppositeMiss Brown. Don't revert to type, I warned him. What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC?CIA? FDA? USTD? Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission. The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched theedge of his snap-brim hat as he said it. Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair? Iasked. Not at all, sir, she said dreamily. May I suggest, I said, that we might get more business done if youthen removed yourself from the chair first. Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quitthe vicinity with her usual efficiency. <doc-sep>Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation. You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia? Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back. I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step? The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is? I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more. The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly. I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables? At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame. Clever of them. Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually— He paused dramatically. Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed! I agree, I said reluctantly. Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat. I waved his protests aside. I would agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously. Why? the young man demanded. Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell. Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned? No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design. But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom. Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential. <doc-sep>The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined. While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom. Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve. Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere? Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge. There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal. Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said. Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension? Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded. But too late. There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal. If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space. As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit. I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention. This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable. I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all. If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How is the theme of capitalism explored throughout the story?

The theme of capitalism is explored throughout the story by the greed of the racketeer, Tony Carmen, and how he prefers profits over the environment. In the story, Professor Venetti creates a machine that can easily decompose anything without knowing how it works and where the decomposed particles go. His process of creating the device is also not carefully examined under the safety rules. Despite knowing these manufacturing facts and the uncertainty of its consequences, Tony Carmen makes this machine into a business and sells it for a considerable profit, with the collaboration of Professor Venetti. The theme of capitalism is shown through the preference for profits over safety when seeking profits from a product. It is also explored through Tony’s dealings with business corporates and how he attracts business corporations’ attention to sell their products. Revealed by Tony’s testimony, big business corporations would have detectives and their sources of information to buy the inventions and sell them. Finally, the mechanism of the business world and the dark side of capitalism are shown through Tony’s plan to sell the products and all the dirty work behind it when Professor Venetti’s secretary is reading the letters regarding their business matter from several organizations.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself before.... DESIRE NO MORE by Algis Budrys ( illustrated by Milton Luros ) Desire no more than to thy lot may fall.... —Chaucer <doc-sep> THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head. But you've got to learn a trade, his father said, exasperated. Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that. I've got a trade, he answered. His father smiled thinly. What? he asked patronizingly. I'm a rocket pilot, the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks. His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. Yeah, he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle. A rocket pilot! His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. A ro— oh, no! —a rocket pilot ! The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little. Marty! His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs. What is it, Howard? Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress. Crazy kid, Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet. Come back here! he shouted. A rocket pilot, he cursedunder his breath. What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot! Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me.... Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet! Comeback here, you idiot! Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms. Are you sure, Howard? his wife asked faintly. Yes, I'm sure ! But, where's he going? Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me? Marty? Howard! Stop acting like a child and talk to me! Where is that boygoing? Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. I don't know, hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.Maybe, the moon, he told her sarcastically. Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11, had come ofage at seventeen. <doc-sep> THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. No, he said. I am notinterested in working for a degree. But— The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off thebasket. This program is just like the others you've followed for ninesemesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just aboutevery undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you goingto keep this up? I'm signed up for Astronomy 101, Isherwood pointed out. The faculty advisor snorted. A snap course. A breather, after you'vestudied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish?Scared of liberal arts? Isherwood shook his head. Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And thatAstronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—theywon't be talking about stars as check points, but as things inthemselves. Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it. The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. Still asnap. What's the difference, how you look at a star? Isherwood almost winced. Call it a hobby, he said. He looked down athis watch. Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven'tconvinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well giveup, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let'sgo get some beer. The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. Crazy,he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the nextman. The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, andsoftly quoted: Though I go bare, take ye no care,I am nothing a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old. Huh? Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to theunfamiliar. The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. It's apoem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact. Oh. Don't you give a damn? the advisor asked, with some peevishness. Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. Sorry, Dave, but no. It'snot my racket. The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.Strictly a specialist, huh? Ish nodded. Call it that. But what , for Pete's sake? What is this crazy specialty that blindsyou to all the fine things that man has done? Ish took a swallow of his beer. Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say itwas the finest thing that man has ever done. The advisor's lips twisted in derision. That's pretty fanatical, isn'tit? Uh-huh. Ish waved to the bartender for refills. <doc-sep> THE NAVION took a boiling thermal under its right wing and buckedupward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunettegirl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ishlaughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as thatsudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, andcorrected with a tilt of the wheel. Relax, Nan, he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.It's only air; nasty old air. The girl patted her short hair back into place. I wish you wouldn't flythis low, she said, half-frightened. Low? Call this low? Ish teased. Here. Let's drop it a little, andyou'll really get an idea of how fast we're going. He nudged thewheel forward, and the Navion dipped its nose in a shallow dive,flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with thechug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at theprotesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into adirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream. Marty! Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer,anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bankwith his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set.The Navion went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast asit could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal. And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased,and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost allexpression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under hisnose. Up, he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked onthe wheel. Up! The Navion broke through the cloud, kept going. Up. If he listenedclosely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ... Marty! ... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known.He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and theaircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands.Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. Scareyou—? he asked gently. She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm. Me too, he said. Lost my head. Sorry. <doc-sep> LOOK, HE told the girl, You got any idea of what it costs to maintaina racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew,my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged tenyears ago. I can't get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week?You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The onlysmart thing to do is wait a while. Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. That's what I've been tryingto say. Why do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can'tyou sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trainedpilot. He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tensefrom the strain of trying to make her understand. Now herelaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, andthe first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it wouldnot return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in thealmost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know. I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot, he said quietly. The Foo Isa means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into anyplant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing— any of them—andpick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have asgood as said so. After that— His voice had regained some of its formeranimation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. I'vetold you all this before. The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back toher, and put her fingers around his wrist. Darling! she said. If it'sthat rocket pilot business again.... Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. It's always 'that rocket pilot business,' he said, mimicking her voice. Damn it, I'mthe only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred andfifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and maththan anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words likebrennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of Colliers , and I— He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shruggedagain. I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job,and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait along time. All she could think of to say was, But, Darling, there aren't anyman-carrying rockets. That's not my fault, he said, and walked away from her. A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line witha scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest. <doc-sep> HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running ringsaround the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out ofthe crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face andin his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, andhuskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. Andhe was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his handsmoved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave animpromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to thepersonnel bunker with him. Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four yearsago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent nowon throwing himself away to the sky. She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of thepress section and ran over to him. Marty! She brushed past atechnician. He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. Well, Nan! hemumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched hisshoulder. I'm sorry, Marty, she said in a rush. I didn't understand. I couldn'tsee how much it all meant. Her face was flushed, and she spoke asrapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured awaythe guards she was afraid would interrupt her. But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. Youtrained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket! He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of theshocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move tostop him. Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying tobreak out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whosecandy is being taken away from him after only one bite. Rocket! he shouted into her terrified face. Rocket! Call that pileof tin a rocket? He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.Who cares about the bloody machines ! If I thought roller-skatingwould get me there, I would have gone to work in a rink when I wasseventeen! It's getting there that counts! Who gives a good goddam how it's done, or what with! And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards cameand got her. <doc-sep> SIT DOWN, Ish, the Flight Surgeon said. They always begin that way , Isherwood thought. The standard medicalopening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anythinghe might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression ashe ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinderof a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteenhours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go. How's it? the FS asked. Ish grinned and shrugged. All right. But he didn't usually grin. Therealization disquieted him a little. Think you'll make it? Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usualresponse-pattern. Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out. Uh- huh . The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.Look—you want to talk to a man for a while? What man? It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything hesaid or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If theywanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it. Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket. TheFlight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. Air Forceinsisted on it, as a matter of fact, he said. Can't really blame them.After all, it's their beast. Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh? Ish lit thecigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. Sure.Bring him on. The FS smiled. Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask himin right now? Sure. Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the FlightSurgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel. Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice. Ish nodded. How's that? The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit. Odd jobs, first of all? Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops. Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it? Ahuh. Took some of your pay in flying lessons. Right. MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead. Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it. No family. Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them. Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements. How's things between you and the opposite sex? About normal. No wife—no steady girl. Not a very good idea, in my racket. MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go! Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared. MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives. Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me? MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry. Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put some learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me! I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did. Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go. Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time. He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now. <doc-sep> ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. No, he said. But everybody fills out an application, she protested. No. I've got a job, he said as he had been saying for the last halfhour. The Receptionist sighed. If you'll only read the literature I'vegiven you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments havebeen cancelled. Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut thisnonsense. I've got to get back. But nobody goes back. Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but— He stoppedat the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. Thereception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD basketson the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinaryabout it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out atthe edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too.... Let's see your back! he rapped out, his voice high. She sighed in exasperation. If you'd read the literature ... Sheswiveled her chair slowly. No wings, he said. Of course not! she snapped. She brushed her hair away from herforehead without his telling her to. No horns, either. Streamlined, huh? he said bitterly. It's a little different for everybody, she said with unexpectedgentleness. It would have to be, wouldn't it? Yeah, I guess so, he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Sixhours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go. Who do I see? She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. See? About getting out of here! Come on, come on, he barked, snapping hisfingers impatiently. I haven't got much time. She smiled sweetly. Oh, but you do. Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Comeon! His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firmwith the purpose that drove him. Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a deskbutton. I'll call the Personnel Manager. Thanks, he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the waythe Receptionist looked a little like Nan. <doc-sep> THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode acrossthe lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched. Martin Isherwood! he exclaimed enthusiastically. I'm very glad tomeet you! I'll bet, Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a shortshake. I've got other ideas. I want out. That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir, theReceptionist said from behind her desk. The Personnel Manager frowned. Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented. But hardly usual, he added. Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after thepreliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready tobuckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a badgirl, either. He smiled at her. Sorry I lost my head, he said. She smiled back. It happens. He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung backto the Personnel Manager. Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got— He stopped tolook at his watch. Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling thebeast right now. Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut? Ish shook his head. I don't want to sound nasty, but that's yourproblem. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Look—you feel you've got a jobunfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's faceit—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, isit? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devotedyour life to. Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. Don't put words in my mouth!he snapped. Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I getaround this way again. Suddenly, he found himself pleading. All I needis a week, he said. It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures ofthe flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking anylaws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again.Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look likethe trip's responsible, of course. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Suppose— he began, but Ishinterrupted him. Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplaceto go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling you for. If you don't know, who does? The Personnel Manager smiled. I was about to say something. Ish stopped, abashed. Sorry. He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. You've gotto understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If itwere, human history would be very different, wouldn't it? Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whetheryou want to stay, after all. How long's it going to take? Ish flushed under the memory of havingactually begged for something. Not long, the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up atthe Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they weresuddenly standing. Earth, the Personnel Manager said. Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched bycloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice.The unblinking stars filled the night. He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting.Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only largeenough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon hadwaited. Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice theages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. Itwas the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through theyears, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimedthe Navion at, that day over the Everglades. It's not the same, he said. The Personnel Manager sighed. Don't you see, Ish said, It can't be the same. I didn't push thebeast up here. There wasn't any feel to it. There wasn't any sound ofrockets. The Personnel Manager sighed again. There wouldn't be, you know. Takingoff from the Station, landing here—vacuum. Ish shook his head. There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybodyelse to hear—and, maybe, maybe there would be. There'd be people,back on Earth, who'd hear it. All right, the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but hiseyes were shining a little. <doc-sep> ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you! There was a hand on his shoulder.Will you get a load of this guy! the voice said to someone else. Anhour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead. Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, feltthe blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands andfeet were very cold. Come on, Ish, the Crew Chief said. All right, he mumbled. Okay. I'm up. He sat on the edge of his bunklooking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. Hesighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs. Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit. The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into thecontrol seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, andbegan to brake for a landing. He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't leftany. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder. He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threwspotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. Hecould see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the dockingcrew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Stationwas a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at itall, dead-faced, his eyes empty. It was easy, he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the pressrepresentatives out of his way. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked hisstolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulleda coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to hisbunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead. Ish. It was MacKenzie, bending over him. Ish grunted. It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there. He was past emotions. Yeah? We couldn't take the chance. MacKenzie was trying desperately toexplain. You were the best there was—but you'd done something toyourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family.You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You werea rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book thatwasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident.You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, noprops, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong. We couldn't takethe chance, Ish! So? There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might haveforgotten to come back. You might have just kept going. He remembered the time with the Navion , and nodded. I might have. I hypnotized you, MacKenzie said. You were never dead. I don't knowwhat the details of your hallucination were, but the important part camethrough, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It tookall the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workadaytrip. I said it was easy, Ish said. There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill thatcomes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, andyou knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it? Yeah. Now get out before I kill you. He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—hedied on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful worldmourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he reallydied. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at anobservatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead andpurposeless eyes. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note. This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The story follows the journey of Martin Isherwood, a man whose dream is to become a rocket pilot. Everything he does is to reach that dream. When he turns 17, he cuts away from his family and starts to follow his dream. He participates in different plane races in order to become a pilot. He continuously shows his determination to become a pilot to everyone he meets, and doesn’t care what they say. Mostly everyone tells Ish that he should quit on this path, that he has nothing to prove and that there is no reason to continue pursuing his dream. He doesn’t heed this advice and continues convincing people as to why he should be a rocket pilot. At the end, he manages to do the trip, but does it while thinking that he had already done it before, therefore taking out all the excitement that the first trip would have had. He ends up never driving a rocket again, and dies in the rocket station.

Who is Nan, and what happens to her? [SEP] <s> He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself before.... DESIRE NO MORE by Algis Budrys ( illustrated by Milton Luros ) Desire no more than to thy lot may fall.... —Chaucer <doc-sep> THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head. But you've got to learn a trade, his father said, exasperated. Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that. I've got a trade, he answered. His father smiled thinly. What? he asked patronizingly. I'm a rocket pilot, the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks. His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. Yeah, he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle. A rocket pilot! His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. A ro— oh, no! —a rocket pilot ! The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little. Marty! His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs. What is it, Howard? Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress. Crazy kid, Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet. Come back here! he shouted. A rocket pilot, he cursedunder his breath. What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot! Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me.... Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet! Comeback here, you idiot! Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms. Are you sure, Howard? his wife asked faintly. Yes, I'm sure ! But, where's he going? Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me? Marty? Howard! Stop acting like a child and talk to me! Where is that boygoing? Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. I don't know, hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.Maybe, the moon, he told her sarcastically. Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11, had come ofage at seventeen. <doc-sep> THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. No, he said. I am notinterested in working for a degree. But— The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off thebasket. This program is just like the others you've followed for ninesemesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just aboutevery undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you goingto keep this up? I'm signed up for Astronomy 101, Isherwood pointed out. The faculty advisor snorted. A snap course. A breather, after you'vestudied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish?Scared of liberal arts? Isherwood shook his head. Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And thatAstronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—theywon't be talking about stars as check points, but as things inthemselves. Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it. The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. Still asnap. What's the difference, how you look at a star? Isherwood almost winced. Call it a hobby, he said. He looked down athis watch. Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven'tconvinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well giveup, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let'sgo get some beer. The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. Crazy,he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the nextman. The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, andsoftly quoted: Though I go bare, take ye no care,I am nothing a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old. Huh? Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to theunfamiliar. The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. It's apoem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact. Oh. Don't you give a damn? the advisor asked, with some peevishness. Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. Sorry, Dave, but no. It'snot my racket. The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.Strictly a specialist, huh? Ish nodded. Call it that. But what , for Pete's sake? What is this crazy specialty that blindsyou to all the fine things that man has done? Ish took a swallow of his beer. Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say itwas the finest thing that man has ever done. The advisor's lips twisted in derision. That's pretty fanatical, isn'tit? Uh-huh. Ish waved to the bartender for refills. <doc-sep> THE NAVION took a boiling thermal under its right wing and buckedupward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunettegirl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ishlaughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as thatsudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, andcorrected with a tilt of the wheel. Relax, Nan, he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.It's only air; nasty old air. The girl patted her short hair back into place. I wish you wouldn't flythis low, she said, half-frightened. Low? Call this low? Ish teased. Here. Let's drop it a little, andyou'll really get an idea of how fast we're going. He nudged thewheel forward, and the Navion dipped its nose in a shallow dive,flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with thechug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at theprotesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into adirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream. Marty! Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer,anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bankwith his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set.The Navion went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast asit could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal. And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased,and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost allexpression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under hisnose. Up, he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked onthe wheel. Up! The Navion broke through the cloud, kept going. Up. If he listenedclosely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ... Marty! ... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known.He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and theaircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands.Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. Scareyou—? he asked gently. She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm. Me too, he said. Lost my head. Sorry. <doc-sep> LOOK, HE told the girl, You got any idea of what it costs to maintaina racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew,my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged tenyears ago. I can't get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week?You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The onlysmart thing to do is wait a while. Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. That's what I've been tryingto say. Why do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can'tyou sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trainedpilot. He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tensefrom the strain of trying to make her understand. Now herelaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, andthe first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it wouldnot return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in thealmost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know. I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot, he said quietly. The Foo Isa means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into anyplant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing— any of them—andpick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have asgood as said so. After that— His voice had regained some of its formeranimation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. I'vetold you all this before. The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back toher, and put her fingers around his wrist. Darling! she said. If it'sthat rocket pilot business again.... Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. It's always 'that rocket pilot business,' he said, mimicking her voice. Damn it, I'mthe only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred andfifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and maththan anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words likebrennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of Colliers , and I— He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shruggedagain. I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job,and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait along time. All she could think of to say was, But, Darling, there aren't anyman-carrying rockets. That's not my fault, he said, and walked away from her. A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line witha scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest. <doc-sep> HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running ringsaround the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out ofthe crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face andin his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, andhuskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. Andhe was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his handsmoved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave animpromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to thepersonnel bunker with him. Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four yearsago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent nowon throwing himself away to the sky. She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of thepress section and ran over to him. Marty! She brushed past atechnician. He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. Well, Nan! hemumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched hisshoulder. I'm sorry, Marty, she said in a rush. I didn't understand. I couldn'tsee how much it all meant. Her face was flushed, and she spoke asrapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured awaythe guards she was afraid would interrupt her. But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. Youtrained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket! He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of theshocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move tostop him. Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying tobreak out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whosecandy is being taken away from him after only one bite. Rocket! he shouted into her terrified face. Rocket! Call that pileof tin a rocket? He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.Who cares about the bloody machines ! If I thought roller-skatingwould get me there, I would have gone to work in a rink when I wasseventeen! It's getting there that counts! Who gives a good goddam how it's done, or what with! And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards cameand got her. <doc-sep> SIT DOWN, Ish, the Flight Surgeon said. They always begin that way , Isherwood thought. The standard medicalopening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anythinghe might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression ashe ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinderof a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteenhours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go. How's it? the FS asked. Ish grinned and shrugged. All right. But he didn't usually grin. Therealization disquieted him a little. Think you'll make it? Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usualresponse-pattern. Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out. Uh- huh . The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.Look—you want to talk to a man for a while? What man? It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything hesaid or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If theywanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it. Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket. TheFlight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. Air Forceinsisted on it, as a matter of fact, he said. Can't really blame them.After all, it's their beast. Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh? Ish lit thecigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. Sure.Bring him on. The FS smiled. Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask himin right now? Sure. Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the FlightSurgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel. Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice. Ish nodded. How's that? The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit. Odd jobs, first of all? Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops. Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it? Ahuh. Took some of your pay in flying lessons. Right. MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead. Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it. No family. Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them. Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements. How's things between you and the opposite sex? About normal. No wife—no steady girl. Not a very good idea, in my racket. MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go! Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared. MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives. Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me? MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry. Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put some learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me! I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did. Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go. Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time. He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now. <doc-sep> ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. No, he said. But everybody fills out an application, she protested. No. I've got a job, he said as he had been saying for the last halfhour. The Receptionist sighed. If you'll only read the literature I'vegiven you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments havebeen cancelled. Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut thisnonsense. I've got to get back. But nobody goes back. Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but— He stoppedat the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. Thereception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD basketson the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinaryabout it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out atthe edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too.... Let's see your back! he rapped out, his voice high. She sighed in exasperation. If you'd read the literature ... Sheswiveled her chair slowly. No wings, he said. Of course not! she snapped. She brushed her hair away from herforehead without his telling her to. No horns, either. Streamlined, huh? he said bitterly. It's a little different for everybody, she said with unexpectedgentleness. It would have to be, wouldn't it? Yeah, I guess so, he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Sixhours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go. Who do I see? She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. See? About getting out of here! Come on, come on, he barked, snapping hisfingers impatiently. I haven't got much time. She smiled sweetly. Oh, but you do. Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Comeon! His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firmwith the purpose that drove him. Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a deskbutton. I'll call the Personnel Manager. Thanks, he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the waythe Receptionist looked a little like Nan. <doc-sep> THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode acrossthe lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched. Martin Isherwood! he exclaimed enthusiastically. I'm very glad tomeet you! I'll bet, Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a shortshake. I've got other ideas. I want out. That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir, theReceptionist said from behind her desk. The Personnel Manager frowned. Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented. But hardly usual, he added. Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after thepreliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready tobuckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a badgirl, either. He smiled at her. Sorry I lost my head, he said. She smiled back. It happens. He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung backto the Personnel Manager. Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got— He stopped tolook at his watch. Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling thebeast right now. Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut? Ish shook his head. I don't want to sound nasty, but that's yourproblem. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Look—you feel you've got a jobunfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's faceit—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, isit? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devotedyour life to. Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. Don't put words in my mouth!he snapped. Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I getaround this way again. Suddenly, he found himself pleading. All I needis a week, he said. It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures ofthe flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking anylaws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again.Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look likethe trip's responsible, of course. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Suppose— he began, but Ishinterrupted him. Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplaceto go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling you for. If you don't know, who does? The Personnel Manager smiled. I was about to say something. Ish stopped, abashed. Sorry. He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. You've gotto understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If itwere, human history would be very different, wouldn't it? Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whetheryou want to stay, after all. How long's it going to take? Ish flushed under the memory of havingactually begged for something. Not long, the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up atthe Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they weresuddenly standing. Earth, the Personnel Manager said. Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched bycloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice.The unblinking stars filled the night. He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting.Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only largeenough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon hadwaited. Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice theages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. Itwas the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through theyears, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimedthe Navion at, that day over the Everglades. It's not the same, he said. The Personnel Manager sighed. Don't you see, Ish said, It can't be the same. I didn't push thebeast up here. There wasn't any feel to it. There wasn't any sound ofrockets. The Personnel Manager sighed again. There wouldn't be, you know. Takingoff from the Station, landing here—vacuum. Ish shook his head. There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybodyelse to hear—and, maybe, maybe there would be. There'd be people,back on Earth, who'd hear it. All right, the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but hiseyes were shining a little. <doc-sep> ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you! There was a hand on his shoulder.Will you get a load of this guy! the voice said to someone else. Anhour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead. Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, feltthe blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands andfeet were very cold. Come on, Ish, the Crew Chief said. All right, he mumbled. Okay. I'm up. He sat on the edge of his bunklooking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. Hesighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs. Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit. The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into thecontrol seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, andbegan to brake for a landing. He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't leftany. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder. He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threwspotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. Hecould see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the dockingcrew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Stationwas a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at itall, dead-faced, his eyes empty. It was easy, he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the pressrepresentatives out of his way. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked hisstolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulleda coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to hisbunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead. Ish. It was MacKenzie, bending over him. Ish grunted. It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there. He was past emotions. Yeah? We couldn't take the chance. MacKenzie was trying desperately toexplain. You were the best there was—but you'd done something toyourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family.You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You werea rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book thatwasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident.You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, noprops, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong. We couldn't takethe chance, Ish! So? There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might haveforgotten to come back. You might have just kept going. He remembered the time with the Navion , and nodded. I might have. I hypnotized you, MacKenzie said. You were never dead. I don't knowwhat the details of your hallucination were, but the important part camethrough, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It tookall the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workadaytrip. I said it was easy, Ish said. There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill thatcomes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, andyou knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it? Yeah. Now get out before I kill you. He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—hedied on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful worldmourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he reallydied. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at anobservatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead andpurposeless eyes. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note. This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Nan, and what happens to her?

Nan is a woman, who for a while is Martin Isherwood’s girlfriend. She owns a racing plane, which Ish uses to win a race and continue his plan to become a rocket pilot. When she and Ish go on a practice flight, Ish almost crashes them because for a second he wanted the plane all the way to the moon. For a while she wanted to get married to him, but he never reciprocated the feeling because he was too focused on flying to the moon, and ended up driving her away. The story insinuates that they broke up after Ish orbited the earth on a ship.

Who is Martin Isherwood, and what are his characteristics? [SEP] <s> He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself before.... DESIRE NO MORE by Algis Budrys ( illustrated by Milton Luros ) Desire no more than to thy lot may fall.... —Chaucer <doc-sep> THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head. But you've got to learn a trade, his father said, exasperated. Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that. I've got a trade, he answered. His father smiled thinly. What? he asked patronizingly. I'm a rocket pilot, the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks. His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. Yeah, he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle. A rocket pilot! His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. A ro— oh, no! —a rocket pilot ! The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little. Marty! His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs. What is it, Howard? Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress. Crazy kid, Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet. Come back here! he shouted. A rocket pilot, he cursedunder his breath. What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot! Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me.... Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet! Comeback here, you idiot! Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms. Are you sure, Howard? his wife asked faintly. Yes, I'm sure ! But, where's he going? Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me? Marty? Howard! Stop acting like a child and talk to me! Where is that boygoing? Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. I don't know, hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.Maybe, the moon, he told her sarcastically. Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11, had come ofage at seventeen. <doc-sep> THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. No, he said. I am notinterested in working for a degree. But— The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off thebasket. This program is just like the others you've followed for ninesemesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just aboutevery undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you goingto keep this up? I'm signed up for Astronomy 101, Isherwood pointed out. The faculty advisor snorted. A snap course. A breather, after you'vestudied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish?Scared of liberal arts? Isherwood shook his head. Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And thatAstronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—theywon't be talking about stars as check points, but as things inthemselves. Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it. The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. Still asnap. What's the difference, how you look at a star? Isherwood almost winced. Call it a hobby, he said. He looked down athis watch. Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven'tconvinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well giveup, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let'sgo get some beer. The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. Crazy,he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the nextman. The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, andsoftly quoted: Though I go bare, take ye no care,I am nothing a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old. Huh? Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to theunfamiliar. The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. It's apoem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact. Oh. Don't you give a damn? the advisor asked, with some peevishness. Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. Sorry, Dave, but no. It'snot my racket. The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.Strictly a specialist, huh? Ish nodded. Call it that. But what , for Pete's sake? What is this crazy specialty that blindsyou to all the fine things that man has done? Ish took a swallow of his beer. Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say itwas the finest thing that man has ever done. The advisor's lips twisted in derision. That's pretty fanatical, isn'tit? Uh-huh. Ish waved to the bartender for refills. <doc-sep> THE NAVION took a boiling thermal under its right wing and buckedupward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunettegirl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ishlaughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as thatsudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, andcorrected with a tilt of the wheel. Relax, Nan, he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.It's only air; nasty old air. The girl patted her short hair back into place. I wish you wouldn't flythis low, she said, half-frightened. Low? Call this low? Ish teased. Here. Let's drop it a little, andyou'll really get an idea of how fast we're going. He nudged thewheel forward, and the Navion dipped its nose in a shallow dive,flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with thechug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at theprotesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into adirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream. Marty! Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer,anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bankwith his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set.The Navion went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast asit could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal. And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased,and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost allexpression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under hisnose. Up, he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked onthe wheel. Up! The Navion broke through the cloud, kept going. Up. If he listenedclosely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ... Marty! ... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known.He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and theaircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands.Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. Scareyou—? he asked gently. She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm. Me too, he said. Lost my head. Sorry. <doc-sep> LOOK, HE told the girl, You got any idea of what it costs to maintaina racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew,my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged tenyears ago. I can't get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week?You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The onlysmart thing to do is wait a while. Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. That's what I've been tryingto say. Why do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can'tyou sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trainedpilot. He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tensefrom the strain of trying to make her understand. Now herelaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, andthe first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it wouldnot return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in thealmost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know. I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot, he said quietly. The Foo Isa means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into anyplant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing— any of them—andpick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have asgood as said so. After that— His voice had regained some of its formeranimation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. I'vetold you all this before. The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back toher, and put her fingers around his wrist. Darling! she said. If it'sthat rocket pilot business again.... Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. It's always 'that rocket pilot business,' he said, mimicking her voice. Damn it, I'mthe only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred andfifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and maththan anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words likebrennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of Colliers , and I— He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shruggedagain. I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job,and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait along time. All she could think of to say was, But, Darling, there aren't anyman-carrying rockets. That's not my fault, he said, and walked away from her. A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line witha scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest. <doc-sep> HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running ringsaround the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out ofthe crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face andin his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, andhuskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. Andhe was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his handsmoved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave animpromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to thepersonnel bunker with him. Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four yearsago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent nowon throwing himself away to the sky. She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of thepress section and ran over to him. Marty! She brushed past atechnician. He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. Well, Nan! hemumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched hisshoulder. I'm sorry, Marty, she said in a rush. I didn't understand. I couldn'tsee how much it all meant. Her face was flushed, and she spoke asrapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured awaythe guards she was afraid would interrupt her. But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. Youtrained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket! He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of theshocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move tostop him. Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying tobreak out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whosecandy is being taken away from him after only one bite. Rocket! he shouted into her terrified face. Rocket! Call that pileof tin a rocket? He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.Who cares about the bloody machines ! If I thought roller-skatingwould get me there, I would have gone to work in a rink when I wasseventeen! It's getting there that counts! Who gives a good goddam how it's done, or what with! And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards cameand got her. <doc-sep> SIT DOWN, Ish, the Flight Surgeon said. They always begin that way , Isherwood thought. The standard medicalopening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anythinghe might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression ashe ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinderof a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteenhours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go. How's it? the FS asked. Ish grinned and shrugged. All right. But he didn't usually grin. Therealization disquieted him a little. Think you'll make it? Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usualresponse-pattern. Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out. Uh- huh . The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.Look—you want to talk to a man for a while? What man? It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything hesaid or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If theywanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it. Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket. TheFlight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. Air Forceinsisted on it, as a matter of fact, he said. Can't really blame them.After all, it's their beast. Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh? Ish lit thecigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. Sure.Bring him on. The FS smiled. Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask himin right now? Sure. Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the FlightSurgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel. Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice. Ish nodded. How's that? The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit. Odd jobs, first of all? Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops. Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it? Ahuh. Took some of your pay in flying lessons. Right. MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead. Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it. No family. Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them. Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements. How's things between you and the opposite sex? About normal. No wife—no steady girl. Not a very good idea, in my racket. MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go! Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared. MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives. Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me? MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry. Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put some learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me! I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did. Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go. Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time. He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now. <doc-sep> ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. No, he said. But everybody fills out an application, she protested. No. I've got a job, he said as he had been saying for the last halfhour. The Receptionist sighed. If you'll only read the literature I'vegiven you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments havebeen cancelled. Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut thisnonsense. I've got to get back. But nobody goes back. Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but— He stoppedat the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. Thereception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD basketson the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinaryabout it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out atthe edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too.... Let's see your back! he rapped out, his voice high. She sighed in exasperation. If you'd read the literature ... Sheswiveled her chair slowly. No wings, he said. Of course not! she snapped. She brushed her hair away from herforehead without his telling her to. No horns, either. Streamlined, huh? he said bitterly. It's a little different for everybody, she said with unexpectedgentleness. It would have to be, wouldn't it? Yeah, I guess so, he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Sixhours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go. Who do I see? She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. See? About getting out of here! Come on, come on, he barked, snapping hisfingers impatiently. I haven't got much time. She smiled sweetly. Oh, but you do. Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Comeon! His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firmwith the purpose that drove him. Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a deskbutton. I'll call the Personnel Manager. Thanks, he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the waythe Receptionist looked a little like Nan. <doc-sep> THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode acrossthe lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched. Martin Isherwood! he exclaimed enthusiastically. I'm very glad tomeet you! I'll bet, Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a shortshake. I've got other ideas. I want out. That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir, theReceptionist said from behind her desk. The Personnel Manager frowned. Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented. But hardly usual, he added. Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after thepreliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready tobuckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a badgirl, either. He smiled at her. Sorry I lost my head, he said. She smiled back. It happens. He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung backto the Personnel Manager. Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got— He stopped tolook at his watch. Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling thebeast right now. Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut? Ish shook his head. I don't want to sound nasty, but that's yourproblem. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Look—you feel you've got a jobunfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's faceit—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, isit? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devotedyour life to. Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. Don't put words in my mouth!he snapped. Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I getaround this way again. Suddenly, he found himself pleading. All I needis a week, he said. It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures ofthe flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking anylaws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again.Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look likethe trip's responsible, of course. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Suppose— he began, but Ishinterrupted him. Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplaceto go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling you for. If you don't know, who does? The Personnel Manager smiled. I was about to say something. Ish stopped, abashed. Sorry. He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. You've gotto understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If itwere, human history would be very different, wouldn't it? Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whetheryou want to stay, after all. How long's it going to take? Ish flushed under the memory of havingactually begged for something. Not long, the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up atthe Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they weresuddenly standing. Earth, the Personnel Manager said. Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched bycloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice.The unblinking stars filled the night. He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting.Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only largeenough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon hadwaited. Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice theages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. Itwas the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through theyears, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimedthe Navion at, that day over the Everglades. It's not the same, he said. The Personnel Manager sighed. Don't you see, Ish said, It can't be the same. I didn't push thebeast up here. There wasn't any feel to it. There wasn't any sound ofrockets. The Personnel Manager sighed again. There wouldn't be, you know. Takingoff from the Station, landing here—vacuum. Ish shook his head. There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybodyelse to hear—and, maybe, maybe there would be. There'd be people,back on Earth, who'd hear it. All right, the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but hiseyes were shining a little. <doc-sep> ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you! There was a hand on his shoulder.Will you get a load of this guy! the voice said to someone else. Anhour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead. Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, feltthe blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands andfeet were very cold. Come on, Ish, the Crew Chief said. All right, he mumbled. Okay. I'm up. He sat on the edge of his bunklooking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. Hesighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs. Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit. The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into thecontrol seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, andbegan to brake for a landing. He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't leftany. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder. He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threwspotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. Hecould see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the dockingcrew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Stationwas a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at itall, dead-faced, his eyes empty. It was easy, he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the pressrepresentatives out of his way. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked hisstolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulleda coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to hisbunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead. Ish. It was MacKenzie, bending over him. Ish grunted. It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there. He was past emotions. Yeah? We couldn't take the chance. MacKenzie was trying desperately toexplain. You were the best there was—but you'd done something toyourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family.You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You werea rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book thatwasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident.You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, noprops, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong. We couldn't takethe chance, Ish! So? There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might haveforgotten to come back. You might have just kept going. He remembered the time with the Navion , and nodded. I might have. I hypnotized you, MacKenzie said. You were never dead. I don't knowwhat the details of your hallucination were, but the important part camethrough, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It tookall the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workadaytrip. I said it was easy, Ish said. There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill thatcomes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, andyou knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it? Yeah. Now get out before I kill you. He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—hedied on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful worldmourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he reallydied. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at anobservatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead andpurposeless eyes. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note. This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Martin Isherwood, and what are his characteristics?

Martin Isherwood is the main character of the story. He only wants one thing in life, which is to drive a rocket to the moon. Everything he does in his life is to reach that goal, he pushes everyone away. He pushes away his parents and his girlfriend because they didn’t understand the dream he was trying to accomplish. He is described as very determined, as he only has one thing in mind. He is also very stubborn, doesn’t heed the advice of others and also is described as irritable.

Who is Mackenzie, and what happens to him? [SEP] <s> He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself before.... DESIRE NO MORE by Algis Budrys ( illustrated by Milton Luros ) Desire no more than to thy lot may fall.... —Chaucer <doc-sep> THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head. But you've got to learn a trade, his father said, exasperated. Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that. I've got a trade, he answered. His father smiled thinly. What? he asked patronizingly. I'm a rocket pilot, the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks. His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. Yeah, he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle. A rocket pilot! His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. A ro— oh, no! —a rocket pilot ! The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little. Marty! His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs. What is it, Howard? Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress. Crazy kid, Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet. Come back here! he shouted. A rocket pilot, he cursedunder his breath. What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot! Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me.... Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet! Comeback here, you idiot! Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms. Are you sure, Howard? his wife asked faintly. Yes, I'm sure ! But, where's he going? Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me? Marty? Howard! Stop acting like a child and talk to me! Where is that boygoing? Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. I don't know, hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.Maybe, the moon, he told her sarcastically. Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11, had come ofage at seventeen. <doc-sep> THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. No, he said. I am notinterested in working for a degree. But— The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off thebasket. This program is just like the others you've followed for ninesemesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just aboutevery undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you goingto keep this up? I'm signed up for Astronomy 101, Isherwood pointed out. The faculty advisor snorted. A snap course. A breather, after you'vestudied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish?Scared of liberal arts? Isherwood shook his head. Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And thatAstronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—theywon't be talking about stars as check points, but as things inthemselves. Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it. The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. Still asnap. What's the difference, how you look at a star? Isherwood almost winced. Call it a hobby, he said. He looked down athis watch. Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven'tconvinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well giveup, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let'sgo get some beer. The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. Crazy,he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the nextman. The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, andsoftly quoted: Though I go bare, take ye no care,I am nothing a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old. Huh? Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to theunfamiliar. The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. It's apoem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact. Oh. Don't you give a damn? the advisor asked, with some peevishness. Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. Sorry, Dave, but no. It'snot my racket. The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.Strictly a specialist, huh? Ish nodded. Call it that. But what , for Pete's sake? What is this crazy specialty that blindsyou to all the fine things that man has done? Ish took a swallow of his beer. Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say itwas the finest thing that man has ever done. The advisor's lips twisted in derision. That's pretty fanatical, isn'tit? Uh-huh. Ish waved to the bartender for refills. <doc-sep> THE NAVION took a boiling thermal under its right wing and buckedupward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunettegirl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ishlaughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as thatsudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, andcorrected with a tilt of the wheel. Relax, Nan, he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.It's only air; nasty old air. The girl patted her short hair back into place. I wish you wouldn't flythis low, she said, half-frightened. Low? Call this low? Ish teased. Here. Let's drop it a little, andyou'll really get an idea of how fast we're going. He nudged thewheel forward, and the Navion dipped its nose in a shallow dive,flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with thechug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at theprotesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into adirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream. Marty! Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer,anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bankwith his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set.The Navion went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast asit could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal. And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased,and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost allexpression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under hisnose. Up, he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked onthe wheel. Up! The Navion broke through the cloud, kept going. Up. If he listenedclosely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ... Marty! ... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known.He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and theaircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands.Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. Scareyou—? he asked gently. She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm. Me too, he said. Lost my head. Sorry. <doc-sep> LOOK, HE told the girl, You got any idea of what it costs to maintaina racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew,my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged tenyears ago. I can't get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week?You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The onlysmart thing to do is wait a while. Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. That's what I've been tryingto say. Why do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can'tyou sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trainedpilot. He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tensefrom the strain of trying to make her understand. Now herelaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, andthe first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it wouldnot return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in thealmost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know. I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot, he said quietly. The Foo Isa means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into anyplant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing— any of them—andpick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have asgood as said so. After that— His voice had regained some of its formeranimation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. I'vetold you all this before. The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back toher, and put her fingers around his wrist. Darling! she said. If it'sthat rocket pilot business again.... Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. It's always 'that rocket pilot business,' he said, mimicking her voice. Damn it, I'mthe only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred andfifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and maththan anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words likebrennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of Colliers , and I— He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shruggedagain. I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job,and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait along time. All she could think of to say was, But, Darling, there aren't anyman-carrying rockets. That's not my fault, he said, and walked away from her. A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line witha scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest. <doc-sep> HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running ringsaround the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out ofthe crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face andin his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, andhuskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. Andhe was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his handsmoved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave animpromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to thepersonnel bunker with him. Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four yearsago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent nowon throwing himself away to the sky. She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of thepress section and ran over to him. Marty! She brushed past atechnician. He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. Well, Nan! hemumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched hisshoulder. I'm sorry, Marty, she said in a rush. I didn't understand. I couldn'tsee how much it all meant. Her face was flushed, and she spoke asrapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured awaythe guards she was afraid would interrupt her. But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. Youtrained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket! He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of theshocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move tostop him. Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying tobreak out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whosecandy is being taken away from him after only one bite. Rocket! he shouted into her terrified face. Rocket! Call that pileof tin a rocket? He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.Who cares about the bloody machines ! If I thought roller-skatingwould get me there, I would have gone to work in a rink when I wasseventeen! It's getting there that counts! Who gives a good goddam how it's done, or what with! And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards cameand got her. <doc-sep> SIT DOWN, Ish, the Flight Surgeon said. They always begin that way , Isherwood thought. The standard medicalopening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anythinghe might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression ashe ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinderof a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteenhours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go. How's it? the FS asked. Ish grinned and shrugged. All right. But he didn't usually grin. Therealization disquieted him a little. Think you'll make it? Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usualresponse-pattern. Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out. Uh- huh . The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.Look—you want to talk to a man for a while? What man? It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything hesaid or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If theywanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it. Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket. TheFlight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. Air Forceinsisted on it, as a matter of fact, he said. Can't really blame them.After all, it's their beast. Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh? Ish lit thecigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. Sure.Bring him on. The FS smiled. Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask himin right now? Sure. Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the FlightSurgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel. Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice. Ish nodded. How's that? The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit. Odd jobs, first of all? Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops. Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it? Ahuh. Took some of your pay in flying lessons. Right. MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead. Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it. No family. Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them. Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements. How's things between you and the opposite sex? About normal. No wife—no steady girl. Not a very good idea, in my racket. MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go! Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared. MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives. Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me? MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry. Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put some learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me! I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did. Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go. Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time. He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now. <doc-sep> ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. No, he said. But everybody fills out an application, she protested. No. I've got a job, he said as he had been saying for the last halfhour. The Receptionist sighed. If you'll only read the literature I'vegiven you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments havebeen cancelled. Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut thisnonsense. I've got to get back. But nobody goes back. Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but— He stoppedat the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. Thereception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD basketson the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinaryabout it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out atthe edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too.... Let's see your back! he rapped out, his voice high. She sighed in exasperation. If you'd read the literature ... Sheswiveled her chair slowly. No wings, he said. Of course not! she snapped. She brushed her hair away from herforehead without his telling her to. No horns, either. Streamlined, huh? he said bitterly. It's a little different for everybody, she said with unexpectedgentleness. It would have to be, wouldn't it? Yeah, I guess so, he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Sixhours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go. Who do I see? She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. See? About getting out of here! Come on, come on, he barked, snapping hisfingers impatiently. I haven't got much time. She smiled sweetly. Oh, but you do. Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Comeon! His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firmwith the purpose that drove him. Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a deskbutton. I'll call the Personnel Manager. Thanks, he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the waythe Receptionist looked a little like Nan. <doc-sep> THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode acrossthe lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched. Martin Isherwood! he exclaimed enthusiastically. I'm very glad tomeet you! I'll bet, Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a shortshake. I've got other ideas. I want out. That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir, theReceptionist said from behind her desk. The Personnel Manager frowned. Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented. But hardly usual, he added. Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after thepreliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready tobuckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a badgirl, either. He smiled at her. Sorry I lost my head, he said. She smiled back. It happens. He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung backto the Personnel Manager. Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got— He stopped tolook at his watch. Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling thebeast right now. Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut? Ish shook his head. I don't want to sound nasty, but that's yourproblem. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Look—you feel you've got a jobunfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's faceit—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, isit? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devotedyour life to. Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. Don't put words in my mouth!he snapped. Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I getaround this way again. Suddenly, he found himself pleading. All I needis a week, he said. It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures ofthe flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking anylaws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again.Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look likethe trip's responsible, of course. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Suppose— he began, but Ishinterrupted him. Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplaceto go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling you for. If you don't know, who does? The Personnel Manager smiled. I was about to say something. Ish stopped, abashed. Sorry. He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. You've gotto understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If itwere, human history would be very different, wouldn't it? Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whetheryou want to stay, after all. How long's it going to take? Ish flushed under the memory of havingactually begged for something. Not long, the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up atthe Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they weresuddenly standing. Earth, the Personnel Manager said. Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched bycloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice.The unblinking stars filled the night. He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting.Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only largeenough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon hadwaited. Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice theages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. Itwas the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through theyears, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimedthe Navion at, that day over the Everglades. It's not the same, he said. The Personnel Manager sighed. Don't you see, Ish said, It can't be the same. I didn't push thebeast up here. There wasn't any feel to it. There wasn't any sound ofrockets. The Personnel Manager sighed again. There wouldn't be, you know. Takingoff from the Station, landing here—vacuum. Ish shook his head. There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybodyelse to hear—and, maybe, maybe there would be. There'd be people,back on Earth, who'd hear it. All right, the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but hiseyes were shining a little. <doc-sep> ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you! There was a hand on his shoulder.Will you get a load of this guy! the voice said to someone else. Anhour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead. Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, feltthe blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands andfeet were very cold. Come on, Ish, the Crew Chief said. All right, he mumbled. Okay. I'm up. He sat on the edge of his bunklooking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. Hesighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs. Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit. The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into thecontrol seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, andbegan to brake for a landing. He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't leftany. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder. He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threwspotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. Hecould see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the dockingcrew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Stationwas a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at itall, dead-faced, his eyes empty. It was easy, he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the pressrepresentatives out of his way. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked hisstolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulleda coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to hisbunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead. Ish. It was MacKenzie, bending over him. Ish grunted. It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there. He was past emotions. Yeah? We couldn't take the chance. MacKenzie was trying desperately toexplain. You were the best there was—but you'd done something toyourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family.You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You werea rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book thatwasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident.You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, noprops, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong. We couldn't takethe chance, Ish! So? There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might haveforgotten to come back. You might have just kept going. He remembered the time with the Navion , and nodded. I might have. I hypnotized you, MacKenzie said. You were never dead. I don't knowwhat the details of your hallucination were, but the important part camethrough, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It tookall the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workadaytrip. I said it was easy, Ish said. There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill thatcomes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, andyou knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it? Yeah. Now get out before I kill you. He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—hedied on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful worldmourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he reallydied. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at anobservatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead andpurposeless eyes. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note. This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Mackenzie, and what happens to him?

Mackenzie is an army therapist who first meets Martin when he is asked to vet him before he goes on a trip for the airforce. Mackenzie tries to test Martin a lot, but ends up clearing him and allowing him to fly. At the end, it is also Mackenzie who tells Martin what had actually happened to him, and that what he thought was a routine trip was in fact Martin’s first trip to the moon. Mackenzie struggles with telling Martin this, but ends up doing it. This news ends up hurting Martin mentally, and it is insinuated that Martin holds a grudge forever against Mackenzie.

What is the significance of other people's words about the rocket? [SEP] <s> He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself before.... DESIRE NO MORE by Algis Budrys ( illustrated by Milton Luros ) Desire no more than to thy lot may fall.... —Chaucer <doc-sep> THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head. But you've got to learn a trade, his father said, exasperated. Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that. I've got a trade, he answered. His father smiled thinly. What? he asked patronizingly. I'm a rocket pilot, the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks. His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. Yeah, he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle. A rocket pilot! His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. A ro— oh, no! —a rocket pilot ! The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little. Marty! His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs. What is it, Howard? Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress. Crazy kid, Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet. Come back here! he shouted. A rocket pilot, he cursedunder his breath. What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot! Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me.... Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet! Comeback here, you idiot! Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms. Are you sure, Howard? his wife asked faintly. Yes, I'm sure ! But, where's he going? Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me? Marty? Howard! Stop acting like a child and talk to me! Where is that boygoing? Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. I don't know, hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.Maybe, the moon, he told her sarcastically. Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11, had come ofage at seventeen. <doc-sep> THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. No, he said. I am notinterested in working for a degree. But— The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off thebasket. This program is just like the others you've followed for ninesemesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just aboutevery undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you goingto keep this up? I'm signed up for Astronomy 101, Isherwood pointed out. The faculty advisor snorted. A snap course. A breather, after you'vestudied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish?Scared of liberal arts? Isherwood shook his head. Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And thatAstronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—theywon't be talking about stars as check points, but as things inthemselves. Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it. The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. Still asnap. What's the difference, how you look at a star? Isherwood almost winced. Call it a hobby, he said. He looked down athis watch. Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven'tconvinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well giveup, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let'sgo get some beer. The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. Crazy,he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the nextman. The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, andsoftly quoted: Though I go bare, take ye no care,I am nothing a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old. Huh? Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to theunfamiliar. The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. It's apoem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact. Oh. Don't you give a damn? the advisor asked, with some peevishness. Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. Sorry, Dave, but no. It'snot my racket. The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.Strictly a specialist, huh? Ish nodded. Call it that. But what , for Pete's sake? What is this crazy specialty that blindsyou to all the fine things that man has done? Ish took a swallow of his beer. Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say itwas the finest thing that man has ever done. The advisor's lips twisted in derision. That's pretty fanatical, isn'tit? Uh-huh. Ish waved to the bartender for refills. <doc-sep> THE NAVION took a boiling thermal under its right wing and buckedupward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunettegirl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ishlaughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as thatsudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, andcorrected with a tilt of the wheel. Relax, Nan, he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.It's only air; nasty old air. The girl patted her short hair back into place. I wish you wouldn't flythis low, she said, half-frightened. Low? Call this low? Ish teased. Here. Let's drop it a little, andyou'll really get an idea of how fast we're going. He nudged thewheel forward, and the Navion dipped its nose in a shallow dive,flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with thechug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at theprotesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into adirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream. Marty! Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer,anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bankwith his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set.The Navion went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast asit could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal. And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased,and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost allexpression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under hisnose. Up, he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked onthe wheel. Up! The Navion broke through the cloud, kept going. Up. If he listenedclosely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ... Marty! ... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known.He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and theaircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands.Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. Scareyou—? he asked gently. She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm. Me too, he said. Lost my head. Sorry. <doc-sep> LOOK, HE told the girl, You got any idea of what it costs to maintaina racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew,my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged tenyears ago. I can't get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week?You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The onlysmart thing to do is wait a while. Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. That's what I've been tryingto say. Why do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can'tyou sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trainedpilot. He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tensefrom the strain of trying to make her understand. Now herelaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, andthe first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it wouldnot return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in thealmost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know. I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot, he said quietly. The Foo Isa means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into anyplant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing— any of them—andpick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have asgood as said so. After that— His voice had regained some of its formeranimation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. I'vetold you all this before. The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back toher, and put her fingers around his wrist. Darling! she said. If it'sthat rocket pilot business again.... Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. It's always 'that rocket pilot business,' he said, mimicking her voice. Damn it, I'mthe only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred andfifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and maththan anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words likebrennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of Colliers , and I— He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shruggedagain. I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job,and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait along time. All she could think of to say was, But, Darling, there aren't anyman-carrying rockets. That's not my fault, he said, and walked away from her. A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line witha scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest. <doc-sep> HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running ringsaround the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out ofthe crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face andin his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, andhuskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. Andhe was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his handsmoved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave animpromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to thepersonnel bunker with him. Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four yearsago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent nowon throwing himself away to the sky. She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of thepress section and ran over to him. Marty! She brushed past atechnician. He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. Well, Nan! hemumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched hisshoulder. I'm sorry, Marty, she said in a rush. I didn't understand. I couldn'tsee how much it all meant. Her face was flushed, and she spoke asrapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured awaythe guards she was afraid would interrupt her. But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. Youtrained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket! He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of theshocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move tostop him. Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying tobreak out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whosecandy is being taken away from him after only one bite. Rocket! he shouted into her terrified face. Rocket! Call that pileof tin a rocket? He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.Who cares about the bloody machines ! If I thought roller-skatingwould get me there, I would have gone to work in a rink when I wasseventeen! It's getting there that counts! Who gives a good goddam how it's done, or what with! And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards cameand got her. <doc-sep> SIT DOWN, Ish, the Flight Surgeon said. They always begin that way , Isherwood thought. The standard medicalopening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anythinghe might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression ashe ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinderof a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteenhours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go. How's it? the FS asked. Ish grinned and shrugged. All right. But he didn't usually grin. Therealization disquieted him a little. Think you'll make it? Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usualresponse-pattern. Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out. Uh- huh . The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.Look—you want to talk to a man for a while? What man? It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything hesaid or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If theywanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it. Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket. TheFlight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. Air Forceinsisted on it, as a matter of fact, he said. Can't really blame them.After all, it's their beast. Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh? Ish lit thecigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. Sure.Bring him on. The FS smiled. Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask himin right now? Sure. Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the FlightSurgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel. Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice. Ish nodded. How's that? The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit. Odd jobs, first of all? Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops. Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it? Ahuh. Took some of your pay in flying lessons. Right. MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead. Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it. No family. Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them. Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements. How's things between you and the opposite sex? About normal. No wife—no steady girl. Not a very good idea, in my racket. MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go! Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared. MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives. Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me? MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry. Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put some learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me! I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did. Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go. Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time. He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now. <doc-sep> ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. No, he said. But everybody fills out an application, she protested. No. I've got a job, he said as he had been saying for the last halfhour. The Receptionist sighed. If you'll only read the literature I'vegiven you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments havebeen cancelled. Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut thisnonsense. I've got to get back. But nobody goes back. Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but— He stoppedat the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. Thereception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD basketson the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinaryabout it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out atthe edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too.... Let's see your back! he rapped out, his voice high. She sighed in exasperation. If you'd read the literature ... Sheswiveled her chair slowly. No wings, he said. Of course not! she snapped. She brushed her hair away from herforehead without his telling her to. No horns, either. Streamlined, huh? he said bitterly. It's a little different for everybody, she said with unexpectedgentleness. It would have to be, wouldn't it? Yeah, I guess so, he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Sixhours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go. Who do I see? She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. See? About getting out of here! Come on, come on, he barked, snapping hisfingers impatiently. I haven't got much time. She smiled sweetly. Oh, but you do. Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Comeon! His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firmwith the purpose that drove him. Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a deskbutton. I'll call the Personnel Manager. Thanks, he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the waythe Receptionist looked a little like Nan. <doc-sep> THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode acrossthe lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched. Martin Isherwood! he exclaimed enthusiastically. I'm very glad tomeet you! I'll bet, Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a shortshake. I've got other ideas. I want out. That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir, theReceptionist said from behind her desk. The Personnel Manager frowned. Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented. But hardly usual, he added. Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after thepreliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready tobuckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a badgirl, either. He smiled at her. Sorry I lost my head, he said. She smiled back. It happens. He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung backto the Personnel Manager. Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got— He stopped tolook at his watch. Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling thebeast right now. Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut? Ish shook his head. I don't want to sound nasty, but that's yourproblem. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Look—you feel you've got a jobunfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's faceit—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, isit? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devotedyour life to. Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. Don't put words in my mouth!he snapped. Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I getaround this way again. Suddenly, he found himself pleading. All I needis a week, he said. It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures ofthe flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking anylaws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again.Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look likethe trip's responsible, of course. The Personnel Manager hesitated. Suppose— he began, but Ishinterrupted him. Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplaceto go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling you for. If you don't know, who does? The Personnel Manager smiled. I was about to say something. Ish stopped, abashed. Sorry. He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. You've gotto understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If itwere, human history would be very different, wouldn't it? Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whetheryou want to stay, after all. How long's it going to take? Ish flushed under the memory of havingactually begged for something. Not long, the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up atthe Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they weresuddenly standing. Earth, the Personnel Manager said. Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched bycloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice.The unblinking stars filled the night. He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting.Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only largeenough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon hadwaited. Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice theages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. Itwas the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through theyears, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimedthe Navion at, that day over the Everglades. It's not the same, he said. The Personnel Manager sighed. Don't you see, Ish said, It can't be the same. I didn't push thebeast up here. There wasn't any feel to it. There wasn't any sound ofrockets. The Personnel Manager sighed again. There wouldn't be, you know. Takingoff from the Station, landing here—vacuum. Ish shook his head. There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybodyelse to hear—and, maybe, maybe there would be. There'd be people,back on Earth, who'd hear it. All right, the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but hiseyes were shining a little. <doc-sep> ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you! There was a hand on his shoulder.Will you get a load of this guy! the voice said to someone else. Anhour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead. Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, feltthe blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands andfeet were very cold. Come on, Ish, the Crew Chief said. All right, he mumbled. Okay. I'm up. He sat on the edge of his bunklooking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. Hesighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs. Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit. The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into thecontrol seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, andbegan to brake for a landing. He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't leftany. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder. He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threwspotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. Hecould see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the dockingcrew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Stationwas a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at itall, dead-faced, his eyes empty. It was easy, he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the pressrepresentatives out of his way. <doc-sep> MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked hisstolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulleda coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to hisbunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead. Ish. It was MacKenzie, bending over him. Ish grunted. It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there. He was past emotions. Yeah? We couldn't take the chance. MacKenzie was trying desperately toexplain. You were the best there was—but you'd done something toyourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family.You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You werea rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book thatwasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident.You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, noprops, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong. We couldn't takethe chance, Ish! So? There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might haveforgotten to come back. You might have just kept going. He remembered the time with the Navion , and nodded. I might have. I hypnotized you, MacKenzie said. You were never dead. I don't knowwhat the details of your hallucination were, but the important part camethrough, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It tookall the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workadaytrip. I said it was easy, Ish said. There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill thatcomes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, andyou knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it? Yeah. Now get out before I kill you. He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—hedied on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful worldmourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he reallydied. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at anobservatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead andpurposeless eyes. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note. This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of other people's words about the rocket?

One of the greatest challenges that Martin faces in his journey to become a rocket pilot is the negativity that comes from other people. Almost everyone that Martin meets advises him that he is wasting his life, and that he should focus on something more realistic that can allow him to have a family. His parents, his girlfriend, and Mackenzie all tell him that he should settle for a plane pilot or should focus his career on something else, something less risky. These words only help to make Martin more determined to become a pilot, because he wants to prove everyone wrong.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ... CONTROL GROUP By ROGER DEE <doc-sep> The cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the Marco Four down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter. Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven: No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper— Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you sleep with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow? Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand. No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi. And I think you live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will! But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here? He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it. Gib's right, he said. Henearly added as usual . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you? Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the Marco Four out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors. Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms. So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible. When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The Marco Four , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon. Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality. Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain. Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us? I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft. Stryker was not reassured. That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know. They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six. There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world. Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds. But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning. The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet. Gibson disagreed. We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight. Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him. If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now? Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics. Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name are they? Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory. Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime? I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait. Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur. Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive. You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier. Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the MarcoFour . Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe Lament for Old Terra withyour accordion. Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer. They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck? Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur? Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet? The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the Marco Four . They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky. At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav? Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets. The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission. Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation. Continuous fission? GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that! Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad men ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk. They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end— Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav? Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since. Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk— Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get here ? Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim. Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not— Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings , Strykerquoted his Handbook, can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity . If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here. He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued. The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here? It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here. We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us how ,we're ready to move. I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time. Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation. Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining. Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget. Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship couldn't have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated— And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six. But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation. Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew? We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now? Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav? But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead. We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform? Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures did succeed? Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless. Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal. Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us. Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures. I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown— Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness. He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery. Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship. At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable. Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside. The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the Marco would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon. The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery. The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short. A creche , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated. One of those old ventures had succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application? Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground. He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded. The Marco Four , ports open,lay grounded outside. Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid. Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence. He reached the Marco Four with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly. He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim. What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down! Farrell gaped at him, speechless. Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe Marco Four down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians. Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble. Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too? It was Gibson's turn to stare. No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic. Friendly? That torpedo— It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines. Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully. We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once. They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight? The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here. Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where did they come from? From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments. Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation. Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation. Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively. But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense! But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out. Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture? Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The story is set in the fourth millennium, and humans have invented a technology - the Ringwave propulsion-communication principle - that allows them to explore the neighboring cosmic systems. In the past, they were invaded by an alien species called Hymenops, or the Bees, who enslaved Terrans, and tried to colonize other planets but unexpectedly left years later. The crew members of the spaceship Marco Four are on a mission looking for the slave colonies that were abandoned by the Bees. Farrell, the navigator, is arguing with captain Stryker, Gibson - an engineer - and Xavier, the ship’s mechanic, and is trying to convince them to land on Alphard Six and claiming the planet is not inhabited. Stryker reminds him about the importance of vigilance on unexplored territories and tells Farrell to find a reconnaissance spiral. Something resembling an atomic torpedo explodes near the ship, rocking it. Later, the crew starts discussing who can possibly live on Alphard Six. They know that in the year 3000, there was no one on the planet. The ones who attacked them might be the Hymenopes or some Terrans enslaved by them, or even an unknown alien culture. The screen shows a town with a thousand buildings and a prehistoric ship with rocket propulsion. This ship seems to be eleven hundred years old, which is puzzling. This atomic-powered spaceship neither could’ve been constructed here nor could it have successfully traveled for hundreds of years. The area around Alphard Six was guarded by the Bees for several hundred years. So, it would be impossible for this ancient Terran ship to land on the planet without being detected by them. Farrell interrupts the discussion and suggests they go down and look. He gets on a helihopper, and Xavier quickly disappears in his scouter. The two other crew members left on the ship say that they just detected an electromagnetic vibration. Farrell notices a bonfire near the town. He is ready to report it when his helihopper suddenly jerks, a flare of electric discharge blinds him, and Farrell loses consciousness. He wakes up in an infirmary. A doctor speaks in unintelligible words and gestures to Farrell to follow him. While walking through the corridors of the ancient ship, he notices Xavier’s scouter, and later the Marco Four. Shocked, Farrell rapidly plunges inside the spaceship, and it darts up when suddenly Stryker appears from the sleeping cubicle and orders him to fly back. Gibson explains that Farrell piloted his helihopper into power lines and crashed. The Alphardians tried to communicate with the crew using an electromagnetic wave language and never attacked them. The Bees made the ancestors of these people believe that they were the descendants of an Earth expedition that perished a thousand years ago. The Alphardians don’t even know the Hymenops. Apparently, the Bees wanted to monitor the human species in a natural habitat. But they never understood human logic and after all, left all their colonies.

Who is Farrell and what happens to him throughout the story? [SEP] <s> Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ... CONTROL GROUP By ROGER DEE <doc-sep> The cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the Marco Four down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter. Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven: No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper— Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you sleep with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow? Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand. No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi. And I think you live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will! But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here? He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it. Gib's right, he said. Henearly added as usual . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you? Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the Marco Four out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors. Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms. So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible. When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The Marco Four , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon. Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality. Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain. Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us? I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft. Stryker was not reassured. That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know. They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six. There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world. Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds. But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning. The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet. Gibson disagreed. We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight. Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him. If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now? Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics. Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name are they? Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory. Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime? I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait. Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur. Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive. You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier. Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the MarcoFour . Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe Lament for Old Terra withyour accordion. Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer. They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck? Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur? Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet? The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the Marco Four . They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky. At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav? Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets. The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission. Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation. Continuous fission? GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that! Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad men ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk. They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end— Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav? Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since. Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk— Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get here ? Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim. Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not— Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings , Strykerquoted his Handbook, can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity . If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here. He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued. The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here? It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here. We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us how ,we're ready to move. I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time. Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation. Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining. Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget. Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship couldn't have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated— And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six. But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation. Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew? We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now? Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav? But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead. We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform? Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures did succeed? Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless. Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal. Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us. Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures. I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown— Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness. He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery. Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship. At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable. Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside. The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the Marco would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon. The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery. The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short. A creche , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated. One of those old ventures had succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application? Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground. He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded. The Marco Four , ports open,lay grounded outside. Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid. Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence. He reached the Marco Four with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly. He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim. What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down! Farrell gaped at him, speechless. Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe Marco Four down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians. Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble. Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too? It was Gibson's turn to stare. No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic. Friendly? That torpedo— It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines. Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully. We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once. They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight? The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here. Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where did they come from? From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments. Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation. Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation. Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively. But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense! But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out. Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture? Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Farrell and what happens to him throughout the story?

Arthur Farrell is the ship’s navigator, the youngest and most impulsive member of the crew. He tries to convince captain Stryker to land on Alphard Six, claiming that it cannot be inhabited. Stryker doesn’t agree and orders Farrell to find a reconnaissance spiral. After the torpedo explodes near the ship, they all discuss who the attackers could be. Farrell points out that there was no sign of life on Alphard Six around the year 3000, so the inhabitants appeared after this. Farrell agrees to be sent to the planet’s surface and explore. They continue talking and soon see an ancient ship in the center of the planet’s town. Farrell is quick to state that it couldn’t have come from Earth because it would've taken hundreds of years to travel here, and the ship’s ancient technology is not effective enough for such a voyage. Irritated, he interrupts the discussion and suggests he and Xavier go down and see who the inhabitants are. Farrell flies in a helihopper and notices a bonfire near the town. He starts reporting when the helihopper’s carriage crumples, an electric discharge blinds Farrell, and he momentarily loses consciousness. Later, he wakes up with a brutal headache in an infirmary inside the ancient ship. A medic with anachronistic spectacles and gray hair uses unintelligible words and gestures to Farrell to follow him. They pass several open ports, and he sees Xavier’s scouter and later the Marco Four. Shocked, he runs to the spaceship and takes off, when unexpectedly Stryker appears near him, ordering him to take the ship down. Soon Gibson explains that Farrell piloted into metallic power lines, and the crash put him out for almost a day. These Alphardians are incredibly friendly. The object the crew considered a torpedo was actually an emergency boat the inhabitants sent to the spaceship to make sure the people on board noticed their colony. Their spaceship’s technology set off the atomic engines of the boat, making it explode. Gibson and Xavier recognized an old language of frequency modulation the night before, heard about Farrell’s crash, and landed the ship to help. It turns out that the expedition that left Terra for Sirius in 2171 perished soon, and the Bees brought the spacecraft here. They also brought some people from their peripheral colonies conditioned to believe themselves descendants of the expedition. They have been let alone. Farrell understands that the Bees were trying to monitor this group and understand humans’ logic, but they never did.

Who is Stryker and what are his characteristics? [SEP] <s> Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ... CONTROL GROUP By ROGER DEE <doc-sep> The cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the Marco Four down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter. Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven: No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper— Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you sleep with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow? Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand. No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi. And I think you live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will! But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here? He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it. Gib's right, he said. Henearly added as usual . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you? Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the Marco Four out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors. Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms. So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible. When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The Marco Four , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon. Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality. Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain. Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us? I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft. Stryker was not reassured. That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know. They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six. There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world. Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds. But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning. The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet. Gibson disagreed. We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight. Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him. If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now? Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics. Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name are they? Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory. Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime? I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait. Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur. Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive. You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier. Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the MarcoFour . Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe Lament for Old Terra withyour accordion. Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer. They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck? Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur? Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet? The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the Marco Four . They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky. At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav? Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets. The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission. Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation. Continuous fission? GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that! Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad men ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk. They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end— Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav? Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since. Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk— Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get here ? Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim. Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not— Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings , Strykerquoted his Handbook, can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity . If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here. He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued. The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here? It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here. We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us how ,we're ready to move. I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time. Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation. Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining. Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget. Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship couldn't have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated— And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six. But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation. Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew? We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now? Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav? But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead. We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform? Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures did succeed? Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless. Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal. Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us. Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures. I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown— Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness. He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery. Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship. At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable. Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside. The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the Marco would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon. The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery. The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short. A creche , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated. One of those old ventures had succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application? Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground. He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded. The Marco Four , ports open,lay grounded outside. Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid. Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence. He reached the Marco Four with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly. He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim. What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down! Farrell gaped at him, speechless. Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe Marco Four down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians. Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble. Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too? It was Gibson's turn to stare. No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic. Friendly? That torpedo— It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines. Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully. We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once. They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight? The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here. Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where did they come from? From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments. Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation. Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation. Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively. But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense! But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out. Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture? Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Stryker and what are his characteristics?

Stryker is a crew member of the Marco Four, nominally captain of the group sent on a mission to locate the Terran slaves that were abandoned by the Bees. He seems experienced, calm, and disciplined, always following the Reclamation Handbook. Stryker has fought the Hymenops and spent a lot of time trying to understand their behavior. He values his team and doesn’t want to risk them or their ship in the search for the unknown and, for example, was ready to pull Xavier back when they just detected the waves, fearing it could be something lethal. He appreciates Farrell’s eagerness to find the new and enjoys bantering with him; he also respects other crew members, like Gibson and Xavier, and attentively listens to them when they discuss the origin of the atomic-powered ship. Stryker is intelligent enough to determine that this ancient ship couldn’t have been constructed on this planet - it was brought from somewhere else.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ... CONTROL GROUP By ROGER DEE <doc-sep> The cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the Marco Four down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter. Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven: No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper— Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you sleep with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow? Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand. No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi. And I think you live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will! But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here? He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it. Gib's right, he said. Henearly added as usual . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you? Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the Marco Four out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors. Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms. So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible. When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The Marco Four , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon. Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality. Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain. Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us? I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft. Stryker was not reassured. That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know. They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six. There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world. Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds. But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning. The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet. Gibson disagreed. We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight. Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him. If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now? Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics. Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name are they? Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory. Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime? I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait. Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur. Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive. You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier. Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the MarcoFour . Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe Lament for Old Terra withyour accordion. Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer. They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck? Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur? Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet? The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the Marco Four . They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky. At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav? Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets. The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission. Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation. Continuous fission? GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that! Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad men ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk. They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end— Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav? Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since. Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk— Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get here ? Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim. Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not— Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings , Strykerquoted his Handbook, can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity . If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here. He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued. The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here? It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here. We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us how ,we're ready to move. I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time. Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation. Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining. Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget. Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship couldn't have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated— And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six. But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation. Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew? We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now? Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav? But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead. We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform? Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures did succeed? Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless. Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal. Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us. Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures. I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown— Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness. He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery. Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship. At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable. Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside. The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the Marco would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon. The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery. The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short. A creche , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated. One of those old ventures had succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application? Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground. He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded. The Marco Four , ports open,lay grounded outside. Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid. Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence. He reached the Marco Four with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly. He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim. What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down! Farrell gaped at him, speechless. Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe Marco Four down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians. Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble. Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too? It was Gibson's turn to stare. No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic. Friendly? That torpedo— It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines. Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully. We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once. They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight? The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here. Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where did they come from? From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments. Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation. Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation. Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively. But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense! But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out. Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture? Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The story begins on a spaceship called the Marco Four. It is working on Ringwave generators and hangs inside the orbit of a dun-colored moon of the green planet Alphard Six. This ship has several tools, including a magnoscanner, the Zero Interval Transfer computer, and a screen that shows the surface of the planet. Then Farrell gets on a helihopper and soon crashes. The next day he wakes up in an infirmary with white walls, tables, lockers, chests, and some unfamiliar chemical odor. It is one of the rooms of the ancient ship located in the central square of the town on Alphard Six. Farrell then walks down a bare corridor with a metal floor and rare open ports that let in a flood of reddish sunlight. He goes through storage rooms, hydroponics gardens, a gymnasium, a nursery, and a power room. He also notices the Marco Four parked near the square.

What is the significance of the Ringwave technology? [SEP] <s> Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ... CONTROL GROUP By ROGER DEE <doc-sep> The cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the Marco Four down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter. Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven: No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper— Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you sleep with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow? Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand. No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi. And I think you live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will! But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here? He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it. Gib's right, he said. Henearly added as usual . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you? Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the Marco Four out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors. Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms. So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible. When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The Marco Four , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon. Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality. Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain. Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us? I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft. Stryker was not reassured. That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know. They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six. There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world. Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds. But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning. The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet. Gibson disagreed. We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight. Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him. If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now? Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics. Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name are they? Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory. Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime? I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait. Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur. Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive. You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier. Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the MarcoFour . Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe Lament for Old Terra withyour accordion. Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer. They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck? Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur? Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet? The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the Marco Four . They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky. At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav? Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets. The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission. Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation. Continuous fission? GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that! Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad men ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk. They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end— Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav? Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since. Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk— Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get here ? Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim. Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not— Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings , Strykerquoted his Handbook, can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity . If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here. He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued. The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here? It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here. We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us how ,we're ready to move. I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time. Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation. Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining. Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget. Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship couldn't have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated— And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six. But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation. Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew? We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now? Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav? But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead. We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform? Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures did succeed? Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless. Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal. Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us. Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures. I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown— Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness. He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery. Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship. At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable. Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside. The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the Marco would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon. The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery. The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short. A creche , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated. One of those old ventures had succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application? Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground. He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded. The Marco Four , ports open,lay grounded outside. Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid. Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence. He reached the Marco Four with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly. He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim. What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down! Farrell gaped at him, speechless. Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe Marco Four down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians. Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble. Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too? It was Gibson's turn to stare. No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic. Friendly? That torpedo— It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines. Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully. We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once. They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight? The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here. Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where did they come from? From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments. Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation. Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation. Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively. But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense! But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out. Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture? Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the Ringwave technology?

The Ringwave technology allowed humans to explore the neighboring systems of planets, find new habitable territories, and colonize them. It also partially leads to the invasion of the Bees and allows humans to fight with them. The knowledge about the history of the Ringwave propulsion-communication principle, especially the fact that it was discovered in 2100, also helps the crew realize that the spaceship on planet Alphard Six is atomic-powered and thus prehistoric. It’s eleven hundred years old, also Terran, and was brought here from somewhere else.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> ACID BATH By VASELEOS GARSON The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues. <doc-sep> Jon Karyl was bolting in a new baffleplate on the stationary rocket engine.It was a tedious job and took all hisconcentration. So he wasn't paying too muchattention to what was going on in otherparts of the little asteroid. He didn't see the peculiar blue spaceship, its rockets throttled down, as it driftedto land only a few hundred yards away fromhis plastic igloo. Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-bluecreatures slide out of the peculiar vessel'sairlock. It was only as he crawled out of thedepths of the rocket power plant that herealized something was wrong. By then it was almost too late. The sixblue figures were only fifty feet away, approachinghim at a lope. Jon Karyl took one look and went boundingover the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-footbounds. When you're a Lone Watcher, andstrangers catch you unawares, you don'tstand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher'sfirst rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may dependupon your life. As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly underhis breath. The automatic alarm should haveshrilled out a warning. Then he saved as much of his breath ashe could as some sort of power wave toreup the rocky sward to his left. He twistedand zig-zagged in his flight, trying to getout of sight of the strangers. Once hidden from their eyes, he could cutback and head for the underground entranceto the service station. He glanced back finally. Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbitingafter him, and rapidly closing thedistance. Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistolat his side, turned the oxygen dial up forgreater exertion, increased the gravity pullin his space-suit boots as he neared theravine he'd been racing for. The oxygen was just taking hold whenhe hit the lip of the ravine and begansprinting through its man-high bush-strewncourse. The power ray from behind ripped outgreat gobs of the sheltering bushes. Butrunning naturally, bent close to the bottomof the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the barespots. The oxygen made the tremendousexertion easy for his lungs as he sped downthe dim trail, hidden from the two steel-bluestalkers. He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged offthe dim trail and watched for movementalong the route behind him. He stood up, finally, pushed aside theleafy overhang of a bush and looked forlandmarks along the edge of the ravine. He found one, a stubby bush, shaped likea Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of theravine. The hidden entrance to the servicestation wasn't far off. His pistol held ready, he moved quietlyon down the ravine until the old watercourse made an abrupt hairpin turn. Instead of following around the sharpbend, Jon Karyl moved straight aheadthrough the overhanging bushes until hecame to a dense thicket. Dropping to hishands and knees he worked his way underthe edge of the thicket into a hollowed-outspace in the center. <doc-sep> There , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing. He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind. At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station. Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight. He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine. As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship. The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly. Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages. They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance. Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head. Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters? The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs. He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down. The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing. Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation. He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid. Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip. Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily. Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders. Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons. He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one. The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack. Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets. He pressed the red button again. Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position. Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly. He turned his head. A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box. Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you? I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue. There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you? A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box. The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head. Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said. There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways. He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends. Steel-Blue chuckled. <doc-sep> Jon followed him through the sunderedlock of the station. Karyl stopped for amoment to examine the wreckage of thelock. It had been punched full of holes asif it had been some soft cheese instead of ametal which Earthmen had spent nearly acentury perfecting. We appreciate your compliment, Steel-Bluesaid. But that metal also is found onour world. It's probably the softest and mostmalleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,is it?—use it as protectivemetal. Why are you in this system? Jon asked,hardly expecting an answer. It came anyway. For the same reason youEarthmen are reaching out farther into yoursystem. We need living room. You havestrategically placed planets for our use. Wewill use them. Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists hadbeen preaching preparedness as Earth flungher ships into the reaches of the solar system,taking the first long step toward theconquest of space. There are other races somewhere, theyargued. As strong and smart as man, manyof them so transcending man in mental andinventive power that we must be prepared tostrike the minute danger shows. Now here was the answer to the scientists'warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials. What did you say? asked Steel-Blue.I couldn't understand. Just thinking to myself, Jon answered.It was a welcome surprise. Apparently histhoughts had to be directed outward, ratherthan inward, in order for the Steel-Blues toread it. He followed the Steel-Blue into the gapinglock of the invaders' space ship wonderinghow he could warn Earth. The SpacePatrol cruiser was due in for refueling athis service station in 21 days. But by thattime he probably would be mouldering inthe rocky dust of the asteroid. It was pitch dark within the ship but theSteel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at allmaneuvering through the maze of corridors.Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle. Finally Jon and his guide entered a circularroom, bright with light streaming froma glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparentlywere near topside of the vessel. A Steel-Blue, more massive than hisguide and with four more pair of tentacles,including two short ones that grew from thetop of its head, spoke out. This is the violator? Jon's Steel-Bluenodded. You know the penalty? Carry it out. He also is an inhabitant of this system,Jon's guide added. Examine him first, then give him thedeath. Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led fromthe lighted room through more corridors.If it got too bad he still had the stubraypistol. Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken onthe lonely, nerve-wracking job of servicestation attendant just to see what it offered. Here was a part of it, and it was certainlysomething new. This is the examination room, hisSteel-Blue said, almost contemptuously. A green effulgence surrounded him. <doc-sep> There was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled. There were several more queer motionsinside his body. Then another Steel-Blue voice said: He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done. Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be? Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist. Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock. Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages. He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station. In that he would be just a sitting duck. He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious. And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace. If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately. The Steel-Blue said quietly: It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns. Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts? The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile. Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment. They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem. Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet. When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother. His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life. What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked. The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust. We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly. Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init. Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo. He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit. With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air. He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin. The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes. Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin. Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed. He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder. A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid. One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon. He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet. He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder. <doc-sep> The cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach. Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders. Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid. Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing. With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man. The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol. Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes. He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience. To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp. Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down. But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive. The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep. There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up. He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1. One said, You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died. No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand. Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway. The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it. His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived. Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst. It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt. The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray. They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered. Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him. Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry. I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture. But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning. Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled. I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going. Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room. Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward. Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it. Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide. Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded. Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber. The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done. As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues. By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship. Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway. It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer. Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later. The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him. You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body. I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel? Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry. That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said. It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched. The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid. On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock. No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer. <doc-sep> Staying alive had now become a fetishwith Jon. On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realizedthat the Steel-Blues also were waitingfor the SP ship. The extra-terrestrials had repaired theblue ship where the service station atomicray had struck. And they were doing a littletarget practice with plastic bubbles only afew miles above the asteroid. When his chronometer clocked off thebeginning of the twenty-first day, Jon receiveda tumbler of the hemlock from thehands of No. 1 himself. It is the hemlock, he chuckled, undiluted.Drink it and your torture is over.You will die before your SP ship is destroyed. We have played with you long enough.Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement. Weak though he was Jon lunged to hisfeet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It rancool along the plastic arm of his space suit.He changed his mind about throwing thecontents on No. 1. With a smile he set the glass at his lipsand drank. Then he laughed at No. 1. The SP ship will turn your ship intojelly. No. 1 swept out, chuckling. Boast if youwill, Earthman, it's your last chance. There was an exultation in Jon's heartthat deadened the hunger and washed awaythe nausea. At last he knew what the hemlock was. He sat on the pallet adjusting the littlepower-pack radio. The SP ship should nowbe within range of the set. The space patrolwas notorious for its accuracy in keeping toschedule. Seconds counted like years. Theyhad to be on the nose, or it meant disasteror death. He sent out the call letters. AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AXto SP-101 ... Three times he sent the call, then begansending his message, hoping that his signalwas reaching the ship. He couldn't know ifthey answered. Though the power packcould get out a message over a vast distance,it could not pick up messages evenwhen backed by an SP ship's power unlessthe ship was only a few hundred milesaway. The power pack was strictly a distresssignal. He didn't know how long he'd beensending, nor how many times his wearyvoice had repeated the short but desperatemessage. He kept watching the heavens and hoping. Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues wasrising silently from the asteroid. Up and up it rose, then flames flickeredin a circle about its curious shape. The shipdisappeared, suddenly accelerating. Jon Karyl strained his eyes. Finally he looked away from the heavensto the two Steel-Blues who stood negligentlyoutside the goldfish bowl. Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.He marched out of the plastic igloo and rantoward the service station. He didn't know how weak he was untilhe stumbled and fell only a few feet fromhis prison. The Steel-Blues just watched him. He crawled on, around the circular pit inthe sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Bluehad shown him the power of hisweapon. He'd been crawling through a nightmarefor years when the quiet voice penetratedhis dulled mind. Take it easy, Karyl. You're amongfriends. He pried open his eyes with his will. Hesaw the blue and gold of a space guard'suniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness. <doc-sep> He was still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said, Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us. I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance. They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them. But what happened when you met theship? The space captain grinned. Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with water to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower. These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up. They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes. I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway. Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from? The captain shrugged. Who knows? Jon set two glasses on the table. Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small. Don't mind if I do. The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Jon Karyl is bolting a new baffle plate on the stationary rocket engine and ignores what happens around other parts of the little asteroid. A peculiar spaceship lands a few hundred yards away from his plastic igloo, and a half-dozen steel-blue creatures slide out of the airlock. When he climbs up again and sees the creatures, Jon runs for the rocky slopes. Jon brings out his stubray pistol and turns up the oxygen dial for greater exertion as two of the creatures continue to chase him. He manages to elude them by going down a dim trail temporarily. Once Jon finds the stubby bush shaped like a Maltese cross, he keeps going until he reaches the hollowed-out space. He observes the steel-blue creatures from the televisor, noting how they head towards the station to try and destroy it. Although the station is not supposed to break because it is made out of stelrylite, the creatures pound holes into the station with round-headed metal clubs. He presses the atomic cannon’s firing buttons and finds that it is impossible to damage the ship. Suddenly, a Steel-Blue paralyzes him from the waist down and tells him to come with them. Once outside, the Steel-Blue explains to Jon that the most protective metal they use is the softest one in their world. He follows the Steel-Blue into the ship, where a more massive one tells Jon’s Steel-Blue to examine him and give him death. The Steel-Blue brings him to the examination room, where Jon is curious about this whole interaction. He thinks about warning the SP patrol and using his weapon, but his Steel-Blue tells him they are already aware of it. The other Steel-Blues begin reproducing the service station, and Jon’s Steel-Blue tells him that his torture will be dissolved in a liquid they have prepared. When he goes inside, he prepares to blast at the cylinder with his gun. However, the tentacles take it away from him and bring him a glass-like cup filled with liquid. Jon toasts to Earth and drinks the liquid, going to sleep shortly after. When he awakes again, the Steel-Blues are amazed that he is still alive. On the fifth day, Jon breaks out of his plastic bowl with his subray because he is hungry. The Steel-Blues try to torture him more with the poison, and Jon has now made it a fetish to stay alive. When Jon takes the drink from No. 1, it tells him that the SP ship will be destroyed. Jon tries to send a distress signal, and he watches as the SP ship begins to come abruptly. The Steel-Blues watch as he tries to escape, only to be greeted by the voice of a space guard. Captain Ron Small of SP-101 tells him later that the Steel-Blues fed him a liquid they feared. The Steel-Blues tried to fight back, but the SP ship just shot a water rocket and set it on atomic fire. Captain Small and Jon then toast to water.

What are the physical features of the Steel-Blue creatures? [SEP] <s> ACID BATH By VASELEOS GARSON The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues. <doc-sep> Jon Karyl was bolting in a new baffleplate on the stationary rocket engine.It was a tedious job and took all hisconcentration. So he wasn't paying too muchattention to what was going on in otherparts of the little asteroid. He didn't see the peculiar blue spaceship, its rockets throttled down, as it driftedto land only a few hundred yards away fromhis plastic igloo. Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-bluecreatures slide out of the peculiar vessel'sairlock. It was only as he crawled out of thedepths of the rocket power plant that herealized something was wrong. By then it was almost too late. The sixblue figures were only fifty feet away, approachinghim at a lope. Jon Karyl took one look and went boundingover the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-footbounds. When you're a Lone Watcher, andstrangers catch you unawares, you don'tstand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher'sfirst rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may dependupon your life. As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly underhis breath. The automatic alarm should haveshrilled out a warning. Then he saved as much of his breath ashe could as some sort of power wave toreup the rocky sward to his left. He twistedand zig-zagged in his flight, trying to getout of sight of the strangers. Once hidden from their eyes, he could cutback and head for the underground entranceto the service station. He glanced back finally. Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbitingafter him, and rapidly closing thedistance. Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistolat his side, turned the oxygen dial up forgreater exertion, increased the gravity pullin his space-suit boots as he neared theravine he'd been racing for. The oxygen was just taking hold whenhe hit the lip of the ravine and begansprinting through its man-high bush-strewncourse. The power ray from behind ripped outgreat gobs of the sheltering bushes. Butrunning naturally, bent close to the bottomof the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the barespots. The oxygen made the tremendousexertion easy for his lungs as he sped downthe dim trail, hidden from the two steel-bluestalkers. He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged offthe dim trail and watched for movementalong the route behind him. He stood up, finally, pushed aside theleafy overhang of a bush and looked forlandmarks along the edge of the ravine. He found one, a stubby bush, shaped likea Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of theravine. The hidden entrance to the servicestation wasn't far off. His pistol held ready, he moved quietlyon down the ravine until the old watercourse made an abrupt hairpin turn. Instead of following around the sharpbend, Jon Karyl moved straight aheadthrough the overhanging bushes until hecame to a dense thicket. Dropping to hishands and knees he worked his way underthe edge of the thicket into a hollowed-outspace in the center. <doc-sep> There , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing. He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind. At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station. Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight. He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine. As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship. The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly. Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages. They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance. Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head. Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters? The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs. He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down. The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing. Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation. He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid. Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip. Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily. Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders. Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons. He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one. The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack. Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets. He pressed the red button again. Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position. Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly. He turned his head. A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box. Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you? I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue. There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you? A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box. The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head. Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said. There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways. He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends. Steel-Blue chuckled. <doc-sep> Jon followed him through the sunderedlock of the station. Karyl stopped for amoment to examine the wreckage of thelock. It had been punched full of holes asif it had been some soft cheese instead of ametal which Earthmen had spent nearly acentury perfecting. We appreciate your compliment, Steel-Bluesaid. But that metal also is found onour world. It's probably the softest and mostmalleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,is it?—use it as protectivemetal. Why are you in this system? Jon asked,hardly expecting an answer. It came anyway. For the same reason youEarthmen are reaching out farther into yoursystem. We need living room. You havestrategically placed planets for our use. Wewill use them. Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists hadbeen preaching preparedness as Earth flungher ships into the reaches of the solar system,taking the first long step toward theconquest of space. There are other races somewhere, theyargued. As strong and smart as man, manyof them so transcending man in mental andinventive power that we must be prepared tostrike the minute danger shows. Now here was the answer to the scientists'warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials. What did you say? asked Steel-Blue.I couldn't understand. Just thinking to myself, Jon answered.It was a welcome surprise. Apparently histhoughts had to be directed outward, ratherthan inward, in order for the Steel-Blues toread it. He followed the Steel-Blue into the gapinglock of the invaders' space ship wonderinghow he could warn Earth. The SpacePatrol cruiser was due in for refueling athis service station in 21 days. But by thattime he probably would be mouldering inthe rocky dust of the asteroid. It was pitch dark within the ship but theSteel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at allmaneuvering through the maze of corridors.Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle. Finally Jon and his guide entered a circularroom, bright with light streaming froma glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparentlywere near topside of the vessel. A Steel-Blue, more massive than hisguide and with four more pair of tentacles,including two short ones that grew from thetop of its head, spoke out. This is the violator? Jon's Steel-Bluenodded. You know the penalty? Carry it out. He also is an inhabitant of this system,Jon's guide added. Examine him first, then give him thedeath. Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led fromthe lighted room through more corridors.If it got too bad he still had the stubraypistol. Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken onthe lonely, nerve-wracking job of servicestation attendant just to see what it offered. Here was a part of it, and it was certainlysomething new. This is the examination room, hisSteel-Blue said, almost contemptuously. A green effulgence surrounded him. <doc-sep> There was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled. There were several more queer motionsinside his body. Then another Steel-Blue voice said: He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done. Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be? Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist. Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock. Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages. He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station. In that he would be just a sitting duck. He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious. And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace. If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately. The Steel-Blue said quietly: It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns. Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts? The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile. Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment. They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem. Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet. When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother. His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life. What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked. The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust. We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly. Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init. Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo. He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit. With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air. He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin. The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes. Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin. Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed. He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder. A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid. One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon. He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet. He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder. <doc-sep> The cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach. Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders. Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid. Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing. With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man. The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol. Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes. He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience. To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp. Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down. But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive. The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep. There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up. He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1. One said, You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died. No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand. Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway. The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it. His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived. Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst. It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt. The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray. They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered. Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him. Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry. I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture. But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning. Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled. I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going. Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room. Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward. Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it. Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide. Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded. Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber. The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done. As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues. By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship. Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway. It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer. Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later. The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him. You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body. I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel? Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry. That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said. It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched. The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid. On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock. No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer. <doc-sep> Staying alive had now become a fetishwith Jon. On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realizedthat the Steel-Blues also were waitingfor the SP ship. The extra-terrestrials had repaired theblue ship where the service station atomicray had struck. And they were doing a littletarget practice with plastic bubbles only afew miles above the asteroid. When his chronometer clocked off thebeginning of the twenty-first day, Jon receiveda tumbler of the hemlock from thehands of No. 1 himself. It is the hemlock, he chuckled, undiluted.Drink it and your torture is over.You will die before your SP ship is destroyed. We have played with you long enough.Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement. Weak though he was Jon lunged to hisfeet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It rancool along the plastic arm of his space suit.He changed his mind about throwing thecontents on No. 1. With a smile he set the glass at his lipsand drank. Then he laughed at No. 1. The SP ship will turn your ship intojelly. No. 1 swept out, chuckling. Boast if youwill, Earthman, it's your last chance. There was an exultation in Jon's heartthat deadened the hunger and washed awaythe nausea. At last he knew what the hemlock was. He sat on the pallet adjusting the littlepower-pack radio. The SP ship should nowbe within range of the set. The space patrolwas notorious for its accuracy in keeping toschedule. Seconds counted like years. Theyhad to be on the nose, or it meant disasteror death. He sent out the call letters. AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AXto SP-101 ... Three times he sent the call, then begansending his message, hoping that his signalwas reaching the ship. He couldn't know ifthey answered. Though the power packcould get out a message over a vast distance,it could not pick up messages evenwhen backed by an SP ship's power unlessthe ship was only a few hundred milesaway. The power pack was strictly a distresssignal. He didn't know how long he'd beensending, nor how many times his wearyvoice had repeated the short but desperatemessage. He kept watching the heavens and hoping. Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues wasrising silently from the asteroid. Up and up it rose, then flames flickeredin a circle about its curious shape. The shipdisappeared, suddenly accelerating. Jon Karyl strained his eyes. Finally he looked away from the heavensto the two Steel-Blues who stood negligentlyoutside the goldfish bowl. Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.He marched out of the plastic igloo and rantoward the service station. He didn't know how weak he was untilhe stumbled and fell only a few feet fromhis prison. The Steel-Blues just watched him. He crawled on, around the circular pit inthe sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Bluehad shown him the power of hisweapon. He'd been crawling through a nightmarefor years when the quiet voice penetratedhis dulled mind. Take it easy, Karyl. You're amongfriends. He pried open his eyes with his will. Hesaw the blue and gold of a space guard'suniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness. <doc-sep> He was still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said, Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us. I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance. They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them. But what happened when you met theship? The space captain grinned. Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with water to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower. These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up. They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes. I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway. Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from? The captain shrugged. Who knows? Jon set two glasses on the table. Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small. Don't mind if I do. The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are the physical features of the Steel-Blue creatures?

The Steel-Blue creatures are described to be steel-blue in color. They have egg-shaped heads and walking appendages. The Steel-Blues are also around the height of Jon at six feet, and their appendages are many-jointed. These appendages also stretch and shrink independent of each other, but the cylindrical body and tentacles are kept on a level balance. Instead of eyes, the Steel-Blues have elliptical-shaped lenses that cover half of the head and converge around the sides of the head. Jon notes that they are robots without masters. When Jon follows the Steel-Blue later, he notes that it has a lens on the back of its head as well. The massive steel-blue creature that Jon meets has four more tentacles, including two short ones that grow out of its head.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> ACID BATH By VASELEOS GARSON The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues. <doc-sep> Jon Karyl was bolting in a new baffleplate on the stationary rocket engine.It was a tedious job and took all hisconcentration. So he wasn't paying too muchattention to what was going on in otherparts of the little asteroid. He didn't see the peculiar blue spaceship, its rockets throttled down, as it driftedto land only a few hundred yards away fromhis plastic igloo. Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-bluecreatures slide out of the peculiar vessel'sairlock. It was only as he crawled out of thedepths of the rocket power plant that herealized something was wrong. By then it was almost too late. The sixblue figures were only fifty feet away, approachinghim at a lope. Jon Karyl took one look and went boundingover the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-footbounds. When you're a Lone Watcher, andstrangers catch you unawares, you don'tstand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher'sfirst rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may dependupon your life. As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly underhis breath. The automatic alarm should haveshrilled out a warning. Then he saved as much of his breath ashe could as some sort of power wave toreup the rocky sward to his left. He twistedand zig-zagged in his flight, trying to getout of sight of the strangers. Once hidden from their eyes, he could cutback and head for the underground entranceto the service station. He glanced back finally. Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbitingafter him, and rapidly closing thedistance. Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistolat his side, turned the oxygen dial up forgreater exertion, increased the gravity pullin his space-suit boots as he neared theravine he'd been racing for. The oxygen was just taking hold whenhe hit the lip of the ravine and begansprinting through its man-high bush-strewncourse. The power ray from behind ripped outgreat gobs of the sheltering bushes. Butrunning naturally, bent close to the bottomof the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the barespots. The oxygen made the tremendousexertion easy for his lungs as he sped downthe dim trail, hidden from the two steel-bluestalkers. He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged offthe dim trail and watched for movementalong the route behind him. He stood up, finally, pushed aside theleafy overhang of a bush and looked forlandmarks along the edge of the ravine. He found one, a stubby bush, shaped likea Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of theravine. The hidden entrance to the servicestation wasn't far off. His pistol held ready, he moved quietlyon down the ravine until the old watercourse made an abrupt hairpin turn. Instead of following around the sharpbend, Jon Karyl moved straight aheadthrough the overhanging bushes until hecame to a dense thicket. Dropping to hishands and knees he worked his way underthe edge of the thicket into a hollowed-outspace in the center. <doc-sep> There , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing. He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind. At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station. Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight. He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine. As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship. The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly. Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages. They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance. Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head. Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters? The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs. He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down. The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing. Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation. He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid. Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip. Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily. Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders. Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons. He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one. The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack. Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets. He pressed the red button again. Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position. Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly. He turned his head. A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box. Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you? I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue. There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you? A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box. The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head. Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said. There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways. He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends. Steel-Blue chuckled. <doc-sep> Jon followed him through the sunderedlock of the station. Karyl stopped for amoment to examine the wreckage of thelock. It had been punched full of holes asif it had been some soft cheese instead of ametal which Earthmen had spent nearly acentury perfecting. We appreciate your compliment, Steel-Bluesaid. But that metal also is found onour world. It's probably the softest and mostmalleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,is it?—use it as protectivemetal. Why are you in this system? Jon asked,hardly expecting an answer. It came anyway. For the same reason youEarthmen are reaching out farther into yoursystem. We need living room. You havestrategically placed planets for our use. Wewill use them. Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists hadbeen preaching preparedness as Earth flungher ships into the reaches of the solar system,taking the first long step toward theconquest of space. There are other races somewhere, theyargued. As strong and smart as man, manyof them so transcending man in mental andinventive power that we must be prepared tostrike the minute danger shows. Now here was the answer to the scientists'warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials. What did you say? asked Steel-Blue.I couldn't understand. Just thinking to myself, Jon answered.It was a welcome surprise. Apparently histhoughts had to be directed outward, ratherthan inward, in order for the Steel-Blues toread it. He followed the Steel-Blue into the gapinglock of the invaders' space ship wonderinghow he could warn Earth. The SpacePatrol cruiser was due in for refueling athis service station in 21 days. But by thattime he probably would be mouldering inthe rocky dust of the asteroid. It was pitch dark within the ship but theSteel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at allmaneuvering through the maze of corridors.Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle. Finally Jon and his guide entered a circularroom, bright with light streaming froma glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparentlywere near topside of the vessel. A Steel-Blue, more massive than hisguide and with four more pair of tentacles,including two short ones that grew from thetop of its head, spoke out. This is the violator? Jon's Steel-Bluenodded. You know the penalty? Carry it out. He also is an inhabitant of this system,Jon's guide added. Examine him first, then give him thedeath. Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led fromthe lighted room through more corridors.If it got too bad he still had the stubraypistol. Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken onthe lonely, nerve-wracking job of servicestation attendant just to see what it offered. Here was a part of it, and it was certainlysomething new. This is the examination room, hisSteel-Blue said, almost contemptuously. A green effulgence surrounded him. <doc-sep> There was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled. There were several more queer motionsinside his body. Then another Steel-Blue voice said: He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done. Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be? Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist. Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock. Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages. He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station. In that he would be just a sitting duck. He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious. And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace. If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately. The Steel-Blue said quietly: It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns. Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts? The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile. Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment. They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem. Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet. When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother. His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life. What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked. The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust. We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly. Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init. Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo. He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit. With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air. He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin. The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes. Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin. Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed. He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder. A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid. One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon. He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet. He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder. <doc-sep> The cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach. Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders. Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid. Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing. With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man. The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol. Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes. He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience. To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp. Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down. But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive. The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep. There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up. He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1. One said, You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died. No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand. Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway. The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it. His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived. Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst. It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt. The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray. They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered. Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him. Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry. I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture. But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning. Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled. I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going. Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room. Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward. Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it. Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide. Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded. Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber. The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done. As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues. By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship. Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway. It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer. Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later. The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him. You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body. I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel? Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry. That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said. It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched. The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid. On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock. No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer. <doc-sep> Staying alive had now become a fetishwith Jon. On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realizedthat the Steel-Blues also were waitingfor the SP ship. The extra-terrestrials had repaired theblue ship where the service station atomicray had struck. And they were doing a littletarget practice with plastic bubbles only afew miles above the asteroid. When his chronometer clocked off thebeginning of the twenty-first day, Jon receiveda tumbler of the hemlock from thehands of No. 1 himself. It is the hemlock, he chuckled, undiluted.Drink it and your torture is over.You will die before your SP ship is destroyed. We have played with you long enough.Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement. Weak though he was Jon lunged to hisfeet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It rancool along the plastic arm of his space suit.He changed his mind about throwing thecontents on No. 1. With a smile he set the glass at his lipsand drank. Then he laughed at No. 1. The SP ship will turn your ship intojelly. No. 1 swept out, chuckling. Boast if youwill, Earthman, it's your last chance. There was an exultation in Jon's heartthat deadened the hunger and washed awaythe nausea. At last he knew what the hemlock was. He sat on the pallet adjusting the littlepower-pack radio. The SP ship should nowbe within range of the set. The space patrolwas notorious for its accuracy in keeping toschedule. Seconds counted like years. Theyhad to be on the nose, or it meant disasteror death. He sent out the call letters. AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AXto SP-101 ... Three times he sent the call, then begansending his message, hoping that his signalwas reaching the ship. He couldn't know ifthey answered. Though the power packcould get out a message over a vast distance,it could not pick up messages evenwhen backed by an SP ship's power unlessthe ship was only a few hundred milesaway. The power pack was strictly a distresssignal. He didn't know how long he'd beensending, nor how many times his wearyvoice had repeated the short but desperatemessage. He kept watching the heavens and hoping. Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues wasrising silently from the asteroid. Up and up it rose, then flames flickeredin a circle about its curious shape. The shipdisappeared, suddenly accelerating. Jon Karyl strained his eyes. Finally he looked away from the heavensto the two Steel-Blues who stood negligentlyoutside the goldfish bowl. Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.He marched out of the plastic igloo and rantoward the service station. He didn't know how weak he was untilhe stumbled and fell only a few feet fromhis prison. The Steel-Blues just watched him. He crawled on, around the circular pit inthe sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Bluehad shown him the power of hisweapon. He'd been crawling through a nightmarefor years when the quiet voice penetratedhis dulled mind. Take it easy, Karyl. You're amongfriends. He pried open his eyes with his will. Hesaw the blue and gold of a space guard'suniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness. <doc-sep> He was still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said, Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us. I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance. They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them. But what happened when you met theship? The space captain grinned. Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with water to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower. These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up. They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes. I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway. Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from? The captain shrugged. Who knows? Jon set two glasses on the table. Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small. Don't mind if I do. The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The story is initially set on an asteroid, where a stationary rocket station is. Jon has a blue plastic igloo to live in. There is also a ravine where he runs to in an attempt to elude the Steel-Blues. There are bushes, water, and dense thicket that he must go through before getting to the hollowed-out space in the center. At the station, there is a lock for his key to go through. The lever then opens to a long tunnel, and there is a televisor that fixes on the area. The station is made out of stelrylite, but it becomes riddled with holes after the Steel-Blues attack. The station also has a row of studs and a revolving turret that fires atomic cannons. There is a yellow, blue, and red button to fire. The Blue Steels’ spaceship can change its part to a bubble-like metal. The spaceship of the invaders is pitch-black and is a maze-like corridor. At the end, there is a circular room with bright light streaming from a glass-like and bulging skylight. In the examination room, the Steel-Blues build a miniature reproduction of the space station with plastic walls. There is a small opening in the four foot cylinder that brings him a strange liquid. Although the Steel-Blues are always present, the tank they keep him in is fairly easy to break out of.

What are some of the equipment used in the story? [SEP] <s> ACID BATH By VASELEOS GARSON The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues. <doc-sep> Jon Karyl was bolting in a new baffleplate on the stationary rocket engine.It was a tedious job and took all hisconcentration. So he wasn't paying too muchattention to what was going on in otherparts of the little asteroid. He didn't see the peculiar blue spaceship, its rockets throttled down, as it driftedto land only a few hundred yards away fromhis plastic igloo. Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-bluecreatures slide out of the peculiar vessel'sairlock. It was only as he crawled out of thedepths of the rocket power plant that herealized something was wrong. By then it was almost too late. The sixblue figures were only fifty feet away, approachinghim at a lope. Jon Karyl took one look and went boundingover the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-footbounds. When you're a Lone Watcher, andstrangers catch you unawares, you don'tstand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher'sfirst rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may dependupon your life. As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly underhis breath. The automatic alarm should haveshrilled out a warning. Then he saved as much of his breath ashe could as some sort of power wave toreup the rocky sward to his left. He twistedand zig-zagged in his flight, trying to getout of sight of the strangers. Once hidden from their eyes, he could cutback and head for the underground entranceto the service station. He glanced back finally. Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbitingafter him, and rapidly closing thedistance. Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistolat his side, turned the oxygen dial up forgreater exertion, increased the gravity pullin his space-suit boots as he neared theravine he'd been racing for. The oxygen was just taking hold whenhe hit the lip of the ravine and begansprinting through its man-high bush-strewncourse. The power ray from behind ripped outgreat gobs of the sheltering bushes. Butrunning naturally, bent close to the bottomof the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the barespots. The oxygen made the tremendousexertion easy for his lungs as he sped downthe dim trail, hidden from the two steel-bluestalkers. He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged offthe dim trail and watched for movementalong the route behind him. He stood up, finally, pushed aside theleafy overhang of a bush and looked forlandmarks along the edge of the ravine. He found one, a stubby bush, shaped likea Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of theravine. The hidden entrance to the servicestation wasn't far off. His pistol held ready, he moved quietlyon down the ravine until the old watercourse made an abrupt hairpin turn. Instead of following around the sharpbend, Jon Karyl moved straight aheadthrough the overhanging bushes until hecame to a dense thicket. Dropping to hishands and knees he worked his way underthe edge of the thicket into a hollowed-outspace in the center. <doc-sep> There , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing. He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind. At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station. Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight. He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine. As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship. The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly. Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages. They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance. Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head. Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters? The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs. He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down. The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing. Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation. He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid. Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip. Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily. Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders. Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons. He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one. The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack. Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets. He pressed the red button again. Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position. Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly. He turned his head. A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box. Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you? I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue. There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you? A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box. The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head. Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said. There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways. He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends. Steel-Blue chuckled. <doc-sep> Jon followed him through the sunderedlock of the station. Karyl stopped for amoment to examine the wreckage of thelock. It had been punched full of holes asif it had been some soft cheese instead of ametal which Earthmen had spent nearly acentury perfecting. We appreciate your compliment, Steel-Bluesaid. But that metal also is found onour world. It's probably the softest and mostmalleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,is it?—use it as protectivemetal. Why are you in this system? Jon asked,hardly expecting an answer. It came anyway. For the same reason youEarthmen are reaching out farther into yoursystem. We need living room. You havestrategically placed planets for our use. Wewill use them. Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists hadbeen preaching preparedness as Earth flungher ships into the reaches of the solar system,taking the first long step toward theconquest of space. There are other races somewhere, theyargued. As strong and smart as man, manyof them so transcending man in mental andinventive power that we must be prepared tostrike the minute danger shows. Now here was the answer to the scientists'warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials. What did you say? asked Steel-Blue.I couldn't understand. Just thinking to myself, Jon answered.It was a welcome surprise. Apparently histhoughts had to be directed outward, ratherthan inward, in order for the Steel-Blues toread it. He followed the Steel-Blue into the gapinglock of the invaders' space ship wonderinghow he could warn Earth. The SpacePatrol cruiser was due in for refueling athis service station in 21 days. But by thattime he probably would be mouldering inthe rocky dust of the asteroid. It was pitch dark within the ship but theSteel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at allmaneuvering through the maze of corridors.Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle. Finally Jon and his guide entered a circularroom, bright with light streaming froma glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparentlywere near topside of the vessel. A Steel-Blue, more massive than hisguide and with four more pair of tentacles,including two short ones that grew from thetop of its head, spoke out. This is the violator? Jon's Steel-Bluenodded. You know the penalty? Carry it out. He also is an inhabitant of this system,Jon's guide added. Examine him first, then give him thedeath. Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led fromthe lighted room through more corridors.If it got too bad he still had the stubraypistol. Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken onthe lonely, nerve-wracking job of servicestation attendant just to see what it offered. Here was a part of it, and it was certainlysomething new. This is the examination room, hisSteel-Blue said, almost contemptuously. A green effulgence surrounded him. <doc-sep> There was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled. There were several more queer motionsinside his body. Then another Steel-Blue voice said: He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done. Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be? Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist. Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock. Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages. He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station. In that he would be just a sitting duck. He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious. And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace. If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately. The Steel-Blue said quietly: It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns. Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts? The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile. Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment. They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem. Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet. When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother. His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life. What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked. The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust. We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly. Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init. Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo. He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit. With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air. He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin. The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes. Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin. Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed. He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder. A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid. One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon. He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet. He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder. <doc-sep> The cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach. Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders. Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid. Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing. With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man. The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol. Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes. He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience. To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp. Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down. But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive. The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep. There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up. He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1. One said, You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died. No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand. Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway. The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it. His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived. Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst. It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt. The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray. They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered. Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him. Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry. I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture. But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning. Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled. I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going. Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room. Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward. Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it. Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide. Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded. Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber. The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done. As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues. By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship. Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway. It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer. Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later. The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him. You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body. I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel? Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry. That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said. It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched. The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid. On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock. No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer. <doc-sep> Staying alive had now become a fetishwith Jon. On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realizedthat the Steel-Blues also were waitingfor the SP ship. The extra-terrestrials had repaired theblue ship where the service station atomicray had struck. And they were doing a littletarget practice with plastic bubbles only afew miles above the asteroid. When his chronometer clocked off thebeginning of the twenty-first day, Jon receiveda tumbler of the hemlock from thehands of No. 1 himself. It is the hemlock, he chuckled, undiluted.Drink it and your torture is over.You will die before your SP ship is destroyed. We have played with you long enough.Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement. Weak though he was Jon lunged to hisfeet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It rancool along the plastic arm of his space suit.He changed his mind about throwing thecontents on No. 1. With a smile he set the glass at his lipsand drank. Then he laughed at No. 1. The SP ship will turn your ship intojelly. No. 1 swept out, chuckling. Boast if youwill, Earthman, it's your last chance. There was an exultation in Jon's heartthat deadened the hunger and washed awaythe nausea. At last he knew what the hemlock was. He sat on the pallet adjusting the littlepower-pack radio. The SP ship should nowbe within range of the set. The space patrolwas notorious for its accuracy in keeping toschedule. Seconds counted like years. Theyhad to be on the nose, or it meant disasteror death. He sent out the call letters. AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AXto SP-101 ... Three times he sent the call, then begansending his message, hoping that his signalwas reaching the ship. He couldn't know ifthey answered. Though the power packcould get out a message over a vast distance,it could not pick up messages evenwhen backed by an SP ship's power unlessthe ship was only a few hundred milesaway. The power pack was strictly a distresssignal. He didn't know how long he'd beensending, nor how many times his wearyvoice had repeated the short but desperatemessage. He kept watching the heavens and hoping. Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues wasrising silently from the asteroid. Up and up it rose, then flames flickeredin a circle about its curious shape. The shipdisappeared, suddenly accelerating. Jon Karyl strained his eyes. Finally he looked away from the heavensto the two Steel-Blues who stood negligentlyoutside the goldfish bowl. Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.He marched out of the plastic igloo and rantoward the service station. He didn't know how weak he was untilhe stumbled and fell only a few feet fromhis prison. The Steel-Blues just watched him. He crawled on, around the circular pit inthe sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Bluehad shown him the power of hisweapon. He'd been crawling through a nightmarefor years when the quiet voice penetratedhis dulled mind. Take it easy, Karyl. You're amongfriends. He pried open his eyes with his will. Hesaw the blue and gold of a space guard'suniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness. <doc-sep> He was still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said, Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us. I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance. They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them. But what happened when you met theship? The space captain grinned. Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with water to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower. These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up. They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes. I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway. Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from? The captain shrugged. Who knows? Jon set two glasses on the table. Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small. Don't mind if I do. The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are some of the equipment used in the story?

Jon uses a stubray pistol that he keeps on him at all times. The space station itself is fairly equipped, with a thin turret that can fire atomic cannons. The ship that the Steel Blues arrive in is very advanced as well, and it is capable of recovering from the cannon. The Steel Blue’s build his habitat out of plastic and other material that they have in possession. When the Steel Blue’s begin Jon’s torture, they feed him a drink that he thinks is hemlock. Later, Jon also uses his little power-pack radio to send a distress signal to the SP ship. When the SP ship defeats the Steel Blues, they use a rocket tube to shoot water and then atomic fire.

What is the relationship between Jon Karyl and his Steel-Blue (the one that he initially meets)? [SEP] <s> ACID BATH By VASELEOS GARSON The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues. <doc-sep> Jon Karyl was bolting in a new baffleplate on the stationary rocket engine.It was a tedious job and took all hisconcentration. So he wasn't paying too muchattention to what was going on in otherparts of the little asteroid. He didn't see the peculiar blue spaceship, its rockets throttled down, as it driftedto land only a few hundred yards away fromhis plastic igloo. Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-bluecreatures slide out of the peculiar vessel'sairlock. It was only as he crawled out of thedepths of the rocket power plant that herealized something was wrong. By then it was almost too late. The sixblue figures were only fifty feet away, approachinghim at a lope. Jon Karyl took one look and went boundingover the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-footbounds. When you're a Lone Watcher, andstrangers catch you unawares, you don'tstand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher'sfirst rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may dependupon your life. As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly underhis breath. The automatic alarm should haveshrilled out a warning. Then he saved as much of his breath ashe could as some sort of power wave toreup the rocky sward to his left. He twistedand zig-zagged in his flight, trying to getout of sight of the strangers. Once hidden from their eyes, he could cutback and head for the underground entranceto the service station. He glanced back finally. Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbitingafter him, and rapidly closing thedistance. Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistolat his side, turned the oxygen dial up forgreater exertion, increased the gravity pullin his space-suit boots as he neared theravine he'd been racing for. The oxygen was just taking hold whenhe hit the lip of the ravine and begansprinting through its man-high bush-strewncourse. The power ray from behind ripped outgreat gobs of the sheltering bushes. Butrunning naturally, bent close to the bottomof the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the barespots. The oxygen made the tremendousexertion easy for his lungs as he sped downthe dim trail, hidden from the two steel-bluestalkers. He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged offthe dim trail and watched for movementalong the route behind him. He stood up, finally, pushed aside theleafy overhang of a bush and looked forlandmarks along the edge of the ravine. He found one, a stubby bush, shaped likea Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of theravine. The hidden entrance to the servicestation wasn't far off. His pistol held ready, he moved quietlyon down the ravine until the old watercourse made an abrupt hairpin turn. Instead of following around the sharpbend, Jon Karyl moved straight aheadthrough the overhanging bushes until hecame to a dense thicket. Dropping to hishands and knees he worked his way underthe edge of the thicket into a hollowed-outspace in the center. <doc-sep> There , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing. He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind. At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station. Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight. He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine. As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship. The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly. Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages. They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance. Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head. Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters? The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs. He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down. The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing. Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation. He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid. Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip. Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily. Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders. Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons. He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one. The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack. Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets. He pressed the red button again. Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position. Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly. He turned his head. A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box. Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you? I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue. There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you? A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box. The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head. Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said. There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways. He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends. Steel-Blue chuckled. <doc-sep> Jon followed him through the sunderedlock of the station. Karyl stopped for amoment to examine the wreckage of thelock. It had been punched full of holes asif it had been some soft cheese instead of ametal which Earthmen had spent nearly acentury perfecting. We appreciate your compliment, Steel-Bluesaid. But that metal also is found onour world. It's probably the softest and mostmalleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,is it?—use it as protectivemetal. Why are you in this system? Jon asked,hardly expecting an answer. It came anyway. For the same reason youEarthmen are reaching out farther into yoursystem. We need living room. You havestrategically placed planets for our use. Wewill use them. Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists hadbeen preaching preparedness as Earth flungher ships into the reaches of the solar system,taking the first long step toward theconquest of space. There are other races somewhere, theyargued. As strong and smart as man, manyof them so transcending man in mental andinventive power that we must be prepared tostrike the minute danger shows. Now here was the answer to the scientists'warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials. What did you say? asked Steel-Blue.I couldn't understand. Just thinking to myself, Jon answered.It was a welcome surprise. Apparently histhoughts had to be directed outward, ratherthan inward, in order for the Steel-Blues toread it. He followed the Steel-Blue into the gapinglock of the invaders' space ship wonderinghow he could warn Earth. The SpacePatrol cruiser was due in for refueling athis service station in 21 days. But by thattime he probably would be mouldering inthe rocky dust of the asteroid. It was pitch dark within the ship but theSteel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at allmaneuvering through the maze of corridors.Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle. Finally Jon and his guide entered a circularroom, bright with light streaming froma glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparentlywere near topside of the vessel. A Steel-Blue, more massive than hisguide and with four more pair of tentacles,including two short ones that grew from thetop of its head, spoke out. This is the violator? Jon's Steel-Bluenodded. You know the penalty? Carry it out. He also is an inhabitant of this system,Jon's guide added. Examine him first, then give him thedeath. Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led fromthe lighted room through more corridors.If it got too bad he still had the stubraypistol. Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken onthe lonely, nerve-wracking job of servicestation attendant just to see what it offered. Here was a part of it, and it was certainlysomething new. This is the examination room, hisSteel-Blue said, almost contemptuously. A green effulgence surrounded him. <doc-sep> There was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled. There were several more queer motionsinside his body. Then another Steel-Blue voice said: He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done. Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be? Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist. Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock. Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages. He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station. In that he would be just a sitting duck. He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious. And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace. If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately. The Steel-Blue said quietly: It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns. Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts? The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile. Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment. They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem. Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet. When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother. His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life. What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked. The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust. We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly. Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init. Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo. He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit. With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air. He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin. The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes. Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin. Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed. He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder. A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid. One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon. He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet. He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder. <doc-sep> The cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach. Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders. Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid. Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing. With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man. The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol. Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes. He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience. To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp. Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down. But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive. The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep. There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up. He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1. One said, You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died. No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand. Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway. The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it. His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived. Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst. It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt. The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray. They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered. Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him. Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry. I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture. But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning. Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled. I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going. Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room. Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward. Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it. Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide. Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded. Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber. The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done. As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues. By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship. Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway. It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer. Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later. The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him. You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body. I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel? Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry. That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said. It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched. The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid. On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock. No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer. <doc-sep> Staying alive had now become a fetishwith Jon. On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realizedthat the Steel-Blues also were waitingfor the SP ship. The extra-terrestrials had repaired theblue ship where the service station atomicray had struck. And they were doing a littletarget practice with plastic bubbles only afew miles above the asteroid. When his chronometer clocked off thebeginning of the twenty-first day, Jon receiveda tumbler of the hemlock from thehands of No. 1 himself. It is the hemlock, he chuckled, undiluted.Drink it and your torture is over.You will die before your SP ship is destroyed. We have played with you long enough.Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement. Weak though he was Jon lunged to hisfeet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It rancool along the plastic arm of his space suit.He changed his mind about throwing thecontents on No. 1. With a smile he set the glass at his lipsand drank. Then he laughed at No. 1. The SP ship will turn your ship intojelly. No. 1 swept out, chuckling. Boast if youwill, Earthman, it's your last chance. There was an exultation in Jon's heartthat deadened the hunger and washed awaythe nausea. At last he knew what the hemlock was. He sat on the pallet adjusting the littlepower-pack radio. The SP ship should nowbe within range of the set. The space patrolwas notorious for its accuracy in keeping toschedule. Seconds counted like years. Theyhad to be on the nose, or it meant disasteror death. He sent out the call letters. AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AXto SP-101 ... Three times he sent the call, then begansending his message, hoping that his signalwas reaching the ship. He couldn't know ifthey answered. Though the power packcould get out a message over a vast distance,it could not pick up messages evenwhen backed by an SP ship's power unlessthe ship was only a few hundred milesaway. The power pack was strictly a distresssignal. He didn't know how long he'd beensending, nor how many times his wearyvoice had repeated the short but desperatemessage. He kept watching the heavens and hoping. Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues wasrising silently from the asteroid. Up and up it rose, then flames flickeredin a circle about its curious shape. The shipdisappeared, suddenly accelerating. Jon Karyl strained his eyes. Finally he looked away from the heavensto the two Steel-Blues who stood negligentlyoutside the goldfish bowl. Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.He marched out of the plastic igloo and rantoward the service station. He didn't know how weak he was untilhe stumbled and fell only a few feet fromhis prison. The Steel-Blues just watched him. He crawled on, around the circular pit inthe sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Bluehad shown him the power of hisweapon. He'd been crawling through a nightmarefor years when the quiet voice penetratedhis dulled mind. Take it easy, Karyl. You're amongfriends. He pried open his eyes with his will. Hesaw the blue and gold of a space guard'suniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness. <doc-sep> He was still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said, Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us. I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance. They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them. But what happened when you met theship? The space captain grinned. Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with water to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower. These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up. They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes. I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway. Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from? The captain shrugged. Who knows? Jon set two glasses on the table. Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small. Don't mind if I do. The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Jon Karyl and his Steel-Blue (the one that he initially meets)?

Jon is initially curious about the Steel-Blue that he first meets in the space station. When he notices that it has eyes on the back of its head, it even says “Thank you” to him. It also tells him that its species can read his mind. The Steel-Blue also explains to him that the metal they use at the station is considered to be the softest one from where the Space Blue’s come from. It is not openly hostile towards him, but it does speak almost contemptuously when they go to the examination room. Although his Steel Blue initially did not show much hostility, it does warn him to not even think about contacting the SP ship or using his weapon. However, it does tease him and say that he gets absent-minded at times. When it tells him about the torture, his Blue Steel speaks in an almost-caressing way as well. When Jon breaks out of his tank to find food, his Steel-Blue tells him that it is the first of the creatures that he has met. It commands him to go back to the tank. Although it seems friendly at first, Jon and the Steel-Blue do not have any sort of positive relationship. The Steel-Blue wishes to see him suffer, while Jon wants to survive and get out of the torture room.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you. the hoofer by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr. A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home? <doc-sep> They all knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him. Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely? Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle? The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head. Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her. The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed. My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian. Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle. My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff. Never mind. He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable. I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet. Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh? Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble. When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus. Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling. Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag. Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing? Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay. The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane. I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler— huk! —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey? Yeah. Your son. Come on. Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son. Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls. Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again. The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose. Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills. Huk! —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo- hoo !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground. Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently. Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess. Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay? Hogey nodded forlornly. Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away. Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers. With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch. Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried. The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land. The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains. A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun. He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes. With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily. Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry. What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload. Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity. The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto. Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow? Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here? It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie? The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance? Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker. Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it. He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around. They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha? The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully. Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead. He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction. It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest. Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen. When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again. He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent. Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap. He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child. He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide. What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money? Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame: One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob. And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ... Why? he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag. It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse. They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold. A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ... He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun. He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered. Shhh! he hissed, and movedon. The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped. Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house. One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting. Anybody out there? the mancalled again. Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im. The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog. Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here! The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went Rrrooff! Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again. Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered. The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope. Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh? The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son. What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son? After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went squelch andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness. He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud. The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better. The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came. It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs. For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up. He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully. He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable. He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept. He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love. Get away! he croaked savagely. The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally. Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim. Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it. Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that all ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless. He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten. It was a baby crying. It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased. Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it. Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me! He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped. The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze. Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ... But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy. A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all. He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ... But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to little Hogey. He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

This story follows the protagonist, Hogey Parker’s, journey in heading back home after a long stint in space. His identity leans heavily on being a spacer - or a tumbler - with distinguishing sunburned marks and glare-blinded eyes. Parker is accompanied by a bottle of gin, and with it, stumbles onto a bus. In his drunken ramblings and stumblings - attributed by himself to him being a spaceman - Hogey creates a ruckus on the bus and disturbs its passengers. Fellow passengers give him allowances as he’s a spaceman and help him out. Throughout his journey, he is helped by various characters who further progress his journey back home. After being dropped off, the bus driver helps him across the road, where he is later then picked up by a farmer who drops Hogey off even closer to his farmhouse. In between, Hogey constantly looks up at the Big Bottomless space and thinks about his time in space with particular feelings of resentment and anger - one towards the sun for blinding him and another towards the rookie that replaced him. After finally making it close to his farmhouse, he sneaks through the grass past the fence and encounters the dog, who he quickly shushes when one of his wife’s brothers comes out to investigate the noise. Staring at his wife and son through the house, he stumbles into wet concrete and quickly becomes stuck in the sand as it dries. Despite his best efforts he is unable to claw himself out. At the end of the story, his cries at being stuck in the concrete echo at the same time the cries of his son as the Hauptmann men find him, stuck.

What is the significance of Hogey’s feet being stuck in concrete? [SEP] <s> A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you. the hoofer by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr. A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home? <doc-sep> They all knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him. Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely? Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle? The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head. Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her. The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed. My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian. Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle. My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff. Never mind. He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable. I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet. Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh? Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble. When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus. Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling. Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag. Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing? Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay. The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane. I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler— huk! —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey? Yeah. Your son. Come on. Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son. Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls. Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again. The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose. Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills. Huk! —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo- hoo !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground. Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently. Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess. Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay? Hogey nodded forlornly. Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away. Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers. With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch. Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried. The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land. The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains. A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun. He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes. With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily. Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry. What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload. Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity. The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto. Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow? Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here? It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie? The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance? Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker. Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it. He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around. They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha? The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully. Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead. He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction. It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest. Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen. When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again. He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent. Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap. He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child. He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide. What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money? Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame: One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob. And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ... Why? he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag. It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse. They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold. A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ... He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun. He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered. Shhh! he hissed, and movedon. The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped. Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house. One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting. Anybody out there? the mancalled again. Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im. The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog. Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here! The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went Rrrooff! Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again. Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered. The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope. Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh? The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son. What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son? After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went squelch andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness. He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud. The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better. The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came. It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs. For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up. He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully. He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable. He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept. He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love. Get away! he croaked savagely. The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally. Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim. Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it. Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that all ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless. He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten. It was a baby crying. It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased. Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it. Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me! He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped. The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze. Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ... But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy. A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all. He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ... But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to little Hogey. He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of Hogey’s feet being stuck in concrete?

There is an ironic significance in Hogey’s feet being stuck in concrete. Throughout the story, Hogey’s identity is tied to being a tumbler - a spaceman. Not only does he physically look like a spacer with his sun-burned marks from his goggles, he has also been blinded by the sun’s glare. It is only due to these characteristics that other people give him allowances while Hogey is in a drunken stupor. Hogey constantly speaks to separate himself from everyone else - even his wife - by identifying as a tumbler and them as hoofers. He insists that he was born as a tumbler and belongs in space, and hence blames his drunken inability to walk as due to a difficulty in adjusting to the gravity on Earth. He insists that he has to become a hoofer, but refuses to, and at the end of the story even denounces his wife and child. It is ironic then, that by Hogey’s feet being stuck in the concrete, he has reluctantly become a hoofer as his feet are literally encased in the Earth.

How do the other humans (hoofers) help Hogey get home? [SEP] <s> A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you. the hoofer by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr. A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home? <doc-sep> They all knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him. Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely? Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle? The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head. Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her. The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed. My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian. Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle. My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff. Never mind. He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable. I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet. Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh? Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble. When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus. Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling. Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag. Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing? Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay. The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane. I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler— huk! —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey? Yeah. Your son. Come on. Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son. Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls. Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again. The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose. Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills. Huk! —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo- hoo !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground. Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently. Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess. Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay? Hogey nodded forlornly. Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away. Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers. With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch. Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried. The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land. The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains. A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun. He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes. With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily. Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry. What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload. Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity. The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto. Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow? Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here? It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie? The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance? Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker. Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it. He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around. They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha? The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully. Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead. He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction. It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest. Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen. When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again. He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent. Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap. He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child. He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide. What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money? Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame: One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob. And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ... Why? he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag. It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse. They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold. A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ... He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun. He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered. Shhh! he hissed, and movedon. The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped. Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house. One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting. Anybody out there? the mancalled again. Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im. The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog. Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here! The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went Rrrooff! Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again. Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered. The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope. Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh? The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son. What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son? After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went squelch andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness. He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud. The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better. The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came. It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs. For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up. He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully. He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable. He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept. He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love. Get away! he croaked savagely. The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally. Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim. Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it. Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that all ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless. He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten. It was a baby crying. It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased. Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it. Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me! He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped. The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze. Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ... But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy. A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all. He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ... But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to little Hogey. He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] How do the other humans (hoofers) help Hogey get home?

Hogey gets home through the kindness of the hoofers, who all know him to be a spacer due to the white marks on his face. As such, when Hogey becomes rowdy and drunk on the bus, they gracefully pick him up and seat him down at the back of the bus. After getting off the bus, Hogey has trouble crossing the highway with all the passing cars and the bus driver compassionately helps him across the road. The driver even inquired about someone picking him up, before warning Hogey not to traipse through the hills alone and instead, wait for someone to come along. As Hogey staggers down the pavement, he stumbles in front of a farmer’s truck. Since the farmer recognizes Hogey’s residence and identity, he helps Hogey get closer to his destination and drops him off right on the road in front of Hauptman’s place.

Describe the difference between a tumbler and a hoofer. [SEP] <s> A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you. the hoofer by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr. A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home? <doc-sep> They all knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him. Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely? Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle? The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head. Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her. The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed. My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian. Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle. My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff. Never mind. He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable. I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet. Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh? Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble. When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus. Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling. Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag. Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing? Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay. The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane. I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler— huk! —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey? Yeah. Your son. Come on. Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son. Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls. Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again. The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose. Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills. Huk! —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo- hoo !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground. Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently. Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess. Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay? Hogey nodded forlornly. Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away. Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers. With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch. Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried. The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land. The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains. A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun. He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes. With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily. Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry. What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload. Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity. The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto. Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow? Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here? It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie? The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance? Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker. Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it. He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around. They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha? The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully. Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead. He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction. It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest. Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen. When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again. He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent. Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap. He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child. He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide. What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money? Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame: One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob. And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ... Why? he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag. It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse. They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold. A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ... He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun. He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered. Shhh! he hissed, and movedon. The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped. Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house. One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting. Anybody out there? the mancalled again. Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im. The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog. Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here! The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went Rrrooff! Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again. Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered. The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope. Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh? The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son. What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son? After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went squelch andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness. He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud. The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better. The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came. It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs. For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up. He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully. He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable. He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept. He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love. Get away! he croaked savagely. The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally. Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim. Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it. Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that all ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless. He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten. It was a baby crying. It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased. Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it. Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me! He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped. The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze. Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ... But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy. A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all. He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ... But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to little Hogey. He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the difference between a tumbler and a hoofer.

A tumbler and a hoofer are considered to be two types of people, as described by Hogey’s drunken ramblings. A tumbler is someone who lives in space and never interacts with gravity. As such, a tumbler is often clumsy and has limbs that flail about. In addition, a tumbler is not meant to be a family man, and should neither have a wife nor children. Therefore, a hoofer is a person who lives on Earth and is rooted to the ground by gravity, as they have never traveled to space. By contrast, they would have a family, like Marie Parker does with her son. In addition, the hoofers in this story are stable and kind, like the farmer and the bus driver, who all help Hogey when his limbs and center of gravity fail him.

Describe the setting of this story. [SEP] <s> A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you. the hoofer by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr. A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home? <doc-sep> They all knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him. Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely? Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle? The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head. Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her. The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed. My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian. Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle. My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff. Never mind. He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable. I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet. Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh? Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble. When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus. Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling. Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag. Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing? Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay. The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane. I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler— huk! —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey? Yeah. Your son. Come on. Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son. Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls. Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again. The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose. Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills. Huk! —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo- hoo !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground. Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently. Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess. Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay? Hogey nodded forlornly. Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away. Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers. With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch. Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried. The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land. The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains. A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun. He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes. With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily. Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry. What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload. Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity. The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto. Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow? Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here? It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie? The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance? Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker. Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it. He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around. They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha? The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully. Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead. He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction. It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest. Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen. When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again. He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent. Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap. He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child. He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide. What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money? Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame: One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob. And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ... Why? he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag. It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse. They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold. A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ... He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun. He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered. Shhh! he hissed, and movedon. The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped. Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house. One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting. Anybody out there? the mancalled again. Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im. The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog. Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here! The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went Rrrooff! Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again. Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered. The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope. Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh? The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son. What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son? After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went squelch andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness. He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud. The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better. The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came. It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs. For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up. He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully. He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable. He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept. He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love. Get away! he croaked savagely. The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally. Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim. Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it. Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that all ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless. He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten. It was a baby crying. It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased. Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it. Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me! He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped. The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze. Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ... But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy. A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all. He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ... But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to little Hogey. He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of this story.

This story takes place on Earth. As we are following the protagonist’s journey home, the setting constantly changes in terms of transportation mode and the landscape. First, we can identify the setting as a public bus, where Hogey occupies the back seats of the bus as he falls asleep clutching his gin. Hogey gets off at his stop - Caine’s junction - which is a road junction with just a few farmhouses at the side and a derelict filling station. There is also a ditch, which he promptly stumbles into. The landscape reveals the Great Plains country, with descriptions of the setting being treeless and barren, and instead being full of rolling hills and fields of grass.Towards the end of the story, the setting changes to the Hauptman’s place where the farmhouse sits off the side of the road with a barbed-wire fence. Within the tall grass of the farmhouse also lies a sloppy heap of sand - concrete.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> THE HANGING STRANGER BY PHILIP K. DICK ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw it hanging in thetown square. Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself! It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost. From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare. Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands. It was a body. A human body. <doc-sep>Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here! Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there. See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past! Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there. A reason! What kind of a reason? Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know? Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys? There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops. They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere. I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure. Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man! Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee. You mean it's been there all afternoon? Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed. Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention. I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green. The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue. For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear. Why? Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean? And—why didn't anybody notice? He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed. Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins. What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick. The body. There in the park. Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy. Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong? Ed's not feeling well. Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake— What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously. The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there! More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed? The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police! Ed— Better get a doctor! He must be sick. Or drunk. Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him. Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on! The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce. <doc-sep>Name? the cop with the notebook murmured. Loyce. He mopped his forehead wearily. Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.Back there— Address? the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly throughtraffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against theseat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath. 1368 Hurst Road. That's here in Pikeville? That's right. Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. Listento me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost— Where were you today? the cop behind the wheel demanded. Where? Loyce echoed. You weren't in your shop, were you? No. He shook his head. No, I was home. Down in the basement. In the basement ? Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.Why? What has that to do with— Was anybody else down there with you? No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school. Loyce looked fromone heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn'tget in on it? Like everybody else? After a pause the cop with the notebook said: That's right. You missedthe explanation. Then it's official? The body—it's supposed to be hanging there? It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see. Ed Loyce grinned weakly. Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deepend. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover. He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. I'm glad to know it's on the level. It's on the level. The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on. I feel better, Loyce said. I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there? The two cops said nothing. I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of— This won't take long, the cop behind the wheel interrupted. A shortprocess. Only a few minutes. I hope it's short, Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and— Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running. They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops. They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow—and they didn't care. That was the strange part. Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting. There was no sound behind him. He had got away. He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars. And to his right—the police station. He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them. Them? Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance. And—something else. Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky. He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees. Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid. In the vortexsomething moved. Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof. Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him. He was seeing—them. <doc-sep>For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water. They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building. He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on. Were there more of them? It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being. On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others. Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them. Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry. Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them. He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom. Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street. <doc-sep>Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus. The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family. Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her. A high school boy in jeans and black jacket. A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness. Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner. Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof. Maybe there were others. Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited. A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway. Loyce tensed. One of them ? Or—another they had missed? The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond. The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce. The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them. A look rich with meaning. Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open. Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell— Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him. Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off. Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book. Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away. Stop! For God's sake listen— He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him. Had he made a mistake? But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his. <doc-sep>Ed! Janet Loyce backed away nervously. What is it? What— Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.Pull down the shades. Quick. Janet moved toward the window. But— Do as I say. Who else is here besides you? Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What'shappened? You look so strange. Why are you home? Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen.From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ranhis finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the livingroom. Listen to me, he said. I don't have much time. They know I escapedand they'll be looking for me. Escaped? Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. Who? The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it prettywell figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and policedepartment. What they did with the real humans they— What are you talking about? We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension.They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind. My mind? Their entrance is here , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you.The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerfulenemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They'relimited! They can make mistakes! Janet shook her head. I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane. Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd belike all the rest of you. Loyce peered out the window. But I can'tstand here talking. Get your coat. My coat? We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help.Fight this thing. They can be beaten. They're not infallible. It'sgoing to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on! He grabbedher arm roughly. Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving.Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that. White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.Where are we going? Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto thefloor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. They'll have thehighway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I gotonto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget aboutit. The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody'ssupposed to drive over it. I know. Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. That's our bestchance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full ofgas, isn't it? Janet was dazed. The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon. Janet moved towardthe stairs. Ed, I— Call the twins! Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothingstirred. No sign of life. All right so far. Come on downstairs, Janet called in a wavering voice. We're—goingout for awhile. Now? Tommy's voice came. Hurry up, Ed barked. Get down here, both of you. Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. I was doing my home work.We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done— You can forget about fractions. Ed grabbed his son as he came down thestairs and propelled him toward the door. Where's Jim? He's coming. Jim started slowly down the stairs. What's up, Dad? We're going for a ride. A ride? Where? Ed turned to Janet. We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turnit on. He pushed her toward the set. So they'll think we're still— He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out.Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur ofmotion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy.It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him,cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellowT-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strangehalf-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing? A stinger. Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loycerolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still asstatues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again.This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. Itbounced against the wall and fluttered down. Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alienmind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered hisown, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence,settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in abroken heap on the rug. It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly ofsome kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mindtight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up hisknife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still,neither of them moving. The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. Itwas ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys andopen fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone. Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife andson. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps. A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darknesstoward the edge of town. <doc-sep>The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping forbreath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothingwas torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterlyexhausted. But ahead of him lay Oak Grove. He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled andfell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everythingreceded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away fromPikeville. A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched inwonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was agasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickenspecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string. The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself upto the station. Thank God. He caught hold of the wall. I didn't thinkI was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hearthem buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me. What happened? the attendant demanded. You in a wreck? A hold-up? Loyce shook his head wearily. They have the whole town. The City Halland the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was thefirst thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw themhovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyondthem. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the suncame up. The attendant licked his lip nervously. You're out of your head. Ibetter get a doctor. Get me into Oak Grove, Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started rightaway. <doc-sep>They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face. You don't believe me, Loyce said. The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly. Loyce sagged. Thank God. So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million. Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured. What is it? About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time. A long time? Thousands of years. I don't think it's new. Why do you say that? When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth— So? They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly. The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle. They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated. Why defeated? They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance. The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out. Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that. Why? Why did they deliberately hanghim there? That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly. Bait. Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean? To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped. Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they expected failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap. And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste. Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man. Who was theman? I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed— There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly. <doc-sep>As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank cameup out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat andcoat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people werethere, hurrying home to dinner. Good night, the guard said, locking the door after him. Good night, Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the streettoward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in thevault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if therewas room for another tier. He was glad to be finished. At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. Thestreet was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze. From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something largeand shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind. What the hell was it? Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired andhungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinnertable. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominousand ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drewhim on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing madehim uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated. And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Edward Loyce spends the whole day repairing the foundation. When he drives past the town park, he sees a thing hanging under the lamppost. He realizes that it’s a hanging human. Ed is frightened because of the hanged body and because everyone seems to not care about it. People walk past and ignore it. Ed tells the owners of other shops, trying to figure out the situation. However, both the owners think it is normal. After realizing he is the only one who feels strange, Ed gets closer to the hanged body, noticing that it’s a stranger. He bumps into Jenkins, a stationary clerk. Through the conversation with Jenkins and the jewelry store owner, he realizes that he is the only normal person in the town. He shouts to get the police, makes his way through the crowd, and finally gets into the police’s car.When he tries to understand the situation from the police, he realizes that the police are fake because he knows every cop in the town. He escapes from the fake police. When he gets closer to the police station, he sees a swarm of alien flies landing on the roof of City Hall and flying inside of the building, disguising themselves as men coming out of the City Hall. Ed realizes that they are aliens from other dimensions trying to control the humans and already control the minds of town people, except for him, as he escapes from it when repairing the foundation. He cautiously leaves and takes the bus. People on the bus are mind-controlled. A man with a book is looking at him, and Ed guesses the identity of the seemingly mind-clear man. When another older man ascends the bus and looks at the man with the book, Ed realizes the strangeness and escapes from the bus. Two men come after Ed, and Ed kills the man with the book and runs away. A doubt about killing the wrong person flashes through his mind, but he has no time to think.He tells his wife to get ready to leave when he gets home. He picks up a butcher knife and explains everything to his wife. When the twins come down, he sees a baby alien fly come toward him. Ed kills the alien, abandons his dazed wife and child, and flees. He runs ten miles towards Oak Grove. He explains everything to the Commissioner. The Commissioner records and agrees with his saying. Ed talks about his theory of the alien, but he cannot figure out the purpose of the hanged body. Finally, the Commissioner tells him that it is bait to lure people like him who escape successfully. Ed is frightened and realizes that he will be hanged in Oak Grove, just like the hanged body in Pikeville. That evening, Clarence Mason, the vice president of the Oak Grove Merchant’s Bank, sees a hanging object under the telephone pole in front of the police station.

Who is Edward C. Loyce, and what are his characteristics? [SEP] <s> THE HANGING STRANGER BY PHILIP K. DICK ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw it hanging in thetown square. Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself! It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost. From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare. Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands. It was a body. A human body. <doc-sep>Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here! Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there. See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past! Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there. A reason! What kind of a reason? Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know? Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys? There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops. They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere. I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure. Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man! Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee. You mean it's been there all afternoon? Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed. Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention. I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green. The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue. For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear. Why? Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean? And—why didn't anybody notice? He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed. Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins. What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick. The body. There in the park. Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy. Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong? Ed's not feeling well. Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake— What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously. The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there! More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed? The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police! Ed— Better get a doctor! He must be sick. Or drunk. Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him. Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on! The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce. <doc-sep>Name? the cop with the notebook murmured. Loyce. He mopped his forehead wearily. Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.Back there— Address? the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly throughtraffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against theseat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath. 1368 Hurst Road. That's here in Pikeville? That's right. Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. Listento me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost— Where were you today? the cop behind the wheel demanded. Where? Loyce echoed. You weren't in your shop, were you? No. He shook his head. No, I was home. Down in the basement. In the basement ? Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.Why? What has that to do with— Was anybody else down there with you? No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school. Loyce looked fromone heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn'tget in on it? Like everybody else? After a pause the cop with the notebook said: That's right. You missedthe explanation. Then it's official? The body—it's supposed to be hanging there? It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see. Ed Loyce grinned weakly. Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deepend. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover. He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. I'm glad to know it's on the level. It's on the level. The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on. I feel better, Loyce said. I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there? The two cops said nothing. I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of— This won't take long, the cop behind the wheel interrupted. A shortprocess. Only a few minutes. I hope it's short, Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and— Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running. They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops. They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow—and they didn't care. That was the strange part. Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting. There was no sound behind him. He had got away. He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars. And to his right—the police station. He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them. Them? Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance. And—something else. Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky. He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees. Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid. In the vortexsomething moved. Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof. Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him. He was seeing—them. <doc-sep>For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water. They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building. He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on. Were there more of them? It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being. On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others. Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them. Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry. Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them. He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom. Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street. <doc-sep>Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus. The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family. Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her. A high school boy in jeans and black jacket. A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness. Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner. Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof. Maybe there were others. Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited. A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway. Loyce tensed. One of them ? Or—another they had missed? The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond. The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce. The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them. A look rich with meaning. Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open. Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell— Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him. Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off. Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book. Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away. Stop! For God's sake listen— He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him. Had he made a mistake? But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his. <doc-sep>Ed! Janet Loyce backed away nervously. What is it? What— Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.Pull down the shades. Quick. Janet moved toward the window. But— Do as I say. Who else is here besides you? Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What'shappened? You look so strange. Why are you home? Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen.From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ranhis finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the livingroom. Listen to me, he said. I don't have much time. They know I escapedand they'll be looking for me. Escaped? Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. Who? The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it prettywell figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and policedepartment. What they did with the real humans they— What are you talking about? We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension.They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind. My mind? Their entrance is here , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you.The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerfulenemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They'relimited! They can make mistakes! Janet shook her head. I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane. Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd belike all the rest of you. Loyce peered out the window. But I can'tstand here talking. Get your coat. My coat? We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help.Fight this thing. They can be beaten. They're not infallible. It'sgoing to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on! He grabbedher arm roughly. Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving.Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that. White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.Where are we going? Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto thefloor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. They'll have thehighway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I gotonto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget aboutit. The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody'ssupposed to drive over it. I know. Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. That's our bestchance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full ofgas, isn't it? Janet was dazed. The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon. Janet moved towardthe stairs. Ed, I— Call the twins! Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothingstirred. No sign of life. All right so far. Come on downstairs, Janet called in a wavering voice. We're—goingout for awhile. Now? Tommy's voice came. Hurry up, Ed barked. Get down here, both of you. Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. I was doing my home work.We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done— You can forget about fractions. Ed grabbed his son as he came down thestairs and propelled him toward the door. Where's Jim? He's coming. Jim started slowly down the stairs. What's up, Dad? We're going for a ride. A ride? Where? Ed turned to Janet. We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turnit on. He pushed her toward the set. So they'll think we're still— He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out.Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur ofmotion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy.It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him,cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellowT-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strangehalf-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing? A stinger. Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loycerolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still asstatues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again.This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. Itbounced against the wall and fluttered down. Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alienmind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered hisown, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence,settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in abroken heap on the rug. It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly ofsome kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mindtight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up hisknife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still,neither of them moving. The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. Itwas ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys andopen fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone. Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife andson. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps. A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darknesstoward the edge of town. <doc-sep>The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping forbreath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothingwas torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterlyexhausted. But ahead of him lay Oak Grove. He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled andfell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everythingreceded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away fromPikeville. A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched inwonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was agasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickenspecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string. The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself upto the station. Thank God. He caught hold of the wall. I didn't thinkI was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hearthem buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me. What happened? the attendant demanded. You in a wreck? A hold-up? Loyce shook his head wearily. They have the whole town. The City Halland the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was thefirst thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw themhovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyondthem. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the suncame up. The attendant licked his lip nervously. You're out of your head. Ibetter get a doctor. Get me into Oak Grove, Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started rightaway. <doc-sep>They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face. You don't believe me, Loyce said. The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly. Loyce sagged. Thank God. So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million. Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured. What is it? About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time. A long time? Thousands of years. I don't think it's new. Why do you say that? When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth— So? They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly. The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle. They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated. Why defeated? They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance. The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out. Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that. Why? Why did they deliberately hanghim there? That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly. Bait. Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean? To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped. Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they expected failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap. And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste. Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man. Who was theman? I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed— There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly. <doc-sep>As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank cameup out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat andcoat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people werethere, hurrying home to dinner. Good night, the guard said, locking the door after him. Good night, Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the streettoward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in thevault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if therewas room for another tier. He was glad to be finished. At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. Thestreet was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze. From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something largeand shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind. What the hell was it? Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired andhungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinnertable. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominousand ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drewhim on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing madehim uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated. And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Edward C. Loyce, and what are his characteristics?

Edward C. Loyce has been the owner of the TV sales store in the town for twenty-five years, and he is also called Ed by the town people. He is forty years old, living at 1368 Hurst Road, Pikeville. He has a wife, Janet, and twin sons, Jimmy and Tommy. He owns a Packard. He is practical and always tries to correct wrong things. He is friendly because he knows everyone in the town, and everyone seems to have a good relationship with him. Ed is brave because when he realizes that nobody pays attention to the hanged body in the town park, he gets closer and tries to figure out who the corpse is. Ed is also brilliant because he grasps the abnormal situations immediately after noticing the difference between the current situation and the normal one and because he sees the alien’s power flaws right after knowing the situation. He is also practical because he plans what he should do right after grasping the situation in the town. He is cautious as he kills the man with the book on the bus, not letting the aliens' slight chance get him. His will is formidable because he runs with his feet for ten miles along the rough ground to escape from Pikeville and because he makes the decision immediately when he knows that he has to abandon his family.

What role does the hanged human body play in the story? [SEP] <s> THE HANGING STRANGER BY PHILIP K. DICK ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw it hanging in thetown square. Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself! It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost. From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare. Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands. It was a body. A human body. <doc-sep>Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here! Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there. See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past! Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there. A reason! What kind of a reason? Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know? Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys? There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops. They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere. I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure. Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man! Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee. You mean it's been there all afternoon? Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed. Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention. I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green. The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue. For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear. Why? Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean? And—why didn't anybody notice? He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed. Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins. What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick. The body. There in the park. Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy. Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong? Ed's not feeling well. Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake— What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously. The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there! More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed? The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police! Ed— Better get a doctor! He must be sick. Or drunk. Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him. Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on! The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce. <doc-sep>Name? the cop with the notebook murmured. Loyce. He mopped his forehead wearily. Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.Back there— Address? the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly throughtraffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against theseat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath. 1368 Hurst Road. That's here in Pikeville? That's right. Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. Listento me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost— Where were you today? the cop behind the wheel demanded. Where? Loyce echoed. You weren't in your shop, were you? No. He shook his head. No, I was home. Down in the basement. In the basement ? Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.Why? What has that to do with— Was anybody else down there with you? No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school. Loyce looked fromone heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn'tget in on it? Like everybody else? After a pause the cop with the notebook said: That's right. You missedthe explanation. Then it's official? The body—it's supposed to be hanging there? It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see. Ed Loyce grinned weakly. Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deepend. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover. He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. I'm glad to know it's on the level. It's on the level. The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on. I feel better, Loyce said. I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there? The two cops said nothing. I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of— This won't take long, the cop behind the wheel interrupted. A shortprocess. Only a few minutes. I hope it's short, Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and— Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running. They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops. They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow—and they didn't care. That was the strange part. Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting. There was no sound behind him. He had got away. He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars. And to his right—the police station. He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them. Them? Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance. And—something else. Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky. He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees. Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid. In the vortexsomething moved. Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof. Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him. He was seeing—them. <doc-sep>For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water. They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building. He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on. Were there more of them? It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being. On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others. Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them. Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry. Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them. He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom. Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street. <doc-sep>Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus. The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family. Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her. A high school boy in jeans and black jacket. A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness. Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner. Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof. Maybe there were others. Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited. A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway. Loyce tensed. One of them ? Or—another they had missed? The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond. The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce. The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them. A look rich with meaning. Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open. Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell— Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him. Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off. Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book. Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away. Stop! For God's sake listen— He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him. Had he made a mistake? But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his. <doc-sep>Ed! Janet Loyce backed away nervously. What is it? What— Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.Pull down the shades. Quick. Janet moved toward the window. But— Do as I say. Who else is here besides you? Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What'shappened? You look so strange. Why are you home? Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen.From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ranhis finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the livingroom. Listen to me, he said. I don't have much time. They know I escapedand they'll be looking for me. Escaped? Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. Who? The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it prettywell figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and policedepartment. What they did with the real humans they— What are you talking about? We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension.They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind. My mind? Their entrance is here , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you.The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerfulenemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They'relimited! They can make mistakes! Janet shook her head. I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane. Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd belike all the rest of you. Loyce peered out the window. But I can'tstand here talking. Get your coat. My coat? We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help.Fight this thing. They can be beaten. They're not infallible. It'sgoing to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on! He grabbedher arm roughly. Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving.Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that. White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.Where are we going? Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto thefloor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. They'll have thehighway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I gotonto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget aboutit. The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody'ssupposed to drive over it. I know. Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. That's our bestchance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full ofgas, isn't it? Janet was dazed. The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon. Janet moved towardthe stairs. Ed, I— Call the twins! Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothingstirred. No sign of life. All right so far. Come on downstairs, Janet called in a wavering voice. We're—goingout for awhile. Now? Tommy's voice came. Hurry up, Ed barked. Get down here, both of you. Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. I was doing my home work.We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done— You can forget about fractions. Ed grabbed his son as he came down thestairs and propelled him toward the door. Where's Jim? He's coming. Jim started slowly down the stairs. What's up, Dad? We're going for a ride. A ride? Where? Ed turned to Janet. We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turnit on. He pushed her toward the set. So they'll think we're still— He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out.Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur ofmotion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy.It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him,cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellowT-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strangehalf-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing? A stinger. Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loycerolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still asstatues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again.This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. Itbounced against the wall and fluttered down. Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alienmind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered hisown, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence,settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in abroken heap on the rug. It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly ofsome kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mindtight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up hisknife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still,neither of them moving. The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. Itwas ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys andopen fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone. Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife andson. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps. A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darknesstoward the edge of town. <doc-sep>The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping forbreath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothingwas torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterlyexhausted. But ahead of him lay Oak Grove. He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled andfell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everythingreceded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away fromPikeville. A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched inwonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was agasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickenspecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string. The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself upto the station. Thank God. He caught hold of the wall. I didn't thinkI was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hearthem buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me. What happened? the attendant demanded. You in a wreck? A hold-up? Loyce shook his head wearily. They have the whole town. The City Halland the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was thefirst thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw themhovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyondthem. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the suncame up. The attendant licked his lip nervously. You're out of your head. Ibetter get a doctor. Get me into Oak Grove, Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started rightaway. <doc-sep>They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face. You don't believe me, Loyce said. The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly. Loyce sagged. Thank God. So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million. Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured. What is it? About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time. A long time? Thousands of years. I don't think it's new. Why do you say that? When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth— So? They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly. The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle. They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated. Why defeated? They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance. The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out. Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that. Why? Why did they deliberately hanghim there? That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly. Bait. Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean? To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped. Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they expected failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap. And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste. Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man. Who was theman? I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed— There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly. <doc-sep>As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank cameup out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat andcoat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people werethere, hurrying home to dinner. Good night, the guard said, locking the door after him. Good night, Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the streettoward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in thevault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if therewas room for another tier. He was glad to be finished. At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. Thestreet was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze. From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something largeand shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind. What the hell was it? Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired andhungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinnertable. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominousand ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drewhim on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing madehim uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated. And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What role does the hanged human body play in the story?

The hanged human body is bait to lure people who escape successfully from the mind control of alien flies and draw themselves out. People who are not under mental control would try everything they can to escape from the controlled town to the nearby uncontrolled town, but when they arrive in the uncontrolled town, they will be hanged as another bait in the new town, just like what happens to Ed Loyce in the story. When Ed notices the hanged body in the park and the strangeness that nobody cares about, he tries everything to alert people and escape. Yet, he ends up being suspended by the Commissioner in the town nearby as a new bait to lure people like him. The fact that the uncontrolled person escapes from the controlled town is also why the hanged body looks like a stranger in a town because the person often comes from another town. This fact also constitutes why the body is caked with mud, and its clothes are torn and ripped because it is the consequence of a long journey from another town to where it is hanged.

What are the alien flies, and what are their characteristics? [SEP] <s> THE HANGING STRANGER BY PHILIP K. DICK ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw it hanging in thetown square. Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself! It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost. From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare. Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands. It was a body. A human body. <doc-sep>Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here! Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there. See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past! Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there. A reason! What kind of a reason? Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know? Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys? There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops. They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere. I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure. Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man! Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee. You mean it's been there all afternoon? Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed. Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention. I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green. The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue. For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear. Why? Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean? And—why didn't anybody notice? He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed. Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins. What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick. The body. There in the park. Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy. Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong? Ed's not feeling well. Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake— What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously. The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there! More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed? The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police! Ed— Better get a doctor! He must be sick. Or drunk. Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him. Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on! The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce. <doc-sep>Name? the cop with the notebook murmured. Loyce. He mopped his forehead wearily. Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.Back there— Address? the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly throughtraffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against theseat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath. 1368 Hurst Road. That's here in Pikeville? That's right. Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. Listento me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost— Where were you today? the cop behind the wheel demanded. Where? Loyce echoed. You weren't in your shop, were you? No. He shook his head. No, I was home. Down in the basement. In the basement ? Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.Why? What has that to do with— Was anybody else down there with you? No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school. Loyce looked fromone heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn'tget in on it? Like everybody else? After a pause the cop with the notebook said: That's right. You missedthe explanation. Then it's official? The body—it's supposed to be hanging there? It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see. Ed Loyce grinned weakly. Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deepend. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover. He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. I'm glad to know it's on the level. It's on the level. The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on. I feel better, Loyce said. I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there? The two cops said nothing. I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of— This won't take long, the cop behind the wheel interrupted. A shortprocess. Only a few minutes. I hope it's short, Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and— Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running. They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops. They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow—and they didn't care. That was the strange part. Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting. There was no sound behind him. He had got away. He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars. And to his right—the police station. He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them. Them? Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance. And—something else. Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky. He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees. Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid. In the vortexsomething moved. Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof. Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him. He was seeing—them. <doc-sep>For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water. They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building. He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on. Were there more of them? It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being. On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others. Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them. Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry. Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them. He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom. Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street. <doc-sep>Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus. The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family. Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her. A high school boy in jeans and black jacket. A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness. Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner. Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof. Maybe there were others. Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited. A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway. Loyce tensed. One of them ? Or—another they had missed? The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond. The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce. The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them. A look rich with meaning. Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open. Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell— Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him. Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off. Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book. Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away. Stop! For God's sake listen— He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him. Had he made a mistake? But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his. <doc-sep>Ed! Janet Loyce backed away nervously. What is it? What— Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.Pull down the shades. Quick. Janet moved toward the window. But— Do as I say. Who else is here besides you? Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What'shappened? You look so strange. Why are you home? Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen.From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ranhis finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the livingroom. Listen to me, he said. I don't have much time. They know I escapedand they'll be looking for me. Escaped? Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. Who? The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it prettywell figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and policedepartment. What they did with the real humans they— What are you talking about? We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension.They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind. My mind? Their entrance is here , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you.The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerfulenemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They'relimited! They can make mistakes! Janet shook her head. I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane. Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd belike all the rest of you. Loyce peered out the window. But I can'tstand here talking. Get your coat. My coat? We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help.Fight this thing. They can be beaten. They're not infallible. It'sgoing to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on! He grabbedher arm roughly. Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving.Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that. White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.Where are we going? Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto thefloor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. They'll have thehighway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I gotonto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget aboutit. The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody'ssupposed to drive over it. I know. Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. That's our bestchance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full ofgas, isn't it? Janet was dazed. The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon. Janet moved towardthe stairs. Ed, I— Call the twins! Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothingstirred. No sign of life. All right so far. Come on downstairs, Janet called in a wavering voice. We're—goingout for awhile. Now? Tommy's voice came. Hurry up, Ed barked. Get down here, both of you. Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. I was doing my home work.We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done— You can forget about fractions. Ed grabbed his son as he came down thestairs and propelled him toward the door. Where's Jim? He's coming. Jim started slowly down the stairs. What's up, Dad? We're going for a ride. A ride? Where? Ed turned to Janet. We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turnit on. He pushed her toward the set. So they'll think we're still— He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out.Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur ofmotion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy.It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him,cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellowT-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strangehalf-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing? A stinger. Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loycerolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still asstatues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again.This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. Itbounced against the wall and fluttered down. Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alienmind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered hisown, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence,settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in abroken heap on the rug. It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly ofsome kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mindtight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up hisknife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still,neither of them moving. The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. Itwas ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys andopen fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone. Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife andson. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps. A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darknesstoward the edge of town. <doc-sep>The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping forbreath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothingwas torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterlyexhausted. But ahead of him lay Oak Grove. He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled andfell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everythingreceded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away fromPikeville. A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched inwonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was agasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickenspecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string. The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself upto the station. Thank God. He caught hold of the wall. I didn't thinkI was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hearthem buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me. What happened? the attendant demanded. You in a wreck? A hold-up? Loyce shook his head wearily. They have the whole town. The City Halland the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was thefirst thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw themhovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyondthem. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the suncame up. The attendant licked his lip nervously. You're out of your head. Ibetter get a doctor. Get me into Oak Grove, Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started rightaway. <doc-sep>They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face. You don't believe me, Loyce said. The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly. Loyce sagged. Thank God. So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million. Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured. What is it? About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time. A long time? Thousands of years. I don't think it's new. Why do you say that? When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth— So? They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly. The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle. They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated. Why defeated? They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance. The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out. Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that. Why? Why did they deliberately hanghim there? That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly. Bait. Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean? To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped. Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they expected failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap. And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste. Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man. Who was theman? I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed— There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly. <doc-sep>As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank cameup out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat andcoat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people werethere, hurrying home to dinner. Good night, the guard said, locking the door after him. Good night, Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the streettoward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in thevault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if therewas room for another tier. He was glad to be finished. At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. Thestreet was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze. From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something largeand shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind. What the hell was it? Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired andhungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinnertable. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominousand ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drewhim on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing madehim uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated. And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are the alien flies, and what are their characteristics?

The alien flies have multi-lensed inhuman eyes, wings, and a stinger. They are dark, coming from another dimension. They look like giant insects in their original form. When they move, they will produce a buzzing sound. They can mimic the appearance of humans, and they can control human minds. However, their mind control ability has its limit that they can control one area at one time, starting from the highest authority and widening down the control in a circle. When they control the whole town, they move to another area to continue. Their power flaw makes them unable to control everyone that someone may be overlooked. When that is the case, they set up a trap, using people who escape from the controlled town as bait to hang them in public, to lure people who are not under control to come to them by themselves. They anticipate their failures and are smart enough to make up for their flaws.

What is the setting of the story? [SEP] <s> THE HANGING STRANGER BY PHILIP K. DICK ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw it hanging in thetown square. Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself! It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost. From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare. Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands. It was a body. A human body. <doc-sep>Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here! Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there. See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past! Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there. A reason! What kind of a reason? Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know? Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys? There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops. They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere. I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure. Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man! Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee. You mean it's been there all afternoon? Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed. Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention. I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green. The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue. For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear. Why? Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean? And—why didn't anybody notice? He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed. Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins. What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick. The body. There in the park. Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy. Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong? Ed's not feeling well. Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake— What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously. The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there! More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed? The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police! Ed— Better get a doctor! He must be sick. Or drunk. Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him. Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on! The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce. <doc-sep>Name? the cop with the notebook murmured. Loyce. He mopped his forehead wearily. Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.Back there— Address? the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly throughtraffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against theseat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath. 1368 Hurst Road. That's here in Pikeville? That's right. Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. Listento me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost— Where were you today? the cop behind the wheel demanded. Where? Loyce echoed. You weren't in your shop, were you? No. He shook his head. No, I was home. Down in the basement. In the basement ? Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.Why? What has that to do with— Was anybody else down there with you? No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school. Loyce looked fromone heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn'tget in on it? Like everybody else? After a pause the cop with the notebook said: That's right. You missedthe explanation. Then it's official? The body—it's supposed to be hanging there? It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see. Ed Loyce grinned weakly. Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deepend. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover. He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. I'm glad to know it's on the level. It's on the level. The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on. I feel better, Loyce said. I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there? The two cops said nothing. I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of— This won't take long, the cop behind the wheel interrupted. A shortprocess. Only a few minutes. I hope it's short, Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and— Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running. They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops. They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow—and they didn't care. That was the strange part. Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting. There was no sound behind him. He had got away. He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars. And to his right—the police station. He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them. Them? Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance. And—something else. Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky. He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees. Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid. In the vortexsomething moved. Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof. Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him. He was seeing—them. <doc-sep>For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water. They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building. He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on. Were there more of them? It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being. On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others. Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them. Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry. Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them. He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom. Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street. <doc-sep>Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus. The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family. Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her. A high school boy in jeans and black jacket. A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness. Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner. Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof. Maybe there were others. Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited. A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway. Loyce tensed. One of them ? Or—another they had missed? The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond. The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce. The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them. A look rich with meaning. Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open. Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell— Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him. Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off. Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book. Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away. Stop! For God's sake listen— He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him. Had he made a mistake? But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his. <doc-sep>Ed! Janet Loyce backed away nervously. What is it? What— Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.Pull down the shades. Quick. Janet moved toward the window. But— Do as I say. Who else is here besides you? Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What'shappened? You look so strange. Why are you home? Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen.From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ranhis finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the livingroom. Listen to me, he said. I don't have much time. They know I escapedand they'll be looking for me. Escaped? Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. Who? The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it prettywell figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and policedepartment. What they did with the real humans they— What are you talking about? We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension.They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind. My mind? Their entrance is here , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you.The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerfulenemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They'relimited! They can make mistakes! Janet shook her head. I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane. Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd belike all the rest of you. Loyce peered out the window. But I can'tstand here talking. Get your coat. My coat? We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help.Fight this thing. They can be beaten. They're not infallible. It'sgoing to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on! He grabbedher arm roughly. Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving.Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that. White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.Where are we going? Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto thefloor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. They'll have thehighway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I gotonto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget aboutit. The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody'ssupposed to drive over it. I know. Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. That's our bestchance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full ofgas, isn't it? Janet was dazed. The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon. Janet moved towardthe stairs. Ed, I— Call the twins! Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothingstirred. No sign of life. All right so far. Come on downstairs, Janet called in a wavering voice. We're—goingout for awhile. Now? Tommy's voice came. Hurry up, Ed barked. Get down here, both of you. Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. I was doing my home work.We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done— You can forget about fractions. Ed grabbed his son as he came down thestairs and propelled him toward the door. Where's Jim? He's coming. Jim started slowly down the stairs. What's up, Dad? We're going for a ride. A ride? Where? Ed turned to Janet. We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turnit on. He pushed her toward the set. So they'll think we're still— He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out.Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur ofmotion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy.It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him,cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellowT-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strangehalf-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing? A stinger. Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loycerolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still asstatues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again.This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. Itbounced against the wall and fluttered down. Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alienmind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered hisown, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence,settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in abroken heap on the rug. It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly ofsome kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mindtight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up hisknife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still,neither of them moving. The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. Itwas ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys andopen fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone. Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife andson. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps. A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darknesstoward the edge of town. <doc-sep>The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping forbreath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothingwas torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterlyexhausted. But ahead of him lay Oak Grove. He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled andfell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everythingreceded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away fromPikeville. A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched inwonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was agasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickenspecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string. The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself upto the station. Thank God. He caught hold of the wall. I didn't thinkI was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hearthem buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me. What happened? the attendant demanded. You in a wreck? A hold-up? Loyce shook his head wearily. They have the whole town. The City Halland the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was thefirst thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw themhovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyondthem. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the suncame up. The attendant licked his lip nervously. You're out of your head. Ibetter get a doctor. Get me into Oak Grove, Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started rightaway. <doc-sep>They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face. You don't believe me, Loyce said. The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly. Loyce sagged. Thank God. So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million. Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured. What is it? About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time. A long time? Thousands of years. I don't think it's new. Why do you say that? When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth— So? They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly. The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle. They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated. Why defeated? They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance. The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out. Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that. Why? Why did they deliberately hanghim there? That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly. Bait. Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean? To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped. Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they expected failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap. And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste. Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man. Who was theman? I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed— There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly. <doc-sep>As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank cameup out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat andcoat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people werethere, hurrying home to dinner. Good night, the guard said, locking the door after him. Good night, Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the streettoward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in thevault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if therewas room for another tier. He was glad to be finished. At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. Thestreet was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze. From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something largeand shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind. What the hell was it? Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired andhungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinnertable. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominousand ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drewhim on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing madehim uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated. And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the setting of the story?

The story happens in Pikeville town and Oak Grove town. The first scene occurs in the town park where the hanged body is. In the park, there is a lamppost, a drinking fountain, and a bench. Under the lamppost, the body is hanged. The second scene is in the car, where Ed has a conversation with the fake police. When Ed escapes from the fake police, he runs into a hardware store filled with customers and clerks. There is a back door in the shipping room, a garbage can next to the door, and concrete stairs outside the store towards the top of the fence. The other side of the fence is an entrance to an alley, which is filled with boards and ruined boxes and tires. Passing the loading platform of a grocery store stands one wall of the Hall of Justice. The wall is white with barred windows. The City Hall is next to the police station, with yellow wooden walls with brass cement steps. Cedars and flowers are planted on each side of the entrance. When Ed gets on the bus, the people sitting around him are all dull, tired, and quiet. No one pays attention to him. People seem to be normal: one is reading the newspaper, another with business suits sits quietly, and the other gazes absently towards the front. When Ed escapes from the bus, he runs into a residential district, pavement sides with tall apartment buildings and lawns. When Ed comes home, there are windows with shades in the living room. The house is a two-floor building. The twin’s room is upstairs. There is a basement in the house. In the kitchen, a butcher knife lies in the drawer under the sink. On his way to Oak Grove, rough ground, gullies, open fields, and forest are along the way. In Oak Grove, there is a gasoline station and drive-in. Several trucks park there—some chickens on the field and a dog tied with the string. In front of the police station in Oak Grove, a telephone pole is suitable to hang a human body.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN By BRYCE WALTON Illustrated by BOB HAYES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg! Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it. 'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe. Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce. Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited. Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished. We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said. Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to? Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said. I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it? Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning. I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain. Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard. They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one. <doc-sep>With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there infront of them for the inquest. In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legsstretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of theConqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now therewas no emotion at all on her trim, neat face. He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment hewasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.They had gotten her young and it was too late. Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenlyof the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastileneshelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him inhis dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed hehad been when he woke from them. This is a mere formality, Terrence finally said, since we all knowyou killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.Whatever you say goes on the record, of course. For whom? Bruce asked. What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when weget back. When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships outthere? Bruce laughed without much humor. Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly againto his belly. You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran inthe head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wastedenough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said toomuch, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killingfellow crew-members! Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,Bruce said. Now we get another lecture! Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should neverhave sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we canfind. You don't belong here. I know, Bruce agreed indifferently. I was drafted for this trip. Itold them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any partof it. Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why youbacked down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devildoes Venus—? Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his highforehead. Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done tothe Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughlyeducated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people. I haven't heard it, Terrence admitted. What injustice? Bruce said, I guess it couldn't really be considered an injusticeany longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of thecrew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? Oneof the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians wereaborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into thisvillage. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beingsthere. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousandinhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greetus. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. Thevillage was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed. Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginningto run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before thecold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes. No, Bruce said. I apologize. None of you know what I'm talkingabout. Terrence nodded. You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick themost capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes ofelimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, thereal conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do youthink gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the lawsof the whole Solar System? There are plenty on Earth who agree with me, Bruce said. I can saywhat I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll dothat regardless.... He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. Theyhad established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. Thepsychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn'twant to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a humanvacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth waskept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wantedto open the mouth for in the first place. A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, forcenturies, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a questionof which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough jobthere. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.This was the fifth attempt— <doc-sep>Terrence said, why did you shoot Doran? I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, andwhen he shot the— Bruce hesitated. What? When he shot what? Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed tosharpen and rise to a kind of wail. All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran wokeme up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job wewere supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we gothere. What kind of dreams? Someone laughed. Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there, Bruce said. Peopletalk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and somekind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all. Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room. It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members ofsome of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth. Terrence grinned. Ghosts, Bruce? Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feelingthere's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.You're still interested? Terrence nodded and glanced to either side. We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever, Brucepointed out. Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except somefungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to mefrom the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place— The mountain, Terrence said. You've been afraid even to talk aboutscaling it. Not afraid, Bruce objected. I don't see any need to climb it. Comingto Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crewof the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set aprecedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successfulclimb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything upthere. Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Whyshould I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. Thechallenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intendgoing before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn'tinterest me. Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth! Terrence said, sitting upstraight and rigid. I know, Bruce said. Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran wasshaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; eitherthat or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out thewindow—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and atfirst I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feelingit was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something inmy mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking— His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. Doran askedme what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed uphis rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ranafter him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How doyou know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before Icould get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.That's the way you think. What? Explain that remark. That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances withaliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we killeverything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to killeverything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gunaway from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybethat's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die andthat I had to kill him, so I did. Is that all, Bruce? That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I wouldif I had the chance. That's what I figured. Terrence turned to the psychologist, a smallwiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. Stromberg, whatdo you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hithim? You said his record was good up until a year ago. Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophreniais caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values andour present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete casehistory would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I wouldsay that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is whyhe fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defensewhich he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Eravalues. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelingsof inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies. Yes, Terrence said. But how does that account for Doran's action?Doran must have seen something— Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weakpersonality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he sawsomething. He glanced at Marsha. Did you see anything? She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. Nothing at all. There wasn'tanything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all thereis to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anythingelse. A shadow maybe— All right, Terrence interrupted. Now, Bruce, you know the lawregulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space? Yes. Execution. No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth. I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain. Terrence shifted his position. However, we've voted to grant youa kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service fromyou, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be leftfood-concentrates to last a long time. What kind of service? Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up themountain. Why not? Bruce said. You aren't certain you're coming back, then? We might not, Terrence admitted calmly. Something's happened to theothers. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None ofus want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as theycome in. I'll do that, Bruce said. It should be interesting. <doc-sep>Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts. He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity. At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing. At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this! At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce! From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth. And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb— Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time. From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are. Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be— Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams. It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams. <doc-sep>The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep. He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene. Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense. The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know. ' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... ' So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams. And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky. If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable. Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos. But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious. Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up— And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts. Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door. Marsha, he said. Bruce— She hadn't said his name that way for a long time. Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter.... He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all.... Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...? <doc-sep>He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her. Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me? Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down. He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks. '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....' The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice. Marsha, are you still there? What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of everything . The top of the UNIVERSE ! Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back. Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down. He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives. He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water. The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind. He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams? The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette. He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was. He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four. There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up. There was no mountain. <doc-sep>For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, andhe was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear itagain. Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it throughthat thick poetic head of yours! Get what? He began to suspect what it was all about now, but hewasn't quite sure yet. Smoke? she said. He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put thelighter back into her pocket. It's real nice here, she said. Isn't it? I guess it's about perfect. It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth everagain, you know. I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again. We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce? No. He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybeit still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which wasnot? That barren icy world without life, or this? ' Is all that we see or seem ,' he whispered, half to himself, ' buta dream within a dream? ' She laughed softly. Poe was ahead of his time, she said. You stilldon't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening? Maybe I don't. She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. Poor guys. Ican't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot ofunderstanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and afteryou've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can seenow—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a childof chance. Yes, Bruce said. There's a lot of people like us on Earth, butthey'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to livedecently.... You're beginning to see now which was the dream, she said andsmiled. But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get theirchance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep cominghere and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. Itwon't take so long. She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlenewalking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved backand called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, anddrifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn. She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where themountain had been, or still was—he didn't know. A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surroundinggreen. She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressureon his arm stopped him. I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on thethird, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climbthe mountain— She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt thepressure of her fingers on his arm. I'm very glad you came on thefifth, she whispered. Are you glad now? I'm very glad, he said. The Martians tested us, she explained. They're masters of the mind.I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary milla darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learnedthe horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go oninto space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their ownsickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capableof hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest ourlanguage comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that itseems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit tothe number that can be influenced. What the people who came off thoseships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them tosee and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was thesuggestion of the Martians. She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. The Martians made themountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured byinstruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. Butyou'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not themountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars noConqueror will ever see. <doc-sep>They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking. It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto. He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings. The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally. Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal. He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal. You loved her? Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her. He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it. '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....' He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back. They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene? Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that. They entered the city. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The story is set on Mars. A group of conquerors from Earth arrived here after the last four crews never returned after deciding to climb a very high Martian mountain. The fifth team with Bruce, Marsha - his past love interest, Anhauser, Jacobs, Doran, Max Drexel, Stromberg - the psychologist, and its captain Terrence arrived here on their ship Mars V eight months ago. A day before the ascent Bruce is reading Byron and thinking about his bizarre dreams. Then we see an inquest. With all the crew members listening, Terrence interrogates Bruce and asks why he shot Doran. Bruce reminds the crew about the genocide of the Venusian aborigines: five years ago, he and Doran were part of the crew of the first ship that landed on Venus; these explorers wiped out the entire Venusian community. Terrence claims that Bruce is mentally ill and doesn’t have the real conquering blood. The captain understands the young man doesn’t believe in the philosophy of conquering and remains faithful to the old ideas of democracy and freedom. Bruce then explains that Marsha and Doran woke him up after a bizarre dream, and he immediately saw something or someone in the window. When Doran saw the creature, he left the room, and Bruce heard his rifle go off. Infuriated, Bruce killed the man. Stromberg deems Bruce a delusional schizophrenic and says that Doran probably imagined the creature, too. Instead of punishing the man by executing him, Terrence orders Bruce to write down everything they report via radio while they are climbing. He stays by the radio, eats what they left for him, and sometimes sleeps. Eventually, Terrence reports that the mountain is way higher than they anticipated - 45 00 feet. Later, he screams that he just killed Anhauser for dissent. The captain speaks of their great conquest, and Bruce sometimes replies to prove he's still writing down everything. His dreams become more realistic and he seems to see some crew members of the previous expeditions: Pietro, Marlene, and Helene. Terrence reports that they are at an altitude of five hundred thousand feet and later adds that Marsha is dying. She says she loves Bruce, and he recites a poem for her. Terrence later crazily speaks about toppling the Solar system but soon stops reporting. Bruce turns off the radio. The exterior of the ship changes - now he sees a small town and the grandiose mountain vanished. Not sure if it’s a dream or not, he approaches Helene, who eventually explains that the Martians wanted to stop the human conquerors. They decided to create an illusion of an infinitely high mountain, and the colonists felt an uncontrollable urge to climb it. They both walk to a red mound, where Bruce notices the bodies of the crew members of all five ships. Only people like him remained alive. Bruce looks at them and, together with Helene, leaves the mound, entering the city.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN By BRYCE WALTON Illustrated by BOB HAYES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg! Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it. 'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe. Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce. Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited. Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished. We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said. Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to? Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said. I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it? Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning. I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain. Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard. They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one. <doc-sep>With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there infront of them for the inquest. In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legsstretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of theConqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now therewas no emotion at all on her trim, neat face. He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment hewasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.They had gotten her young and it was too late. Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenlyof the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastileneshelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him inhis dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed hehad been when he woke from them. This is a mere formality, Terrence finally said, since we all knowyou killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.Whatever you say goes on the record, of course. For whom? Bruce asked. What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when weget back. When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships outthere? Bruce laughed without much humor. Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly againto his belly. You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran inthe head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wastedenough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said toomuch, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killingfellow crew-members! Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,Bruce said. Now we get another lecture! Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should neverhave sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we canfind. You don't belong here. I know, Bruce agreed indifferently. I was drafted for this trip. Itold them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any partof it. Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why youbacked down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devildoes Venus—? Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his highforehead. Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done tothe Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughlyeducated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people. I haven't heard it, Terrence admitted. What injustice? Bruce said, I guess it couldn't really be considered an injusticeany longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of thecrew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? Oneof the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians wereaborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into thisvillage. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beingsthere. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousandinhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greetus. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. Thevillage was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed. Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginningto run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before thecold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes. No, Bruce said. I apologize. None of you know what I'm talkingabout. Terrence nodded. You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick themost capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes ofelimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, thereal conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do youthink gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the lawsof the whole Solar System? There are plenty on Earth who agree with me, Bruce said. I can saywhat I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll dothat regardless.... He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. Theyhad established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. Thepsychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn'twant to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a humanvacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth waskept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wantedto open the mouth for in the first place. A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, forcenturies, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a questionof which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough jobthere. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.This was the fifth attempt— <doc-sep>Terrence said, why did you shoot Doran? I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, andwhen he shot the— Bruce hesitated. What? When he shot what? Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed tosharpen and rise to a kind of wail. All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran wokeme up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job wewere supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we gothere. What kind of dreams? Someone laughed. Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there, Bruce said. Peopletalk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and somekind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all. Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room. It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members ofsome of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth. Terrence grinned. Ghosts, Bruce? Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feelingthere's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.You're still interested? Terrence nodded and glanced to either side. We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever, Brucepointed out. Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except somefungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to mefrom the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place— The mountain, Terrence said. You've been afraid even to talk aboutscaling it. Not afraid, Bruce objected. I don't see any need to climb it. Comingto Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crewof the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set aprecedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successfulclimb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything upthere. Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Whyshould I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. Thechallenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intendgoing before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn'tinterest me. Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth! Terrence said, sitting upstraight and rigid. I know, Bruce said. Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran wasshaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; eitherthat or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out thewindow—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and atfirst I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feelingit was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something inmy mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking— His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. Doran askedme what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed uphis rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ranafter him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How doyou know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before Icould get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.That's the way you think. What? Explain that remark. That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances withaliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we killeverything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to killeverything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gunaway from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybethat's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die andthat I had to kill him, so I did. Is that all, Bruce? That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I wouldif I had the chance. That's what I figured. Terrence turned to the psychologist, a smallwiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. Stromberg, whatdo you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hithim? You said his record was good up until a year ago. Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophreniais caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values andour present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete casehistory would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I wouldsay that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is whyhe fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defensewhich he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Eravalues. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelingsof inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies. Yes, Terrence said. But how does that account for Doran's action?Doran must have seen something— Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weakpersonality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he sawsomething. He glanced at Marsha. Did you see anything? She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. Nothing at all. There wasn'tanything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all thereis to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anythingelse. A shadow maybe— All right, Terrence interrupted. Now, Bruce, you know the lawregulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space? Yes. Execution. No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth. I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain. Terrence shifted his position. However, we've voted to grant youa kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service fromyou, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be leftfood-concentrates to last a long time. What kind of service? Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up themountain. Why not? Bruce said. You aren't certain you're coming back, then? We might not, Terrence admitted calmly. Something's happened to theothers. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None ofus want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as theycome in. I'll do that, Bruce said. It should be interesting. <doc-sep>Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts. He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity. At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing. At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this! At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce! From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth. And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb— Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time. From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are. Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be— Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams. It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams. <doc-sep>The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep. He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene. Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense. The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know. ' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... ' So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams. And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky. If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable. Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos. But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious. Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up— And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts. Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door. Marsha, he said. Bruce— She hadn't said his name that way for a long time. Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter.... He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all.... Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...? <doc-sep>He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her. Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me? Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down. He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks. '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....' The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice. Marsha, are you still there? What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of everything . The top of the UNIVERSE ! Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back. Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down. He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives. He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water. The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind. He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams? The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette. He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was. He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four. There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up. There was no mountain. <doc-sep>For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, andhe was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear itagain. Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it throughthat thick poetic head of yours! Get what? He began to suspect what it was all about now, but hewasn't quite sure yet. Smoke? she said. He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put thelighter back into her pocket. It's real nice here, she said. Isn't it? I guess it's about perfect. It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth everagain, you know. I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again. We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce? No. He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybeit still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which wasnot? That barren icy world without life, or this? ' Is all that we see or seem ,' he whispered, half to himself, ' buta dream within a dream? ' She laughed softly. Poe was ahead of his time, she said. You stilldon't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening? Maybe I don't. She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. Poor guys. Ican't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot ofunderstanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and afteryou've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can seenow—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a childof chance. Yes, Bruce said. There's a lot of people like us on Earth, butthey'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to livedecently.... You're beginning to see now which was the dream, she said andsmiled. But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get theirchance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep cominghere and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. Itwon't take so long. She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlenewalking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved backand called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, anddrifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn. She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where themountain had been, or still was—he didn't know. A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surroundinggreen. She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressureon his arm stopped him. I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on thethird, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climbthe mountain— She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt thepressure of her fingers on his arm. I'm very glad you came on thefifth, she whispered. Are you glad now? I'm very glad, he said. The Martians tested us, she explained. They're masters of the mind.I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary milla darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learnedthe horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go oninto space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their ownsickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capableof hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest ourlanguage comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that itseems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit tothe number that can be influenced. What the people who came off thoseships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them tosee and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was thesuggestion of the Martians. She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. The Martians made themountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured byinstruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. Butyou'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not themountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars noConqueror will ever see. <doc-sep>They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking. It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto. He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings. The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally. Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal. He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal. You loved her? Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her. He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it. '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....' He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back. They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene? Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that. They entered the city. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

At the beginning, Jacobs, Bruce, and Anhauser talk aboard their ship Mars V which recently landed on the windy surface of Mars. Bruce then looks at the even Martian landscape with an incredible mountain right near the ship and the double moons illuminating the surface. When everybody else leaves to climb the mountain, he spends his time on the spaceship, eating, sleeping, and sitting by the radio. Bruce dreams of a green valley and canals inside a town. And later, when the crew stops reporting anything, he finally can see the real landscape of Mars. He looks at numerous low hills with purple mist, a canal, and valleys with green trees. The mountain disappeared. A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, there is an ugly red mound with the bodies of the conquerors lying there. After looking at Marsha and Terrence, together with Helene, he walks along the canal back to the city.

What is the relationship between Bruce and Marsha? [SEP] <s> THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN By BRYCE WALTON Illustrated by BOB HAYES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg! Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it. 'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe. Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce. Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited. Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished. We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said. Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to? Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said. I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it? Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning. I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain. Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard. They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one. <doc-sep>With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there infront of them for the inquest. In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legsstretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of theConqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now therewas no emotion at all on her trim, neat face. He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment hewasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.They had gotten her young and it was too late. Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenlyof the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastileneshelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him inhis dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed hehad been when he woke from them. This is a mere formality, Terrence finally said, since we all knowyou killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.Whatever you say goes on the record, of course. For whom? Bruce asked. What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when weget back. When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships outthere? Bruce laughed without much humor. Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly againto his belly. You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran inthe head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wastedenough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said toomuch, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killingfellow crew-members! Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,Bruce said. Now we get another lecture! Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should neverhave sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we canfind. You don't belong here. I know, Bruce agreed indifferently. I was drafted for this trip. Itold them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any partof it. Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why youbacked down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devildoes Venus—? Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his highforehead. Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done tothe Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughlyeducated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people. I haven't heard it, Terrence admitted. What injustice? Bruce said, I guess it couldn't really be considered an injusticeany longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of thecrew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? Oneof the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians wereaborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into thisvillage. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beingsthere. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousandinhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greetus. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. Thevillage was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed. Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginningto run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before thecold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes. No, Bruce said. I apologize. None of you know what I'm talkingabout. Terrence nodded. You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick themost capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes ofelimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, thereal conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do youthink gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the lawsof the whole Solar System? There are plenty on Earth who agree with me, Bruce said. I can saywhat I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll dothat regardless.... He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. Theyhad established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. Thepsychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn'twant to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a humanvacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth waskept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wantedto open the mouth for in the first place. A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, forcenturies, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a questionof which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough jobthere. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.This was the fifth attempt— <doc-sep>Terrence said, why did you shoot Doran? I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, andwhen he shot the— Bruce hesitated. What? When he shot what? Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed tosharpen and rise to a kind of wail. All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran wokeme up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job wewere supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we gothere. What kind of dreams? Someone laughed. Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there, Bruce said. Peopletalk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and somekind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all. Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room. It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members ofsome of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth. Terrence grinned. Ghosts, Bruce? Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feelingthere's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.You're still interested? Terrence nodded and glanced to either side. We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever, Brucepointed out. Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except somefungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to mefrom the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place— The mountain, Terrence said. You've been afraid even to talk aboutscaling it. Not afraid, Bruce objected. I don't see any need to climb it. Comingto Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crewof the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set aprecedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successfulclimb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything upthere. Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Whyshould I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. Thechallenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intendgoing before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn'tinterest me. Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth! Terrence said, sitting upstraight and rigid. I know, Bruce said. Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran wasshaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; eitherthat or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out thewindow—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and atfirst I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feelingit was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something inmy mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking— His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. Doran askedme what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed uphis rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ranafter him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How doyou know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before Icould get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.That's the way you think. What? Explain that remark. That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances withaliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we killeverything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to killeverything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gunaway from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybethat's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die andthat I had to kill him, so I did. Is that all, Bruce? That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I wouldif I had the chance. That's what I figured. Terrence turned to the psychologist, a smallwiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. Stromberg, whatdo you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hithim? You said his record was good up until a year ago. Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophreniais caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values andour present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete casehistory would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I wouldsay that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is whyhe fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defensewhich he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Eravalues. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelingsof inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies. Yes, Terrence said. But how does that account for Doran's action?Doran must have seen something— Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weakpersonality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he sawsomething. He glanced at Marsha. Did you see anything? She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. Nothing at all. There wasn'tanything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all thereis to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anythingelse. A shadow maybe— All right, Terrence interrupted. Now, Bruce, you know the lawregulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space? Yes. Execution. No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth. I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain. Terrence shifted his position. However, we've voted to grant youa kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service fromyou, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be leftfood-concentrates to last a long time. What kind of service? Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up themountain. Why not? Bruce said. You aren't certain you're coming back, then? We might not, Terrence admitted calmly. Something's happened to theothers. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None ofus want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as theycome in. I'll do that, Bruce said. It should be interesting. <doc-sep>Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts. He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity. At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing. At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this! At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce! From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth. And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb— Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time. From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are. Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be— Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams. It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams. <doc-sep>The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep. He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene. Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense. The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know. ' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... ' So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams. And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky. If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable. Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos. But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious. Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up— And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts. Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door. Marsha, he said. Bruce— She hadn't said his name that way for a long time. Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter.... He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all.... Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...? <doc-sep>He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her. Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me? Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down. He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks. '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....' The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice. Marsha, are you still there? What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of everything . The top of the UNIVERSE ! Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back. Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down. He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives. He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water. The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind. He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams? The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette. He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was. He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four. There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up. There was no mountain. <doc-sep>For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, andhe was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear itagain. Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it throughthat thick poetic head of yours! Get what? He began to suspect what it was all about now, but hewasn't quite sure yet. Smoke? she said. He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put thelighter back into her pocket. It's real nice here, she said. Isn't it? I guess it's about perfect. It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth everagain, you know. I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again. We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce? No. He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybeit still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which wasnot? That barren icy world without life, or this? ' Is all that we see or seem ,' he whispered, half to himself, ' buta dream within a dream? ' She laughed softly. Poe was ahead of his time, she said. You stilldon't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening? Maybe I don't. She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. Poor guys. Ican't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot ofunderstanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and afteryou've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can seenow—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a childof chance. Yes, Bruce said. There's a lot of people like us on Earth, butthey'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to livedecently.... You're beginning to see now which was the dream, she said andsmiled. But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get theirchance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep cominghere and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. Itwon't take so long. She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlenewalking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved backand called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, anddrifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn. She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where themountain had been, or still was—he didn't know. A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surroundinggreen. She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressureon his arm stopped him. I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on thethird, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climbthe mountain— She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt thepressure of her fingers on his arm. I'm very glad you came on thefifth, she whispered. Are you glad now? I'm very glad, he said. The Martians tested us, she explained. They're masters of the mind.I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary milla darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learnedthe horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go oninto space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their ownsickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capableof hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest ourlanguage comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that itseems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit tothe number that can be influenced. What the people who came off thoseships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them tosee and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was thesuggestion of the Martians. She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. The Martians made themountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured byinstruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. Butyou'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not themountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars noConqueror will ever see. <doc-sep>They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking. It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto. He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings. The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally. Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal. He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal. You loved her? Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her. He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it. '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....' He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back. They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene? Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that. They entered the city. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Bruce and Marsha?

Bruce and Marsha were close years ago when they lived on Earth. They shared similar values and loved each other, but eventually, Marsha became one of the conquerors, ready to expand the human territories. Now she’s almost emotionless. Bruce is disappointed and reckons that the other conquerors had gotten her young, and there was nothing he could do about it. When he’s interrogated, the psychologist asks if she saw any creature before Bruce shot Doran. She seems hesitant and doesn’t look at Bruce when denying seeing anything. When she is dying, she crazily laughs and admits that she is in love with him, asking Bruce to read her a poem. At the end, he finds Marsha’s body among the eroded hills and puts it beside the city canal. He says that he loved her once, and she could’ve been sane, different if the conquerors hadn’t got her when she was so young.

What is the significance of the mountain? [SEP] <s> THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN By BRYCE WALTON Illustrated by BOB HAYES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg! Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it. 'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe. Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce. Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited. Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished. We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said. Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to? Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said. I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it? Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning. I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain. Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard. They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one. <doc-sep>With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there infront of them for the inquest. In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legsstretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of theConqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now therewas no emotion at all on her trim, neat face. He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment hewasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.They had gotten her young and it was too late. Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenlyof the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastileneshelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him inhis dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed hehad been when he woke from them. This is a mere formality, Terrence finally said, since we all knowyou killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.Whatever you say goes on the record, of course. For whom? Bruce asked. What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when weget back. When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships outthere? Bruce laughed without much humor. Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly againto his belly. You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran inthe head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wastedenough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said toomuch, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killingfellow crew-members! Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,Bruce said. Now we get another lecture! Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should neverhave sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we canfind. You don't belong here. I know, Bruce agreed indifferently. I was drafted for this trip. Itold them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any partof it. Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why youbacked down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devildoes Venus—? Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his highforehead. Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done tothe Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughlyeducated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people. I haven't heard it, Terrence admitted. What injustice? Bruce said, I guess it couldn't really be considered an injusticeany longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of thecrew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? Oneof the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians wereaborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into thisvillage. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beingsthere. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousandinhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greetus. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. Thevillage was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed. Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginningto run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before thecold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes. No, Bruce said. I apologize. None of you know what I'm talkingabout. Terrence nodded. You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick themost capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes ofelimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, thereal conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do youthink gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the lawsof the whole Solar System? There are plenty on Earth who agree with me, Bruce said. I can saywhat I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll dothat regardless.... He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. Theyhad established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. Thepsychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn'twant to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a humanvacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth waskept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wantedto open the mouth for in the first place. A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, forcenturies, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a questionof which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough jobthere. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.This was the fifth attempt— <doc-sep>Terrence said, why did you shoot Doran? I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, andwhen he shot the— Bruce hesitated. What? When he shot what? Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed tosharpen and rise to a kind of wail. All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran wokeme up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job wewere supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we gothere. What kind of dreams? Someone laughed. Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there, Bruce said. Peopletalk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and somekind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all. Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room. It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members ofsome of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth. Terrence grinned. Ghosts, Bruce? Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feelingthere's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.You're still interested? Terrence nodded and glanced to either side. We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever, Brucepointed out. Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except somefungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to mefrom the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place— The mountain, Terrence said. You've been afraid even to talk aboutscaling it. Not afraid, Bruce objected. I don't see any need to climb it. Comingto Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crewof the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set aprecedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successfulclimb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything upthere. Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Whyshould I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. Thechallenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intendgoing before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn'tinterest me. Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth! Terrence said, sitting upstraight and rigid. I know, Bruce said. Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran wasshaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; eitherthat or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out thewindow—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and atfirst I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feelingit was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something inmy mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking— His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. Doran askedme what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed uphis rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ranafter him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How doyou know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before Icould get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.That's the way you think. What? Explain that remark. That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances withaliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we killeverything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to killeverything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gunaway from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybethat's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die andthat I had to kill him, so I did. Is that all, Bruce? That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I wouldif I had the chance. That's what I figured. Terrence turned to the psychologist, a smallwiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. Stromberg, whatdo you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hithim? You said his record was good up until a year ago. Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophreniais caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values andour present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete casehistory would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I wouldsay that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is whyhe fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defensewhich he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Eravalues. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelingsof inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies. Yes, Terrence said. But how does that account for Doran's action?Doran must have seen something— Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weakpersonality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he sawsomething. He glanced at Marsha. Did you see anything? She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. Nothing at all. There wasn'tanything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all thereis to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anythingelse. A shadow maybe— All right, Terrence interrupted. Now, Bruce, you know the lawregulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space? Yes. Execution. No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth. I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain. Terrence shifted his position. However, we've voted to grant youa kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service fromyou, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be leftfood-concentrates to last a long time. What kind of service? Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up themountain. Why not? Bruce said. You aren't certain you're coming back, then? We might not, Terrence admitted calmly. Something's happened to theothers. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None ofus want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as theycome in. I'll do that, Bruce said. It should be interesting. <doc-sep>Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts. He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity. At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing. At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this! At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce! From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth. And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb— Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time. From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are. Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be— Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams. It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams. <doc-sep>The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep. He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene. Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense. The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know. ' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... ' So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams. And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky. If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable. Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos. But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious. Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up— And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts. Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door. Marsha, he said. Bruce— She hadn't said his name that way for a long time. Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter.... He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all.... Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...? <doc-sep>He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her. Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me? Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down. He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks. '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....' The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice. Marsha, are you still there? What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of everything . The top of the UNIVERSE ! Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back. Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down. He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives. He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water. The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind. He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams? The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette. He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was. He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four. There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up. There was no mountain. <doc-sep>For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, andhe was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear itagain. Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it throughthat thick poetic head of yours! Get what? He began to suspect what it was all about now, but hewasn't quite sure yet. Smoke? she said. He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put thelighter back into her pocket. It's real nice here, she said. Isn't it? I guess it's about perfect. It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth everagain, you know. I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again. We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce? No. He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybeit still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which wasnot? That barren icy world without life, or this? ' Is all that we see or seem ,' he whispered, half to himself, ' buta dream within a dream? ' She laughed softly. Poe was ahead of his time, she said. You stilldon't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening? Maybe I don't. She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. Poor guys. Ican't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot ofunderstanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and afteryou've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can seenow—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a childof chance. Yes, Bruce said. There's a lot of people like us on Earth, butthey'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to livedecently.... You're beginning to see now which was the dream, she said andsmiled. But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get theirchance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep cominghere and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. Itwon't take so long. She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlenewalking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved backand called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, anddrifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn. She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where themountain had been, or still was—he didn't know. A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surroundinggreen. She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressureon his arm stopped him. I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on thethird, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climbthe mountain— She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt thepressure of her fingers on his arm. I'm very glad you came on thefifth, she whispered. Are you glad now? I'm very glad, he said. The Martians tested us, she explained. They're masters of the mind.I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary milla darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learnedthe horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go oninto space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their ownsickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capableof hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest ourlanguage comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that itseems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit tothe number that can be influenced. What the people who came off thoseships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them tosee and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was thesuggestion of the Martians. She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. The Martians made themountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured byinstruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. Butyou'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not themountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars noConqueror will ever see. <doc-sep>They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking. It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto. He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings. The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally. Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal. He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal. You loved her? Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her. He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it. '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....' He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back. They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene? Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that. They entered the city. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the mountain?

The mountain is a sign of an impossible obstacle that the conquerors from Earth want to overcome, topple. Their urge to expand their territories and own the entire Solar System forces the Martians to come up with an illusion of something that can stop the destruction humans are spreading. The Martian mountain is a part of the hypnotic vision the conquered had access to, but they never saw the Martian city. They all ultimately died trying to climb it, from their drive to conquer everything they could find. The mountain is a perfect symbol of humans’ greed for territories and power, and it is also what stops them all from expanding their so-called empire.

What happens to Terrence throughout the story? [SEP] <s> THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN By BRYCE WALTON Illustrated by BOB HAYES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg! Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it. 'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe. Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce. Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited. Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished. We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said. Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to? Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said. I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it? Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning. I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain. Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard. They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one. <doc-sep>With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there infront of them for the inquest. In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legsstretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of theConqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now therewas no emotion at all on her trim, neat face. He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment hewasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.They had gotten her young and it was too late. Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenlyof the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastileneshelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him inhis dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed hehad been when he woke from them. This is a mere formality, Terrence finally said, since we all knowyou killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.Whatever you say goes on the record, of course. For whom? Bruce asked. What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when weget back. When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships outthere? Bruce laughed without much humor. Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly againto his belly. You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran inthe head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wastedenough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said toomuch, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killingfellow crew-members! Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,Bruce said. Now we get another lecture! Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should neverhave sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we canfind. You don't belong here. I know, Bruce agreed indifferently. I was drafted for this trip. Itold them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any partof it. Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why youbacked down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devildoes Venus—? Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his highforehead. Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done tothe Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughlyeducated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people. I haven't heard it, Terrence admitted. What injustice? Bruce said, I guess it couldn't really be considered an injusticeany longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of thecrew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? Oneof the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians wereaborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into thisvillage. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beingsthere. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousandinhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greetus. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. Thevillage was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed. Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginningto run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before thecold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes. No, Bruce said. I apologize. None of you know what I'm talkingabout. Terrence nodded. You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick themost capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes ofelimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, thereal conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do youthink gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the lawsof the whole Solar System? There are plenty on Earth who agree with me, Bruce said. I can saywhat I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll dothat regardless.... He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. Theyhad established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. Thepsychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn'twant to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a humanvacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth waskept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wantedto open the mouth for in the first place. A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, forcenturies, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a questionof which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough jobthere. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.This was the fifth attempt— <doc-sep>Terrence said, why did you shoot Doran? I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, andwhen he shot the— Bruce hesitated. What? When he shot what? Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed tosharpen and rise to a kind of wail. All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran wokeme up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job wewere supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we gothere. What kind of dreams? Someone laughed. Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there, Bruce said. Peopletalk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and somekind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all. Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room. It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members ofsome of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth. Terrence grinned. Ghosts, Bruce? Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feelingthere's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.You're still interested? Terrence nodded and glanced to either side. We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever, Brucepointed out. Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except somefungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to mefrom the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place— The mountain, Terrence said. You've been afraid even to talk aboutscaling it. Not afraid, Bruce objected. I don't see any need to climb it. Comingto Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crewof the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set aprecedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successfulclimb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything upthere. Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Whyshould I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. Thechallenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intendgoing before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn'tinterest me. Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth! Terrence said, sitting upstraight and rigid. I know, Bruce said. Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran wasshaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; eitherthat or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out thewindow—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and atfirst I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feelingit was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something inmy mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking— His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. Doran askedme what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed uphis rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ranafter him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How doyou know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before Icould get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.That's the way you think. What? Explain that remark. That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances withaliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we killeverything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to killeverything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gunaway from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybethat's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die andthat I had to kill him, so I did. Is that all, Bruce? That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I wouldif I had the chance. That's what I figured. Terrence turned to the psychologist, a smallwiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. Stromberg, whatdo you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hithim? You said his record was good up until a year ago. Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophreniais caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values andour present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete casehistory would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I wouldsay that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is whyhe fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defensewhich he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Eravalues. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelingsof inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies. Yes, Terrence said. But how does that account for Doran's action?Doran must have seen something— Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weakpersonality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he sawsomething. He glanced at Marsha. Did you see anything? She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. Nothing at all. There wasn'tanything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all thereis to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anythingelse. A shadow maybe— All right, Terrence interrupted. Now, Bruce, you know the lawregulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space? Yes. Execution. No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth. I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain. Terrence shifted his position. However, we've voted to grant youa kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service fromyou, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be leftfood-concentrates to last a long time. What kind of service? Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up themountain. Why not? Bruce said. You aren't certain you're coming back, then? We might not, Terrence admitted calmly. Something's happened to theothers. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None ofus want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as theycome in. I'll do that, Bruce said. It should be interesting. <doc-sep>Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts. He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity. At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing. At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this! At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce! From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth. And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb— Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time. From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are. Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be— Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams. It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams. <doc-sep>The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep. He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene. Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense. The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know. ' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... ' So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams. And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky. If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable. Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos. But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious. Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up— And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts. Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door. Marsha, he said. Bruce— She hadn't said his name that way for a long time. Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter.... He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all.... Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...? <doc-sep>He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her. Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me? Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down. He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks. '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....' The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice. Marsha, are you still there? What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of everything . The top of the UNIVERSE ! Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back. Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down. He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives. He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water. The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind. He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams? The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette. He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was. He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four. There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up. There was no mountain. <doc-sep>For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, andhe was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear itagain. Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it throughthat thick poetic head of yours! Get what? He began to suspect what it was all about now, but hewasn't quite sure yet. Smoke? she said. He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put thelighter back into her pocket. It's real nice here, she said. Isn't it? I guess it's about perfect. It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth everagain, you know. I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again. We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce? No. He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybeit still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which wasnot? That barren icy world without life, or this? ' Is all that we see or seem ,' he whispered, half to himself, ' buta dream within a dream? ' She laughed softly. Poe was ahead of his time, she said. You stilldon't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening? Maybe I don't. She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. Poor guys. Ican't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot ofunderstanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and afteryou've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can seenow—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a childof chance. Yes, Bruce said. There's a lot of people like us on Earth, butthey'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to livedecently.... You're beginning to see now which was the dream, she said andsmiled. But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get theirchance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep cominghere and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. Itwon't take so long. She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlenewalking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved backand called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, anddrifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn. She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where themountain had been, or still was—he didn't know. A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surroundinggreen. She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressureon his arm stopped him. I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on thethird, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climbthe mountain— She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt thepressure of her fingers on his arm. I'm very glad you came on thefifth, she whispered. Are you glad now? I'm very glad, he said. The Martians tested us, she explained. They're masters of the mind.I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary milla darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learnedthe horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go oninto space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their ownsickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capableof hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest ourlanguage comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that itseems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit tothe number that can be influenced. What the people who came off thoseships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them tosee and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was thesuggestion of the Martians. She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. The Martians made themountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured byinstruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. Butyou'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not themountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars noConqueror will ever see. <doc-sep>They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking. It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto. He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings. The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally. Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal. He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal. You loved her? Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her. He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it. '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....' He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back. They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene? Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that. They entered the city. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What happens to Terrence throughout the story?

Terrence is the ship’s captain. At the beginning, he serves as a judge when he interrogates Bruce, who killed the other crew member Doran. Terrence listens to the story about Venus and claims that Bruce is not a true conqueror and is simply a psycho. He then asks a question about Bruce’s dreams and later hears the story of Doran's death. Stromberg then concludes that Bruce has schizophrenia caused by inner conflict. He also supposes that Doran imagined the strange creature after Terrence asks him to explain the actions of the killed crew member. Finally, instead of killing Bruce, Terrence orders him to sit by the radio and write down everything they report while climbing. He reports that they are at fifteen and then twenty-five thousand feet and are to take a little time out. At forty thousand feet, he tells Bruce that the mountain is way higher than they thought - their computations are wrong. At sixty thousand feet, he shoots Anhauser after the latter starts dissenting and becomes hysterical and claims the mountain to be a tester for the real conquerors. Eventually, they reach the mark of five hundred thousand feet, and the captain is shocked. Later, Marsha unexpectedly starts dying, and Terrence concludes that women don’t have real guts for such undertakings. At six hundred thousand feet, he starts declaring that they will soon find the top of the universe. Terrence made it farther than any other crew member of the five ships. He dies with his fingers still clutching the rock outcroppings. In reality, he’s just over twelve miles away from the spaceship horizontally.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> Bridge Crossing BY DAVE DRYFOOS Illustrated by HARRISON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He knew the city was organized for his individual defense, for it had been that way since he was born. But who was his enemy? In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again. But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning. He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof. But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight. And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. Thesoldiers don't— I'm not a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight? Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject. A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted. Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse. Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking. Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck. It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver. <doc-sep>He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck. She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time? Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report! There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees. Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours. He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder. Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that. The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet. Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily. Molly stepped in front of him. You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes. Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor. <doc-sep>Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock. It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly. Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one. To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out. Soon there would be nothing left of the Private Property Keep Out that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender. And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say. Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them. He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong. Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane. As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam. Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing. <doc-sep>In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regrettedhis flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of thisfog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble,the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. Hischerished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath thediaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended froma string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stoodirresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the morefamiliar bedlam. But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was,though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger,thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by hisfriends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these werethings of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiringeyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide. Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quitecomplete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive lighton the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off,an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak andrustle as they scampered. The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And asan irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep evenin the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that theOne who'd built him must have been an apprentice. For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he nowwalked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery ofhow much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shockitself a difference to be hidden. His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. Aweathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, wasthe levering key that opened its door. Everything was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Ofcourse that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which tomove the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar forventilation. But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carryout every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite allobstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins againsteverything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even him outwhen he was aflame.... Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling.He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to thestreet, and felt with his feet for the top rung. Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, butsaw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What couldhave entered through the iron cover? He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom. It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of bodyheat, as if a large animal had recently rested there! <doc-sep>Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon readyfor an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through thedarkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt overthat curving surface for identifying features. While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenlyseized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savagekick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by anunexpected voice. Get your filthy hands off me! it whispered angrily. Who do you thinkyou are? Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Roddie, he said, squatting tofumble for it. Who do you think you are? I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls are there in this raidingparty? His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon! Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie pausedsuddenly. This girl—whatever that was—seemed to think him one ofher own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turndelay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before hekilled her. That would make the soldiers accept him! He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would I know how many girls thereare? Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girlsaid. I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either.Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie? Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tightwith fear of discovery. If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisperwas friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then.They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn'tit, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn'thave to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here? I wouldn't know, Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, andrising. How did you get in? Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in thedust and they led me here. Where were you? Scouting around, Roddie said vaguely. How did you know I was a manwhen I came back? Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well theseandroids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark! Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could findhim whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps themanhole would help him now to redeem himself.... <doc-sep>I'd like to get a look at you, he said. The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough. But she'd see him , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast. What'll we do when it's light? he asked. Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge! Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there were a way over the bridge.... It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it? Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now? Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher— if nothing happened when she saw him. Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand. A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing? I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me. He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn. She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number. Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came. He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long. Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter. Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known! He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways. Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd. <doc-sep>When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner. Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable. For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk. Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen. It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties.... But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey can't leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men. Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things? She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed. He went on with his questioning. Why are you here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's your purpose? Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon. She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly? No, but you do seem a little purposeless. In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach. A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm. Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on! He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile. It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking. There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away. Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head. Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water. Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs. I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water. Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash. Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it? Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before. Why did the soldier let us go? This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman. But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength. And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away. But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim. He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention. <doc-sep>He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground. Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest. Roddie stopped, and seized her arm. What are you trying to do? he demanded. I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong! No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here! Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her. She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp. Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped. He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job.... But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface. For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem. Except it wouldn't be his solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends. He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole. Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed. But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head. <doc-sep>She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight. Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But he was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long. Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move! There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on. Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction. Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead. He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary. They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours. <doc-sep>Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip.Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openingsthey looked out on a strange and isolated world. To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, MountTamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowywhite sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttonson a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding,tallest of the peaks and most forbidding. But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds ofgold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a smallportion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemedto have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with itscolor. Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed nointerest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes,Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear. Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by whichInvaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruinsof the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cableover the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate wasthe advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered onthe water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the needto kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge. Roddie took the hammer from his waist. Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered herface with scratched and bloodied hands. Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and,weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends.Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories. Why should you cry? he asked comfortingly. You know your people willcome back to avenge you and will destroy my friends. But—but my people are your people, too, Ida wailed. It's sosenseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Yourfriends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and thecity is ours, not theirs! It can't be, Roddie objected. The city surely belongs to thosewho are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even tome. Each of us has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to beaimless. Each of us helps preserve the city; you only try to rob andend it by destroying it. My people must be the true Men, becausethey're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational tolet you escape. Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him. Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl incold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two?Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day? She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yetsomehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he saidnothing. Never mind! Ida said viciously. You can't make me beg. Go ahead andkill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over thecity regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jackfriends, too! Men can accomplish anything! <doc-sep>Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It wasRoddie's turn to stand and stare. Purpose! Ida flung at him over her shoulder. Logic! Women hear somuch of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men always call itlogic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness,affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion isfor creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it? She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink herteeth into his throat. Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have thecourage. It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face,but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. Hecompromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thoughtfor a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away. It isn't reasonable to kill you now, he said. Too dark. You can'tpossibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how Ifeel in the morning. Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her. And by morning he knew he was a Man. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The protagonist of this story is Roddie, a young male character whose interactions with the characters around him include mechanical arms and robotic functionalities. It turns out that Roddie lives within a dystopian city, to which alongside his android friends, seek to defend the city against its enemy. Whilst going about his day, Roddie investigates the manhole he often frequents and finds that it has recently been visited by something warm. Further investigation reveals Ida to be the culprit, a human female who has decided to help the wounded in the city.Despite Roddie’s initial hesitance, Ida and Roddie strike up an easygoing acquaintance and gallivant around the city, with the latter guiding the former due to his experience. In addition to helping Ida find food and shelter, Roddie is able to ward off a potential attack from an android soldier with a talisman - his watch. However, this watch leads Ida to be suspicious of Roddie. As they neared the bridge, Ida insists on bringing Roddie back to where he belongs, fearing he had been wrongfully taken or indoctrinated. After a chase and climbing up the south tower, Roddie notices that Ida may be able to inform her fellow humans on how to infiltrate the city due to them being on top of the bridge. Choosing to defend his city and prove himself to his friends, Roddie does not hesitate to kill Ida and advances to do so. Ida begins to cry and defend her people - insisting that they are on the same side as Men and that the city belongs to the two of them, not Roddie’s friends. Initially in disbelief, Roddie continues to advance before deciding to leave it for the next morning before comforting Ida and later on, realizing that he too, is Man.

Who is Ida and what are her characteristics? [SEP] <s> Bridge Crossing BY DAVE DRYFOOS Illustrated by HARRISON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He knew the city was organized for his individual defense, for it had been that way since he was born. But who was his enemy? In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again. But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning. He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof. But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight. And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. Thesoldiers don't— I'm not a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight? Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject. A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted. Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse. Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking. Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck. It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver. <doc-sep>He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck. She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time? Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report! There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees. Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours. He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder. Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that. The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet. Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily. Molly stepped in front of him. You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes. Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor. <doc-sep>Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock. It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly. Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one. To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out. Soon there would be nothing left of the Private Property Keep Out that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender. And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say. Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them. He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong. Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane. As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam. Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing. <doc-sep>In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regrettedhis flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of thisfog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble,the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. Hischerished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath thediaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended froma string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stoodirresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the morefamiliar bedlam. But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was,though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger,thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by hisfriends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these werethings of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiringeyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide. Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quitecomplete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive lighton the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off,an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak andrustle as they scampered. The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And asan irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep evenin the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that theOne who'd built him must have been an apprentice. For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he nowwalked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery ofhow much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shockitself a difference to be hidden. His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. Aweathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, wasthe levering key that opened its door. Everything was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Ofcourse that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which tomove the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar forventilation. But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carryout every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite allobstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins againsteverything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even him outwhen he was aflame.... Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling.He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to thestreet, and felt with his feet for the top rung. Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, butsaw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What couldhave entered through the iron cover? He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom. It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of bodyheat, as if a large animal had recently rested there! <doc-sep>Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon readyfor an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through thedarkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt overthat curving surface for identifying features. While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenlyseized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savagekick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by anunexpected voice. Get your filthy hands off me! it whispered angrily. Who do you thinkyou are? Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Roddie, he said, squatting tofumble for it. Who do you think you are? I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls are there in this raidingparty? His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon! Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie pausedsuddenly. This girl—whatever that was—seemed to think him one ofher own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turndelay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before hekilled her. That would make the soldiers accept him! He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would I know how many girls thereare? Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girlsaid. I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either.Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie? Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tightwith fear of discovery. If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisperwas friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then.They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn'tit, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn'thave to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here? I wouldn't know, Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, andrising. How did you get in? Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in thedust and they led me here. Where were you? Scouting around, Roddie said vaguely. How did you know I was a manwhen I came back? Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well theseandroids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark! Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could findhim whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps themanhole would help him now to redeem himself.... <doc-sep>I'd like to get a look at you, he said. The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough. But she'd see him , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast. What'll we do when it's light? he asked. Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge! Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there were a way over the bridge.... It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it? Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now? Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher— if nothing happened when she saw him. Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand. A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing? I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me. He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn. She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number. Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came. He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long. Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter. Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known! He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways. Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd. <doc-sep>When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner. Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable. For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk. Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen. It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties.... But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey can't leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men. Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things? She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed. He went on with his questioning. Why are you here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's your purpose? Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon. She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly? No, but you do seem a little purposeless. In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach. A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm. Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on! He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile. It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking. There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away. Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head. Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water. Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs. I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water. Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash. Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it? Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before. Why did the soldier let us go? This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman. But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength. And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away. But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim. He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention. <doc-sep>He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground. Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest. Roddie stopped, and seized her arm. What are you trying to do? he demanded. I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong! No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here! Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her. She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp. Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped. He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job.... But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface. For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem. Except it wouldn't be his solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends. He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole. Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed. But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head. <doc-sep>She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight. Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But he was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long. Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move! There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on. Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction. Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead. He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary. They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours. <doc-sep>Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip.Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openingsthey looked out on a strange and isolated world. To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, MountTamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowywhite sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttonson a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding,tallest of the peaks and most forbidding. But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds ofgold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a smallportion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemedto have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with itscolor. Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed nointerest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes,Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear. Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by whichInvaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruinsof the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cableover the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate wasthe advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered onthe water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the needto kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge. Roddie took the hammer from his waist. Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered herface with scratched and bloodied hands. Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and,weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends.Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories. Why should you cry? he asked comfortingly. You know your people willcome back to avenge you and will destroy my friends. But—but my people are your people, too, Ida wailed. It's sosenseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Yourfriends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and thecity is ours, not theirs! It can't be, Roddie objected. The city surely belongs to thosewho are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even tome. Each of us has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to beaimless. Each of us helps preserve the city; you only try to rob andend it by destroying it. My people must be the true Men, becausethey're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational tolet you escape. Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him. Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl incold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two?Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day? She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yetsomehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he saidnothing. Never mind! Ida said viciously. You can't make me beg. Go ahead andkill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over thecity regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jackfriends, too! Men can accomplish anything! <doc-sep>Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It wasRoddie's turn to stand and stare. Purpose! Ida flung at him over her shoulder. Logic! Women hear somuch of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men always call itlogic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness,affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion isfor creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it? She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink herteeth into his throat. Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have thecourage. It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face,but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. Hecompromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thoughtfor a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away. It isn't reasonable to kill you now, he said. Too dark. You can'tpossibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how Ifeel in the morning. Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her. And by morning he knew he was a Man. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Ida and what are her characteristics?

Ida is a human girl that Roddie first encounters when she is hiding in the manhole that he frequents himself. She appears to have come into the android-ridden city on her own with the altruistic desire to help the wounded. She is selfless and persistent in her mission. She is inexperienced with the android world as demonstrated by her fright when the pair encountered a soldier, who only walked away after Roddie confronted it. Similarly, Roddie had to guide her around the city and help her with access to resources like shelter and food. Ida is loyal and brave as well. Despite Roddie threatening to kill her at the end of the story, Ida insists on the idea that they are both human and that Roddie’s way of thinking was incorrect. In the end, she is able to discourage him from killing her and he ends up comforting her.

What is the relationship between Roddie and Ida? [SEP] <s> Bridge Crossing BY DAVE DRYFOOS Illustrated by HARRISON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He knew the city was organized for his individual defense, for it had been that way since he was born. But who was his enemy? In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again. But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning. He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof. But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight. And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. Thesoldiers don't— I'm not a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight? Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject. A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted. Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse. Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking. Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck. It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver. <doc-sep>He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck. She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time? Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report! There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees. Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours. He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder. Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that. The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet. Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily. Molly stepped in front of him. You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes. Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor. <doc-sep>Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock. It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly. Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one. To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out. Soon there would be nothing left of the Private Property Keep Out that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender. And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say. Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them. He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong. Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane. As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam. Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing. <doc-sep>In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regrettedhis flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of thisfog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble,the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. Hischerished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath thediaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended froma string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stoodirresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the morefamiliar bedlam. But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was,though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger,thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by hisfriends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these werethings of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiringeyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide. Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quitecomplete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive lighton the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off,an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak andrustle as they scampered. The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And asan irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep evenin the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that theOne who'd built him must have been an apprentice. For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he nowwalked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery ofhow much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shockitself a difference to be hidden. His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. Aweathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, wasthe levering key that opened its door. Everything was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Ofcourse that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which tomove the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar forventilation. But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carryout every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite allobstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins againsteverything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even him outwhen he was aflame.... Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling.He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to thestreet, and felt with his feet for the top rung. Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, butsaw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What couldhave entered through the iron cover? He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom. It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of bodyheat, as if a large animal had recently rested there! <doc-sep>Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon readyfor an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through thedarkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt overthat curving surface for identifying features. While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenlyseized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savagekick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by anunexpected voice. Get your filthy hands off me! it whispered angrily. Who do you thinkyou are? Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Roddie, he said, squatting tofumble for it. Who do you think you are? I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls are there in this raidingparty? His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon! Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie pausedsuddenly. This girl—whatever that was—seemed to think him one ofher own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turndelay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before hekilled her. That would make the soldiers accept him! He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would I know how many girls thereare? Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girlsaid. I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either.Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie? Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tightwith fear of discovery. If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisperwas friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then.They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn'tit, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn'thave to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here? I wouldn't know, Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, andrising. How did you get in? Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in thedust and they led me here. Where were you? Scouting around, Roddie said vaguely. How did you know I was a manwhen I came back? Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well theseandroids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark! Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could findhim whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps themanhole would help him now to redeem himself.... <doc-sep>I'd like to get a look at you, he said. The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough. But she'd see him , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast. What'll we do when it's light? he asked. Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge! Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there were a way over the bridge.... It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it? Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now? Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher— if nothing happened when she saw him. Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand. A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing? I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me. He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn. She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number. Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came. He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long. Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter. Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known! He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways. Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd. <doc-sep>When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner. Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable. For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk. Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen. It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties.... But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey can't leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men. Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things? She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed. He went on with his questioning. Why are you here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's your purpose? Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon. She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly? No, but you do seem a little purposeless. In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach. A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm. Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on! He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile. It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking. There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away. Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head. Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water. Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs. I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water. Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash. Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it? Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before. Why did the soldier let us go? This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman. But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength. And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away. But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim. He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention. <doc-sep>He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground. Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest. Roddie stopped, and seized her arm. What are you trying to do? he demanded. I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong! No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here! Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her. She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp. Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped. He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job.... But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface. For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem. Except it wouldn't be his solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends. He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole. Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed. But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head. <doc-sep>She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight. Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But he was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long. Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move! There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on. Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction. Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead. He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary. They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours. <doc-sep>Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip.Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openingsthey looked out on a strange and isolated world. To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, MountTamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowywhite sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttonson a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding,tallest of the peaks and most forbidding. But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds ofgold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a smallportion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemedto have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with itscolor. Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed nointerest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes,Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear. Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by whichInvaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruinsof the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cableover the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate wasthe advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered onthe water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the needto kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge. Roddie took the hammer from his waist. Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered herface with scratched and bloodied hands. Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and,weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends.Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories. Why should you cry? he asked comfortingly. You know your people willcome back to avenge you and will destroy my friends. But—but my people are your people, too, Ida wailed. It's sosenseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Yourfriends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and thecity is ours, not theirs! It can't be, Roddie objected. The city surely belongs to thosewho are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even tome. Each of us has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to beaimless. Each of us helps preserve the city; you only try to rob andend it by destroying it. My people must be the true Men, becausethey're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational tolet you escape. Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him. Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl incold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two?Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day? She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yetsomehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he saidnothing. Never mind! Ida said viciously. You can't make me beg. Go ahead andkill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over thecity regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jackfriends, too! Men can accomplish anything! <doc-sep>Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It wasRoddie's turn to stand and stare. Purpose! Ida flung at him over her shoulder. Logic! Women hear somuch of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men always call itlogic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness,affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion isfor creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it? She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink herteeth into his throat. Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have thecourage. It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face,but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. Hecompromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thoughtfor a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away. It isn't reasonable to kill you now, he said. Too dark. You can'tpossibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how Ifeel in the morning. Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her. And by morning he knew he was a Man. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Roddie and Ida?

Although Roddie has been preparing his entire life for defense against something, someone, he never knows who his enemy is. Ida - by nature of being Man - is his enemy, as Roddie believes him to be an android. When they first meet in the darkness, Roddie is afraid that Ida may realize what he is. However, they have no trouble once they see each other and spend the entire day together. Roddie proudly takes the role of Ida’s caretaker, noting that she is scared of the soldiers and not as strong as he is, so he takes her to a supermarket and feeds her. However, when Roddie reveals the talisman that prevented the soldier from attacking, their relationship changes. Ida tries to take Roddie back to her boat where she proclaims he belongs and Roddie insists that he belongs in this android-ridden dystopia. In their chase, they end up atop a tower. Realizing Ida now has the knowledge to bring home to the Invaders on how to enter the city, Roddie feels a sense of duty to kill her. She is the enemy, as he thinks she wishes to harm his city. As Ida cries - something Roddie can do but his friends can’t - he realizes that he too is Man and decides not to kill her.

How does Roddie use his tools (screwdriver and hammer) throughout the story? [SEP] <s> Bridge Crossing BY DAVE DRYFOOS Illustrated by HARRISON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He knew the city was organized for his individual defense, for it had been that way since he was born. But who was his enemy? In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again. But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning. He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof. But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight. And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. Thesoldiers don't— I'm not a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight? Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject. A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted. Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse. Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking. Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck. It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver. <doc-sep>He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck. She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time? Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report! There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees. Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours. He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder. Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that. The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet. Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily. Molly stepped in front of him. You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes. Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor. <doc-sep>Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock. It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly. Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one. To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out. Soon there would be nothing left of the Private Property Keep Out that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender. And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say. Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them. He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong. Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane. As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam. Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing. <doc-sep>In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regrettedhis flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of thisfog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble,the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. Hischerished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath thediaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended froma string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stoodirresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the morefamiliar bedlam. But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was,though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger,thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by hisfriends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these werethings of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiringeyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide. Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quitecomplete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive lighton the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off,an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak andrustle as they scampered. The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And asan irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep evenin the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that theOne who'd built him must have been an apprentice. For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he nowwalked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery ofhow much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shockitself a difference to be hidden. His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. Aweathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, wasthe levering key that opened its door. Everything was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Ofcourse that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which tomove the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar forventilation. But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carryout every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite allobstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins againsteverything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even him outwhen he was aflame.... Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling.He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to thestreet, and felt with his feet for the top rung. Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, butsaw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What couldhave entered through the iron cover? He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom. It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of bodyheat, as if a large animal had recently rested there! <doc-sep>Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon readyfor an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through thedarkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt overthat curving surface for identifying features. While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenlyseized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savagekick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by anunexpected voice. Get your filthy hands off me! it whispered angrily. Who do you thinkyou are? Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Roddie, he said, squatting tofumble for it. Who do you think you are? I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls are there in this raidingparty? His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon! Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie pausedsuddenly. This girl—whatever that was—seemed to think him one ofher own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turndelay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before hekilled her. That would make the soldiers accept him! He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would I know how many girls thereare? Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girlsaid. I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either.Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie? Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tightwith fear of discovery. If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisperwas friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then.They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn'tit, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn'thave to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here? I wouldn't know, Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, andrising. How did you get in? Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in thedust and they led me here. Where were you? Scouting around, Roddie said vaguely. How did you know I was a manwhen I came back? Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well theseandroids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark! Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could findhim whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps themanhole would help him now to redeem himself.... <doc-sep>I'd like to get a look at you, he said. The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough. But she'd see him , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast. What'll we do when it's light? he asked. Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge! Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there were a way over the bridge.... It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it? Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now? Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher— if nothing happened when she saw him. Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand. A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing? I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me. He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn. She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number. Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came. He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long. Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter. Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known! He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways. Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd. <doc-sep>When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner. Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable. For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk. Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen. It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties.... But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey can't leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men. Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things? She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed. He went on with his questioning. Why are you here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's your purpose? Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon. She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly? No, but you do seem a little purposeless. In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach. A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm. Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on! He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile. It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking. There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away. Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head. Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water. Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs. I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water. Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash. Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it? Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before. Why did the soldier let us go? This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman. But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength. And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away. But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim. He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention. <doc-sep>He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground. Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest. Roddie stopped, and seized her arm. What are you trying to do? he demanded. I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong! No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here! Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her. She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp. Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped. He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job.... But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface. For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem. Except it wouldn't be his solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends. He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole. Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed. But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head. <doc-sep>She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight. Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But he was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long. Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move! There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on. Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction. Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead. He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary. They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours. <doc-sep>Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip.Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openingsthey looked out on a strange and isolated world. To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, MountTamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowywhite sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttonson a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding,tallest of the peaks and most forbidding. But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds ofgold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a smallportion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemedto have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with itscolor. Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed nointerest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes,Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear. Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by whichInvaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruinsof the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cableover the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate wasthe advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered onthe water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the needto kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge. Roddie took the hammer from his waist. Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered herface with scratched and bloodied hands. Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and,weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends.Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories. Why should you cry? he asked comfortingly. You know your people willcome back to avenge you and will destroy my friends. But—but my people are your people, too, Ida wailed. It's sosenseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Yourfriends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and thecity is ours, not theirs! It can't be, Roddie objected. The city surely belongs to thosewho are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even tome. Each of us has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to beaimless. Each of us helps preserve the city; you only try to rob andend it by destroying it. My people must be the true Men, becausethey're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational tolet you escape. Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him. Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl incold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two?Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day? She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yetsomehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he saidnothing. Never mind! Ida said viciously. You can't make me beg. Go ahead andkill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over thecity regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jackfriends, too! Men can accomplish anything! <doc-sep>Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It wasRoddie's turn to stand and stare. Purpose! Ida flung at him over her shoulder. Logic! Women hear somuch of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men always call itlogic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness,affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion isfor creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it? She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink herteeth into his throat. Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have thecourage. It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face,but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. Hecompromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thoughtfor a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away. It isn't reasonable to kill you now, he said. Too dark. You can'tpossibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how Ifeel in the morning. Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her. And by morning he knew he was a Man. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does Roddie use his tools (screwdriver and hammer) throughout the story?

The first tool that Roddie uses is a screwdriver with a broken handle. He uses it to tinker with and screw Molly’s head back onto her robot body, after tearing it off himself. He also used it when he was considering heating it over a fire to mold it into a different tool, but ended up not completing it. His hammer is his weapon. Roddie keeps his hammer on his body, which he was able to reach for conveniently when he initially found a warm body hiding in the manhole. All throughout this initial encounter with Ida, Roddie has his hammer close to him, either clutching it or holding it in his mouth while climbing the ladder. He also uses it as a tool to break open cans. Finally, at the end of the story, he is prepared to use the hammer to kill Ida - even going as far as raising it threateningly - before deciding not to.

How does Roddie figure out why he's different from his friends? [SEP] <s> Bridge Crossing BY DAVE DRYFOOS Illustrated by HARRISON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He knew the city was organized for his individual defense, for it had been that way since he was born. But who was his enemy? In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again. But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning. He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof. But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight. And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. Thesoldiers don't— I'm not a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight? Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject. A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted. Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse. Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking. Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck. It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver. <doc-sep>He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck. She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time? Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report! There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees. Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours. He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder. Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that. The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet. Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily. Molly stepped in front of him. You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes. Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor. <doc-sep>Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock. It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly. Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one. To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out. Soon there would be nothing left of the Private Property Keep Out that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender. And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say. Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them. He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong. Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane. As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam. Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing. <doc-sep>In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regrettedhis flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of thisfog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble,the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. Hischerished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath thediaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended froma string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stoodirresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the morefamiliar bedlam. But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was,though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger,thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by hisfriends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these werethings of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiringeyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide. Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quitecomplete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive lighton the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off,an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak andrustle as they scampered. The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And asan irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep evenin the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that theOne who'd built him must have been an apprentice. For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he nowwalked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery ofhow much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shockitself a difference to be hidden. His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. Aweathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, wasthe levering key that opened its door. Everything was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Ofcourse that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which tomove the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar forventilation. But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carryout every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite allobstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins againsteverything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even him outwhen he was aflame.... Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling.He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to thestreet, and felt with his feet for the top rung. Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, butsaw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What couldhave entered through the iron cover? He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom. It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of bodyheat, as if a large animal had recently rested there! <doc-sep>Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon readyfor an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through thedarkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt overthat curving surface for identifying features. While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenlyseized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savagekick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by anunexpected voice. Get your filthy hands off me! it whispered angrily. Who do you thinkyou are? Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Roddie, he said, squatting tofumble for it. Who do you think you are? I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls are there in this raidingparty? His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon! Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie pausedsuddenly. This girl—whatever that was—seemed to think him one ofher own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turndelay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before hekilled her. That would make the soldiers accept him! He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would I know how many girls thereare? Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girlsaid. I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either.Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie? Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tightwith fear of discovery. If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisperwas friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then.They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn'tit, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn'thave to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here? I wouldn't know, Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, andrising. How did you get in? Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in thedust and they led me here. Where were you? Scouting around, Roddie said vaguely. How did you know I was a manwhen I came back? Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well theseandroids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark! Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could findhim whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps themanhole would help him now to redeem himself.... <doc-sep>I'd like to get a look at you, he said. The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough. But she'd see him , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast. What'll we do when it's light? he asked. Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge! Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there were a way over the bridge.... It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it? Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now? Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher— if nothing happened when she saw him. Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand. A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing? I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me. He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn. She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number. Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came. He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long. Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter. Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known! He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways. Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd. <doc-sep>When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner. Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable. For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk. Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen. It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties.... But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey can't leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men. Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things? She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed. He went on with his questioning. Why are you here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's your purpose? Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon. She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly? No, but you do seem a little purposeless. In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach. A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm. Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on! He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile. It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking. There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away. Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head. Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water. Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs. I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water. Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash. Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it? Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before. Why did the soldier let us go? This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman. But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength. And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away. But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim. He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention. <doc-sep>He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground. Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest. Roddie stopped, and seized her arm. What are you trying to do? he demanded. I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong! No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here! Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her. She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp. Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped. He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job.... But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface. For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem. Except it wouldn't be his solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends. He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole. Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed. But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head. <doc-sep>She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight. Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But he was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long. Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move! There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on. Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction. Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead. He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary. They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours. <doc-sep>Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip.Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openingsthey looked out on a strange and isolated world. To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, MountTamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowywhite sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttonson a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding,tallest of the peaks and most forbidding. But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds ofgold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a smallportion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemedto have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with itscolor. Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed nointerest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes,Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear. Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by whichInvaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruinsof the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cableover the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate wasthe advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered onthe water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the needto kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge. Roddie took the hammer from his waist. Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered herface with scratched and bloodied hands. Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and,weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends.Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories. Why should you cry? he asked comfortingly. You know your people willcome back to avenge you and will destroy my friends. But—but my people are your people, too, Ida wailed. It's sosenseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Yourfriends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and thecity is ours, not theirs! It can't be, Roddie objected. The city surely belongs to thosewho are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even tome. Each of us has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to beaimless. Each of us helps preserve the city; you only try to rob andend it by destroying it. My people must be the true Men, becausethey're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational tolet you escape. Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him. Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl incold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two?Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day? She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yetsomehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he saidnothing. Never mind! Ida said viciously. You can't make me beg. Go ahead andkill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over thecity regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jackfriends, too! Men can accomplish anything! <doc-sep>Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It wasRoddie's turn to stand and stare. Purpose! Ida flung at him over her shoulder. Logic! Women hear somuch of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men always call itlogic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness,affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion isfor creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it? She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink herteeth into his throat. Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have thecourage. It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face,but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. Hecompromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thoughtfor a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away. It isn't reasonable to kill you now, he said. Too dark. You can'tpossibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how Ifeel in the morning. Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her. And by morning he knew he was a Man. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does Roddie figure out why he's different from his friends?

Put simply, Roddie is Man and his friends in the story are androids. Despite growing up with them and having been brought up by Molly, Roddie is human. One clear difference is the fact that Roddie is able to tear off the limbs of his friends and repair it back together. For example, he tore off Molly’s head when her “spells” became worse, and then later tinkered it back on her head. Another example of this difference is when Ida begins to cry at the end of the story, and Roddie internally expresses that the first time he wept was the first time he noted a difference between him and his android friends, who presumably cannot emote in the same way. Similarly, they do not know pain nor fatigue, so Roddie pretends he doesn’t either. At the very end of the story, he finally accepts that he is Man.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DAVID STONE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Before science, there was superstition. After science, there will be ... what? The biggest, most staggering , most final fact of them all! But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets. Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title, The Dance of the Planets . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor. He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often. As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny. Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened. But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact. That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world. <doc-sep>Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced. People must have felt like this , she thought, when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can. You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man. She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse. Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar. Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right. And of course she was. She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked. Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads. Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand. Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps. Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late. But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it? In me, Theodor said promptly. In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan. You angry with me about something? Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided. Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that? Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you. Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting. Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter? Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her. No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance. Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep. As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon. Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in Gulliver's Travels Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature. Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean? Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available. It was true, but it didn't comfort him much. <doc-sep> I am a God , Dotty was dreaming, and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to. A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act. I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats , Dottywent on dreaming. The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us. <doc-sep>As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table. Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment. He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors. I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said. Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk. Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door. I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls. Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily. Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material. Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio. At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening. The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis. However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found. The rest will also be! Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors. Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion, The Dance of the Planets . That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book: This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. <doc-sep>While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness. In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope. Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out? As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading. Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release. Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible! The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating. She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt. Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be in the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave? By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy. And see what's written on it, she added. They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words: Going down! <doc-sep> The other gods , Dotty dreamt, are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. I'd say we'vedone everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made athorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally,is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptionsare being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of theevening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance. One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table.Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality thathad engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms. I'll take over Ivan's notes, she heard Edmund say. They're mainlyabout the Deep Shaft. How far have they got with that? Frieda asked idly. Twenty-fivemiles? Nearer thirty, I believe, Edmund answered, and still going down. At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyeswent toward Ivan's briefcase. <doc-sep> Our trick has succeeded , Dotty dreamt. The other gods have passedour hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search theUniverse for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we havefound a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more.They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door todestroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in ourcamouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear thatthe faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds ofmillions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hoursin a prison. <doc-sep>Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. Weneed a break. Frieda agreed wearily. We've gone through everything. Good idea, Edmund said briskly. I think we've hit on several crucialpoints along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass ofinconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right nowand present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour? Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching hiscloak over a shoulder. I'm going out for a drink, he informed them. After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Friedastretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilmstirelessly, every now and then setting one aside. Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward theroom where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped. Not my child , she thought bitterly. Frieda's her mother, Rosalindher nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends.A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world. But then she straightened her shoulders and went on. <doc-sep>Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent andhe never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose onlyknee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to eitherside, no more. It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry.In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail ofhis scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to movedisembodied, like those in the fairy tale. When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, shestopped altogether. A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, broughtforest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear thefurtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures. She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futilityof her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-hightwilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night. Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seizedby a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terrorfrom the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs. A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—theunnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan'sbriefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space.She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resistedher first tug, like a rooted plant. She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literallydwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herselfand started forward. Something held her feet. They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright andhorror, they began to sink still lower into the ground. She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She hadthe panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invadedher; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of herflesh; that the two were becoming one. And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep,waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw herbody from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen inthe ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always thesense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her. She thought, he'd just have had time to scribble that note on hisbriefcase and toss it away. She jerked off a glove, leaned out asfar as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers intothe powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, andcovered her eyes. She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayedwith her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles,black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her visionpenetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge thatthese same sorts of things were coursing up through her. <doc-sep>And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if thelaw of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped fromblack soil through gray clay and into pale limestone. Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. Shewondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through thestone. A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavernwith a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basaltcolumn, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just blackbasalt. And always faster. It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythicaleternal fires. <doc-sep>At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen. The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events. It is thought— The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice. The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir? <doc-sep>Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was ColonelFortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol andreputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now,for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile. Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV big news light blinked blue andthe girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor. ... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two otherutterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, LunarObservatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodieswhich it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are movingoutward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are alreadybeyond the orbit of Saturn! The Colonel said, Ah! Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching theSolar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twicethe distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air withfurther details as soon as possible. The Colonel said, Ah-ha! Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almostamusing. Are you a Kometevskyite? Theodor asked him. The Colonel laughed. Of course not, my boy. Those poor people arefumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened? Frankly, no. The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, The DivinePlan. God is a military strategist, naturally. Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took asatisfying swallow. I knew it all along, of course, he went on musingly, but this lastnews makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knowsmilitary strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding afleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why,you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behindthat screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then— You don't mean to imply— Theodor interrupted. The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically. Of course I do! the Colonel cut in sharply. It's a war between theforces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side,the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter andSaturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'mproud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight,what? And all by divine strategy! He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly.The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing. <doc-sep>Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively. The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no! Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand. Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile. Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer. Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda? The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy? Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much. Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again. There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up. I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call. Yes, Mummy. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glancedaround at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, thaneven they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement,but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost toooverpowering for a human being to bear. His voice was clipped, rapid. I think it's about time we stoppedworrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the SolarSystem, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on thedisappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sortingout the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. Thereare roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like amystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come tothe same conclusion I have. The others nodded. First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, asyou know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. Atapproximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers haveencountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively namedthe durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongestcorrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for aquarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by themirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slightcurvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earthitself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the worldwould encounter the durasphere at the same depth. Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, andparticularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. GrantingPhobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that ofEarth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material inthose two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that thetwo duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanicvelocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind. It was deadly quiet in the committee room. Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especiallythe baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind'sdownward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawninto the depths of the Earth. Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in thefollowing points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlikeand telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree ofmental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. Theyare pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for themanywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflagetheir ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do notpenetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected. Edmund waited. Do you see what I'm driving at? he asked hoarsely. <doc-sep>He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words. I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage. This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe.... In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships. Your guess happens to be the precise truth. At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed. She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth. Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored. Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe. But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely. Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers. Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few. Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born. <doc-sep>Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shapedsilver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they weresprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd milejourneys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after theheat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice thatspoke inside their minds. In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atomthick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endurealmost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particlewill be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endurethroughout the process. Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering, will they gofirst, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple? She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing. <doc-sep>Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with theconnection open, but no voice from the other end. They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confusedmedley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a fewastonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival. These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite thePacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceshipburst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jetsor reaction. It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity woulddiminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelopeof rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at thesame time the air would begin to escape from the debris because therewould no longer be the mass required to hold it. However, there might be definite chances of temporary and evenprolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealedstructures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships onEarth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, withas many passengers as could be carried. But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers. A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking, how beautiful!It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifyingsubjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesomesight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's anabsurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the wholecataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, atiny personal event. Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent andalarmed. We are in contact with our pursuers, she said in thefamiliar-unfamiliar voice. Negotiations are now going on. Thereseems to be—there is a change in them. Where they were harsh andvindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory. She paused,the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough todestroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful.... They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face asthough it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling thatshe was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast andviolent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realizedwith an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation. No! said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. They have changed! Duringthe eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowingnothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communalmind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselvesfled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back toa society that we and they can make truly great! <doc-sep>Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hystericalweeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for wordsto speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TVset. Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picturewindow and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along thepaths with a wild excitement. On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning inthe sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to helpEarth rejoice, she couldn't tell. Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcomeyou—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—intothe society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and aloneand helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you! The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,arm in arm. Like rockets, Rosalind blurted happily. We came through thedurasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface. They didn't have to take us along, Ivan added with a bleary grin.But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you livein fear, so they must have told you by now. Yes, we know, said Theodor. They must be almost godlike in theirgoodness. I feel ... calm. Edmund nodded soberly. Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, Isuppose, that—well, we're not alone. Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a whollylittle-girl smile. Oh, Mummy, she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoketo Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, I've just had the funniest dream. No, darling, said Rosalind gently, it's we who had the dream. We'vejust awakened. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The story is set in the future where Mars’ two moons Phobos and Deimos unexpectedly vanished, space travel exists, and monogamous marriages are lawful. Celeste Wolver talks to her friend Madge Carnap, who claims that the old book The Dance of The Planets predicted the moons’ disappearance. Wolver’s husband, one of the three ones she has, Theodor tries to explain that the book predicts only some events, but he and Celeste soon understand they don’t have strong arguments. Then Celeste and Theodor leave for a meeting regarding the recent events. While walking there, she shares her worries with him. Theodor says ESPs around the world have similar dreams. So, Rosalind, one of his wives, will bring their daughter Dotty to the meeting. Celeste, Rosalind, Frieda, Theodor, and Edmund were waiting only for the third husband, Ivan. Rosalind leaves to look for him, and the others start the meeting. They listen to recent news recordings: Mars’ moons disappeared; Kometevskyites - people that believe in the theory of The Dance of The Planets - demand some government's action. The news anchorman declares that Jupiter’s fourteen moons are not visible anymore. Rosalind comes back and says she only found Ivan’s briefcase covered in mud, with the phrase "Going down” hastily written on it. They alert local agencies and talk about the project - Deep Shaft - Ivan was studying. The family splits up for a thirty-minute break, and Rosalind goes to where she found the briefcase. There the woman soon starts sinking into the ground. Rosalind realizes what happened to Ivan and leaves a glove pointing down as a sign; soon, her body is underground, and she keeps moving down mud and soil. Theodor, who went to the bar for the break, meets a colonel who tells him that there is a war between good and evil, and the planets are battleships controlled by divine power. The stories of these characters get interrupted by small extracts from Dotty’s dreams, where she calls herself a god, and says she and her friends have been found by their enemies and need to flee. Dotty wakes up and tells Celeste she is a god. Celeste goes back to everybody, and Edmund lists all the known facts. He says Deep Shaft found a metallic durasphere inside the Earth and proposes that other moons had it too. Ivan and Rosalind are drawn into the depth of the Earth, and in their dreams, all ESPs say they will leave in some great boats. Everybody understands that their planet is a camouflaged spaceship. Suddenly, Dotty says in an unfamiliar voice that their assumption is correct. The creature uses Dotty to tell them people were part of the camouflage they needed to hide from the enemies who don’t support mental privacy. Now they have to leave and can take only a few people. Suddenly, the creature says that their enemies changed, and now they don’t need to hide or destroy the planet. Rosalind and Ivan return.

What is the significance of the principle of mental privacy? [SEP] <s> DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DAVID STONE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Before science, there was superstition. After science, there will be ... what? The biggest, most staggering , most final fact of them all! But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets. Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title, The Dance of the Planets . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor. He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often. As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny. Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened. But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact. That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world. <doc-sep>Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced. People must have felt like this , she thought, when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can. You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man. She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse. Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar. Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right. And of course she was. She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked. Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads. Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand. Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps. Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late. But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it? In me, Theodor said promptly. In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan. You angry with me about something? Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided. Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that? Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you. Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting. Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter? Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her. No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance. Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep. As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon. Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in Gulliver's Travels Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature. Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean? Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available. It was true, but it didn't comfort him much. <doc-sep> I am a God , Dotty was dreaming, and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to. A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act. I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats , Dottywent on dreaming. The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us. <doc-sep>As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table. Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment. He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors. I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said. Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk. Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door. I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls. Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily. Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material. Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio. At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening. The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis. However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found. The rest will also be! Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors. Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion, The Dance of the Planets . That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book: This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. <doc-sep>While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness. In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope. Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out? As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading. Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release. Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible! The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating. She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt. Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be in the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave? By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy. And see what's written on it, she added. They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words: Going down! <doc-sep> The other gods , Dotty dreamt, are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. I'd say we'vedone everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made athorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally,is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptionsare being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of theevening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance. One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table.Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality thathad engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms. I'll take over Ivan's notes, she heard Edmund say. They're mainlyabout the Deep Shaft. How far have they got with that? Frieda asked idly. Twenty-fivemiles? Nearer thirty, I believe, Edmund answered, and still going down. At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyeswent toward Ivan's briefcase. <doc-sep> Our trick has succeeded , Dotty dreamt. The other gods have passedour hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search theUniverse for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we havefound a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more.They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door todestroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in ourcamouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear thatthe faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds ofmillions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hoursin a prison. <doc-sep>Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. Weneed a break. Frieda agreed wearily. We've gone through everything. Good idea, Edmund said briskly. I think we've hit on several crucialpoints along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass ofinconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right nowand present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour? Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching hiscloak over a shoulder. I'm going out for a drink, he informed them. After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Friedastretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilmstirelessly, every now and then setting one aside. Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward theroom where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped. Not my child , she thought bitterly. Frieda's her mother, Rosalindher nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends.A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world. But then she straightened her shoulders and went on. <doc-sep>Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent andhe never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose onlyknee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to eitherside, no more. It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry.In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail ofhis scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to movedisembodied, like those in the fairy tale. When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, shestopped altogether. A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, broughtforest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear thefurtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures. She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futilityof her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-hightwilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night. Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seizedby a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terrorfrom the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs. A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—theunnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan'sbriefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space.She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resistedher first tug, like a rooted plant. She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literallydwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herselfand started forward. Something held her feet. They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright andhorror, they began to sink still lower into the ground. She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She hadthe panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invadedher; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of herflesh; that the two were becoming one. And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep,waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw herbody from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen inthe ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always thesense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her. She thought, he'd just have had time to scribble that note on hisbriefcase and toss it away. She jerked off a glove, leaned out asfar as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers intothe powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, andcovered her eyes. She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayedwith her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles,black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her visionpenetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge thatthese same sorts of things were coursing up through her. <doc-sep>And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if thelaw of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped fromblack soil through gray clay and into pale limestone. Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. Shewondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through thestone. A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavernwith a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basaltcolumn, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just blackbasalt. And always faster. It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythicaleternal fires. <doc-sep>At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen. The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events. It is thought— The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice. The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir? <doc-sep>Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was ColonelFortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol andreputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now,for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile. Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV big news light blinked blue andthe girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor. ... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two otherutterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, LunarObservatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodieswhich it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are movingoutward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are alreadybeyond the orbit of Saturn! The Colonel said, Ah! Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching theSolar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twicethe distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air withfurther details as soon as possible. The Colonel said, Ah-ha! Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almostamusing. Are you a Kometevskyite? Theodor asked him. The Colonel laughed. Of course not, my boy. Those poor people arefumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened? Frankly, no. The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, The DivinePlan. God is a military strategist, naturally. Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took asatisfying swallow. I knew it all along, of course, he went on musingly, but this lastnews makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knowsmilitary strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding afleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why,you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behindthat screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then— You don't mean to imply— Theodor interrupted. The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically. Of course I do! the Colonel cut in sharply. It's a war between theforces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side,the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter andSaturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'mproud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight,what? And all by divine strategy! He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly.The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing. <doc-sep>Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively. The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no! Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand. Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile. Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer. Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda? The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy? Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much. Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again. There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up. I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call. Yes, Mummy. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glancedaround at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, thaneven they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement,but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost toooverpowering for a human being to bear. His voice was clipped, rapid. I think it's about time we stoppedworrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the SolarSystem, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on thedisappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sortingout the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. Thereare roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like amystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come tothe same conclusion I have. The others nodded. First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, asyou know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. Atapproximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers haveencountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively namedthe durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongestcorrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for aquarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by themirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slightcurvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earthitself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the worldwould encounter the durasphere at the same depth. Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, andparticularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. GrantingPhobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that ofEarth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material inthose two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that thetwo duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanicvelocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind. It was deadly quiet in the committee room. Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especiallythe baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind'sdownward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawninto the depths of the Earth. Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in thefollowing points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlikeand telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree ofmental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. Theyare pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for themanywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflagetheir ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do notpenetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected. Edmund waited. Do you see what I'm driving at? he asked hoarsely. <doc-sep>He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words. I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage. This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe.... In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships. Your guess happens to be the precise truth. At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed. She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth. Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored. Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe. But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely. Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers. Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few. Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born. <doc-sep>Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shapedsilver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they weresprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd milejourneys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after theheat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice thatspoke inside their minds. In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atomthick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endurealmost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particlewill be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endurethroughout the process. Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering, will they gofirst, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple? She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing. <doc-sep>Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with theconnection open, but no voice from the other end. They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confusedmedley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a fewastonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival. These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite thePacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceshipburst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jetsor reaction. It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity woulddiminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelopeof rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at thesame time the air would begin to escape from the debris because therewould no longer be the mass required to hold it. However, there might be definite chances of temporary and evenprolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealedstructures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships onEarth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, withas many passengers as could be carried. But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers. A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking, how beautiful!It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifyingsubjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesomesight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's anabsurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the wholecataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, atiny personal event. Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent andalarmed. We are in contact with our pursuers, she said in thefamiliar-unfamiliar voice. Negotiations are now going on. Thereseems to be—there is a change in them. Where they were harsh andvindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory. She paused,the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough todestroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful.... They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face asthough it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling thatshe was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast andviolent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realizedwith an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation. No! said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. They have changed! Duringthe eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowingnothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communalmind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselvesfled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back toa society that we and they can make truly great! <doc-sep>Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hystericalweeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for wordsto speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TVset. Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picturewindow and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along thepaths with a wild excitement. On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning inthe sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to helpEarth rejoice, she couldn't tell. Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcomeyou—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—intothe society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and aloneand helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you! The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,arm in arm. Like rockets, Rosalind blurted happily. We came through thedurasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface. They didn't have to take us along, Ivan added with a bleary grin.But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you livein fear, so they must have told you by now. Yes, we know, said Theodor. They must be almost godlike in theirgoodness. I feel ... calm. Edmund nodded soberly. Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, Isuppose, that—well, we're not alone. Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a whollylittle-girl smile. Oh, Mummy, she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoketo Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, I've just had the funniest dream. No, darling, said Rosalind gently, it's we who had the dream. We'vejust awakened. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the principle of mental privacy?

The incredibly old semi-god creatures escaped the tyranny of a communal mind to which no thoughts were private. These creatures believe in the principle of mental privacy, and that’s why they escaped and planted seeds of life on planets, including the Earth, as part of their camouflage. Humanity exists as a result of these actions, and it also may shrink in numbers since the creatures have been found by their pursuers and are ready to leave again, thus destroying the planet. The belief in this principle also allowed the enemies of these creatures to rebel against the communal mind and welcome them back to the society of enlightened worlds and let humans live.

Who’s Rosalind and what happens to her throughout the story? [SEP] <s> DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DAVID STONE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Before science, there was superstition. After science, there will be ... what? The biggest, most staggering , most final fact of them all! But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets. Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title, The Dance of the Planets . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor. He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often. As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny. Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened. But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact. That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world. <doc-sep>Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced. People must have felt like this , she thought, when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can. You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man. She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse. Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar. Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right. And of course she was. She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked. Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads. Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand. Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps. Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late. But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it? In me, Theodor said promptly. In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan. You angry with me about something? Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided. Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that? Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you. Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting. Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter? Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her. No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance. Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep. As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon. Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in Gulliver's Travels Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature. Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean? Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available. It was true, but it didn't comfort him much. <doc-sep> I am a God , Dotty was dreaming, and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to. A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act. I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats , Dottywent on dreaming. The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us. <doc-sep>As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table. Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment. He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors. I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said. Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk. Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door. I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls. Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily. Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material. Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio. At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening. The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis. However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found. The rest will also be! Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors. Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion, The Dance of the Planets . That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book: This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. <doc-sep>While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness. In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope. Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out? As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading. Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release. Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible! The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating. She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt. Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be in the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave? By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy. And see what's written on it, she added. They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words: Going down! <doc-sep> The other gods , Dotty dreamt, are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. I'd say we'vedone everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made athorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally,is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptionsare being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of theevening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance. One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table.Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality thathad engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms. I'll take over Ivan's notes, she heard Edmund say. They're mainlyabout the Deep Shaft. How far have they got with that? Frieda asked idly. Twenty-fivemiles? Nearer thirty, I believe, Edmund answered, and still going down. At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyeswent toward Ivan's briefcase. <doc-sep> Our trick has succeeded , Dotty dreamt. The other gods have passedour hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search theUniverse for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we havefound a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more.They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door todestroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in ourcamouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear thatthe faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds ofmillions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hoursin a prison. <doc-sep>Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. Weneed a break. Frieda agreed wearily. We've gone through everything. Good idea, Edmund said briskly. I think we've hit on several crucialpoints along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass ofinconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right nowand present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour? Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching hiscloak over a shoulder. I'm going out for a drink, he informed them. After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Friedastretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilmstirelessly, every now and then setting one aside. Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward theroom where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped. Not my child , she thought bitterly. Frieda's her mother, Rosalindher nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends.A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world. But then she straightened her shoulders and went on. <doc-sep>Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent andhe never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose onlyknee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to eitherside, no more. It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry.In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail ofhis scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to movedisembodied, like those in the fairy tale. When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, shestopped altogether. A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, broughtforest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear thefurtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures. She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futilityof her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-hightwilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night. Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seizedby a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terrorfrom the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs. A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—theunnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan'sbriefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space.She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resistedher first tug, like a rooted plant. She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literallydwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herselfand started forward. Something held her feet. They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright andhorror, they began to sink still lower into the ground. She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She hadthe panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invadedher; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of herflesh; that the two were becoming one. And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep,waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw herbody from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen inthe ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always thesense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her. She thought, he'd just have had time to scribble that note on hisbriefcase and toss it away. She jerked off a glove, leaned out asfar as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers intothe powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, andcovered her eyes. She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayedwith her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles,black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her visionpenetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge thatthese same sorts of things were coursing up through her. <doc-sep>And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if thelaw of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped fromblack soil through gray clay and into pale limestone. Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. Shewondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through thestone. A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavernwith a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basaltcolumn, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just blackbasalt. And always faster. It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythicaleternal fires. <doc-sep>At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen. The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events. It is thought— The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice. The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir? <doc-sep>Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was ColonelFortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol andreputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now,for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile. Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV big news light blinked blue andthe girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor. ... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two otherutterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, LunarObservatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodieswhich it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are movingoutward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are alreadybeyond the orbit of Saturn! The Colonel said, Ah! Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching theSolar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twicethe distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air withfurther details as soon as possible. The Colonel said, Ah-ha! Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almostamusing. Are you a Kometevskyite? Theodor asked him. The Colonel laughed. Of course not, my boy. Those poor people arefumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened? Frankly, no. The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, The DivinePlan. God is a military strategist, naturally. Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took asatisfying swallow. I knew it all along, of course, he went on musingly, but this lastnews makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knowsmilitary strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding afleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why,you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behindthat screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then— You don't mean to imply— Theodor interrupted. The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically. Of course I do! the Colonel cut in sharply. It's a war between theforces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side,the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter andSaturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'mproud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight,what? And all by divine strategy! He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly.The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing. <doc-sep>Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively. The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no! Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand. Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile. Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer. Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda? The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy? Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much. Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again. There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up. I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call. Yes, Mummy. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glancedaround at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, thaneven they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement,but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost toooverpowering for a human being to bear. His voice was clipped, rapid. I think it's about time we stoppedworrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the SolarSystem, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on thedisappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sortingout the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. Thereare roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like amystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come tothe same conclusion I have. The others nodded. First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, asyou know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. Atapproximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers haveencountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively namedthe durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongestcorrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for aquarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by themirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slightcurvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earthitself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the worldwould encounter the durasphere at the same depth. Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, andparticularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. GrantingPhobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that ofEarth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material inthose two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that thetwo duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanicvelocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind. It was deadly quiet in the committee room. Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especiallythe baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind'sdownward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawninto the depths of the Earth. Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in thefollowing points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlikeand telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree ofmental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. Theyare pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for themanywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflagetheir ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do notpenetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected. Edmund waited. Do you see what I'm driving at? he asked hoarsely. <doc-sep>He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words. I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage. This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe.... In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships. Your guess happens to be the precise truth. At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed. She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth. Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored. Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe. But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely. Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers. Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few. Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born. <doc-sep>Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shapedsilver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they weresprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd milejourneys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after theheat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice thatspoke inside their minds. In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atomthick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endurealmost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particlewill be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endurethroughout the process. Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering, will they gofirst, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple? She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing. <doc-sep>Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with theconnection open, but no voice from the other end. They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confusedmedley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a fewastonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival. These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite thePacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceshipburst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jetsor reaction. It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity woulddiminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelopeof rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at thesame time the air would begin to escape from the debris because therewould no longer be the mass required to hold it. However, there might be definite chances of temporary and evenprolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealedstructures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships onEarth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, withas many passengers as could be carried. But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers. A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking, how beautiful!It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifyingsubjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesomesight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's anabsurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the wholecataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, atiny personal event. Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent andalarmed. We are in contact with our pursuers, she said in thefamiliar-unfamiliar voice. Negotiations are now going on. Thereseems to be—there is a change in them. Where they were harsh andvindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory. She paused,the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough todestroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful.... They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face asthough it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling thatshe was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast andviolent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realizedwith an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation. No! said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. They have changed! Duringthe eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowingnothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communalmind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselvesfled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back toa society that we and they can make truly great! <doc-sep>Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hystericalweeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for wordsto speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TVset. Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picturewindow and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along thepaths with a wild excitement. On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning inthe sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to helpEarth rejoice, she couldn't tell. Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcomeyou—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—intothe society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and aloneand helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you! The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,arm in arm. Like rockets, Rosalind blurted happily. We came through thedurasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface. They didn't have to take us along, Ivan added with a bleary grin.But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you livein fear, so they must have told you by now. Yes, we know, said Theodor. They must be almost godlike in theirgoodness. I feel ... calm. Edmund nodded soberly. Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, Isuppose, that—well, we're not alone. Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a whollylittle-girl smile. Oh, Mummy, she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoketo Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, I've just had the funniest dream. No, darling, said Rosalind gently, it's we who had the dream. We'vejust awakened. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who’s Rosalind and what happens to her throughout the story?

Rosalind is a member of the Wolves family, the wife of Theodor, Edmund, and Ivan. At the beginning of the story, she comes to the meeting of their family sub-committee. When Ivan doesn’t show up, Rosalind decides to go to the Deep Space Bar and try to find him. On her way back, she finds his briefcase half-buried in the dirt. It has a hastily written phrase “Going down” written on it. Shocked, she comes back and shows her findings to everybody. They alert the local agencies and create their family member’s description that is broadcast. They decide to take a small break, and Rosalind leaves right after Theodor. She doesn’t catch up with him and stops at the place where she found the briefcase. Suddenly, her feet get stuck, and her body starts sinking into the ground. She understands that the same thing happened to Ivan and decides to leave her glove to show what happened to her. Soon earth covers her head, and she keeps moving down through different soil levels. The temperature rises, and soon she ends up in a silver egg-shaped room where she meets Ivan. A voice inside their heads explains that their bodies will soon go through a painless process of separation into small atom-thick layers which will enable them to endure almost infinite accelerations, and their consciousness will be intact. They learn more about the Earth and its function. Soon, when the pursuers of the semi-god creatures tell them about the changes they made, Rosalind and Ivan are shot back to the surface. They walk back to their family.

What’s the significance of Dotty’s dreams? [SEP] <s> DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DAVID STONE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Before science, there was superstition. After science, there will be ... what? The biggest, most staggering , most final fact of them all! But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets. Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title, The Dance of the Planets . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor. He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often. As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny. Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened. But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact. That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world. <doc-sep>Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced. People must have felt like this , she thought, when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can. You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man. She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse. Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar. Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right. And of course she was. She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked. Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads. Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand. Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps. Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late. But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it? In me, Theodor said promptly. In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan. You angry with me about something? Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided. Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that? Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you. Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting. Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter? Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her. No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance. Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep. As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon. Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in Gulliver's Travels Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature. Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean? Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available. It was true, but it didn't comfort him much. <doc-sep> I am a God , Dotty was dreaming, and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to. A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act. I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats , Dottywent on dreaming. The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us. <doc-sep>As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table. Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment. He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors. I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said. Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk. Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door. I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls. Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily. Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material. Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio. At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening. The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis. However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found. The rest will also be! Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors. Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion, The Dance of the Planets . That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book: This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. <doc-sep>While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness. In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope. Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out? As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading. Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release. Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible! The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating. She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt. Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be in the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave? By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy. And see what's written on it, she added. They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words: Going down! <doc-sep> The other gods , Dotty dreamt, are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. I'd say we'vedone everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made athorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally,is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptionsare being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of theevening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance. One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table.Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality thathad engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms. I'll take over Ivan's notes, she heard Edmund say. They're mainlyabout the Deep Shaft. How far have they got with that? Frieda asked idly. Twenty-fivemiles? Nearer thirty, I believe, Edmund answered, and still going down. At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyeswent toward Ivan's briefcase. <doc-sep> Our trick has succeeded , Dotty dreamt. The other gods have passedour hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search theUniverse for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we havefound a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more.They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door todestroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in ourcamouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear thatthe faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds ofmillions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hoursin a prison. <doc-sep>Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. Weneed a break. Frieda agreed wearily. We've gone through everything. Good idea, Edmund said briskly. I think we've hit on several crucialpoints along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass ofinconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right nowand present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour? Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching hiscloak over a shoulder. I'm going out for a drink, he informed them. After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Friedastretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilmstirelessly, every now and then setting one aside. Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward theroom where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped. Not my child , she thought bitterly. Frieda's her mother, Rosalindher nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends.A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world. But then she straightened her shoulders and went on. <doc-sep>Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent andhe never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose onlyknee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to eitherside, no more. It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry.In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail ofhis scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to movedisembodied, like those in the fairy tale. When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, shestopped altogether. A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, broughtforest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear thefurtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures. She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futilityof her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-hightwilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night. Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seizedby a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terrorfrom the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs. A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—theunnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan'sbriefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space.She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resistedher first tug, like a rooted plant. She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literallydwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herselfand started forward. Something held her feet. They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright andhorror, they began to sink still lower into the ground. She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She hadthe panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invadedher; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of herflesh; that the two were becoming one. And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep,waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw herbody from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen inthe ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always thesense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her. She thought, he'd just have had time to scribble that note on hisbriefcase and toss it away. She jerked off a glove, leaned out asfar as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers intothe powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, andcovered her eyes. She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayedwith her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles,black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her visionpenetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge thatthese same sorts of things were coursing up through her. <doc-sep>And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if thelaw of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped fromblack soil through gray clay and into pale limestone. Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. Shewondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through thestone. A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavernwith a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basaltcolumn, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just blackbasalt. And always faster. It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythicaleternal fires. <doc-sep>At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen. The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events. It is thought— The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice. The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir? <doc-sep>Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was ColonelFortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol andreputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now,for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile. Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV big news light blinked blue andthe girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor. ... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two otherutterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, LunarObservatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodieswhich it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are movingoutward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are alreadybeyond the orbit of Saturn! The Colonel said, Ah! Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching theSolar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twicethe distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air withfurther details as soon as possible. The Colonel said, Ah-ha! Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almostamusing. Are you a Kometevskyite? Theodor asked him. The Colonel laughed. Of course not, my boy. Those poor people arefumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened? Frankly, no. The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, The DivinePlan. God is a military strategist, naturally. Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took asatisfying swallow. I knew it all along, of course, he went on musingly, but this lastnews makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knowsmilitary strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding afleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why,you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behindthat screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then— You don't mean to imply— Theodor interrupted. The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically. Of course I do! the Colonel cut in sharply. It's a war between theforces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side,the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter andSaturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'mproud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight,what? And all by divine strategy! He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly.The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing. <doc-sep>Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively. The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no! Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand. Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile. Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer. Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda? The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy? Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much. Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again. There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up. I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call. Yes, Mummy. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glancedaround at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, thaneven they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement,but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost toooverpowering for a human being to bear. His voice was clipped, rapid. I think it's about time we stoppedworrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the SolarSystem, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on thedisappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sortingout the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. Thereare roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like amystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come tothe same conclusion I have. The others nodded. First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, asyou know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. Atapproximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers haveencountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively namedthe durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongestcorrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for aquarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by themirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slightcurvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earthitself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the worldwould encounter the durasphere at the same depth. Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, andparticularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. GrantingPhobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that ofEarth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material inthose two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that thetwo duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanicvelocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind. It was deadly quiet in the committee room. Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especiallythe baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind'sdownward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawninto the depths of the Earth. Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in thefollowing points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlikeand telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree ofmental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. Theyare pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for themanywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflagetheir ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do notpenetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected. Edmund waited. Do you see what I'm driving at? he asked hoarsely. <doc-sep>He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words. I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage. This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe.... In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships. Your guess happens to be the precise truth. At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed. She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth. Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored. Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe. But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely. Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers. Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few. Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born. <doc-sep>Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shapedsilver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they weresprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd milejourneys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after theheat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice thatspoke inside their minds. In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atomthick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endurealmost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particlewill be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endurethroughout the process. Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering, will they gofirst, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple? She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing. <doc-sep>Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with theconnection open, but no voice from the other end. They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confusedmedley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a fewastonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival. These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite thePacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceshipburst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jetsor reaction. It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity woulddiminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelopeof rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at thesame time the air would begin to escape from the debris because therewould no longer be the mass required to hold it. However, there might be definite chances of temporary and evenprolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealedstructures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships onEarth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, withas many passengers as could be carried. But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers. A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking, how beautiful!It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifyingsubjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesomesight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's anabsurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the wholecataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, atiny personal event. Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent andalarmed. We are in contact with our pursuers, she said in thefamiliar-unfamiliar voice. Negotiations are now going on. Thereseems to be—there is a change in them. Where they were harsh andvindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory. She paused,the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough todestroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful.... They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face asthough it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling thatshe was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast andviolent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realizedwith an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation. No! said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. They have changed! Duringthe eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowingnothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communalmind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselvesfled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back toa society that we and they can make truly great! <doc-sep>Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hystericalweeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for wordsto speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TVset. Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picturewindow and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along thepaths with a wild excitement. On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning inthe sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to helpEarth rejoice, she couldn't tell. Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcomeyou—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—intothe society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and aloneand helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you! The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,arm in arm. Like rockets, Rosalind blurted happily. We came through thedurasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface. They didn't have to take us along, Ivan added with a bleary grin.But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you livein fear, so they must have told you by now. Yes, we know, said Theodor. They must be almost godlike in theirgoodness. I feel ... calm. Edmund nodded soberly. Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, Isuppose, that—well, we're not alone. Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a whollylittle-girl smile. Oh, Mummy, she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoketo Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, I've just had the funniest dream. No, darling, said Rosalind gently, it's we who had the dream. We'vejust awakened. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What’s the significance of Dotty’s dreams?

Throughout the entire story, the narrative gets interrupted by small parts of Dotty's dreams. She has extrasensory abilities, and the semi-god creatures use her and other ESPs to communicate with people. In her dreams, she tells the story of these creatures' life. She speaks about their belief in mental privacy and says that other gods do not want them to have private thoughts and decide to hunt them down. The creatures that value privacy of thoughts create inhabited planets and manage to hide for millions of years from the others. But now they have been found and need to flee again. Dotty’s dreams conceptually explain the origin of the planets of the Solar System and why those need to be destroyed now. Through her dreams, the creatures tell the Earth is their camouflaged spaceship, and they will soon need to live.

What is Celeste's attitude towards other members of her family and how does it change? [SEP] <s> DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DAVID STONE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Before science, there was superstition. After science, there will be ... what? The biggest, most staggering , most final fact of them all! But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets. Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title, The Dance of the Planets . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor. He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often. As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny. Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened. But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact. That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world. <doc-sep>Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced. People must have felt like this , she thought, when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can. You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man. She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse. Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar. Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right. And of course she was. She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked. Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads. Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand. Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps. Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late. But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it? In me, Theodor said promptly. In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan. You angry with me about something? Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided. Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that? Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you. Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting. Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter? Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her. No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance. Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep. As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon. Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in Gulliver's Travels Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature. Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean? Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available. It was true, but it didn't comfort him much. <doc-sep> I am a God , Dotty was dreaming, and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to. A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act. I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats , Dottywent on dreaming. The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us. <doc-sep>As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table. Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment. He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors. I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said. Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk. Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door. I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls. Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily. Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material. Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio. At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening. The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis. However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found. The rest will also be! Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors. Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion, The Dance of the Planets . That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book: This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. <doc-sep>While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness. In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope. Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out? As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading. Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release. Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible! The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating. She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt. Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be in the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave? By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy. And see what's written on it, she added. They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words: Going down! <doc-sep> The other gods , Dotty dreamt, are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. I'd say we'vedone everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made athorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally,is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptionsare being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of theevening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance. One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table.Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality thathad engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms. I'll take over Ivan's notes, she heard Edmund say. They're mainlyabout the Deep Shaft. How far have they got with that? Frieda asked idly. Twenty-fivemiles? Nearer thirty, I believe, Edmund answered, and still going down. At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyeswent toward Ivan's briefcase. <doc-sep> Our trick has succeeded , Dotty dreamt. The other gods have passedour hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search theUniverse for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we havefound a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more.They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door todestroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in ourcamouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear thatthe faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds ofmillions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hoursin a prison. <doc-sep>Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. Weneed a break. Frieda agreed wearily. We've gone through everything. Good idea, Edmund said briskly. I think we've hit on several crucialpoints along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass ofinconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right nowand present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour? Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching hiscloak over a shoulder. I'm going out for a drink, he informed them. After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Friedastretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilmstirelessly, every now and then setting one aside. Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward theroom where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped. Not my child , she thought bitterly. Frieda's her mother, Rosalindher nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends.A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world. But then she straightened her shoulders and went on. <doc-sep>Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent andhe never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose onlyknee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to eitherside, no more. It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry.In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail ofhis scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to movedisembodied, like those in the fairy tale. When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, shestopped altogether. A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, broughtforest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear thefurtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures. She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futilityof her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-hightwilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night. Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seizedby a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terrorfrom the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs. A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—theunnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan'sbriefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space.She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resistedher first tug, like a rooted plant. She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literallydwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herselfand started forward. Something held her feet. They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright andhorror, they began to sink still lower into the ground. She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She hadthe panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invadedher; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of herflesh; that the two were becoming one. And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep,waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw herbody from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen inthe ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always thesense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her. She thought, he'd just have had time to scribble that note on hisbriefcase and toss it away. She jerked off a glove, leaned out asfar as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers intothe powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, andcovered her eyes. She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayedwith her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles,black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her visionpenetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge thatthese same sorts of things were coursing up through her. <doc-sep>And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if thelaw of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped fromblack soil through gray clay and into pale limestone. Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. Shewondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through thestone. A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavernwith a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basaltcolumn, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just blackbasalt. And always faster. It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythicaleternal fires. <doc-sep>At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen. The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events. It is thought— The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice. The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir? <doc-sep>Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was ColonelFortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol andreputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now,for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile. Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV big news light blinked blue andthe girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor. ... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two otherutterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, LunarObservatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodieswhich it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are movingoutward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are alreadybeyond the orbit of Saturn! The Colonel said, Ah! Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching theSolar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twicethe distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air withfurther details as soon as possible. The Colonel said, Ah-ha! Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almostamusing. Are you a Kometevskyite? Theodor asked him. The Colonel laughed. Of course not, my boy. Those poor people arefumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened? Frankly, no. The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, The DivinePlan. God is a military strategist, naturally. Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took asatisfying swallow. I knew it all along, of course, he went on musingly, but this lastnews makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knowsmilitary strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding afleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why,you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behindthat screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then— You don't mean to imply— Theodor interrupted. The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically. Of course I do! the Colonel cut in sharply. It's a war between theforces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side,the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter andSaturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'mproud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight,what? And all by divine strategy! He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly.The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing. <doc-sep>Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively. The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no! Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand. Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile. Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer. Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda? The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy? Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much. Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again. There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up. I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call. Yes, Mummy. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glancedaround at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, thaneven they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement,but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost toooverpowering for a human being to bear. His voice was clipped, rapid. I think it's about time we stoppedworrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the SolarSystem, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on thedisappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sortingout the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. Thereare roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like amystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come tothe same conclusion I have. The others nodded. First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, asyou know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. Atapproximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers haveencountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively namedthe durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongestcorrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for aquarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by themirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slightcurvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earthitself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the worldwould encounter the durasphere at the same depth. Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, andparticularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. GrantingPhobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that ofEarth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material inthose two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that thetwo duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanicvelocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind. It was deadly quiet in the committee room. Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especiallythe baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind'sdownward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawninto the depths of the Earth. Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in thefollowing points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlikeand telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree ofmental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. Theyare pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for themanywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflagetheir ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do notpenetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected. Edmund waited. Do you see what I'm driving at? he asked hoarsely. <doc-sep>He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words. I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage. This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe.... In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships. Your guess happens to be the precise truth. At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed. She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth. Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored. Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe. But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely. Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers. Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few. Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born. <doc-sep>Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shapedsilver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they weresprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd milejourneys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after theheat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice thatspoke inside their minds. In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atomthick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endurealmost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particlewill be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endurethroughout the process. Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering, will they gofirst, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple? She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing. <doc-sep>Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with theconnection open, but no voice from the other end. They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confusedmedley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a fewastonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival. These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite thePacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceshipburst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jetsor reaction. It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity woulddiminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelopeof rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at thesame time the air would begin to escape from the debris because therewould no longer be the mass required to hold it. However, there might be definite chances of temporary and evenprolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealedstructures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships onEarth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, withas many passengers as could be carried. But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers. A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking, how beautiful!It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifyingsubjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesomesight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's anabsurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the wholecataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, atiny personal event. Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent andalarmed. We are in contact with our pursuers, she said in thefamiliar-unfamiliar voice. Negotiations are now going on. Thereseems to be—there is a change in them. Where they were harsh andvindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory. She paused,the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough todestroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful.... They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face asthough it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling thatshe was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast andviolent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realizedwith an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation. No! said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. They have changed! Duringthe eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowingnothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communalmind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselvesfled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back toa society that we and they can make truly great! <doc-sep>Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hystericalweeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for wordsto speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TVset. Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picturewindow and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along thepaths with a wild excitement. On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning inthe sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to helpEarth rejoice, she couldn't tell. Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcomeyou—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—intothe society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and aloneand helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you! The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,arm in arm. Like rockets, Rosalind blurted happily. We came through thedurasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface. They didn't have to take us along, Ivan added with a bleary grin.But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you livein fear, so they must have told you by now. Yes, we know, said Theodor. They must be almost godlike in theirgoodness. I feel ... calm. Edmund nodded soberly. Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, Isuppose, that—well, we're not alone. Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a whollylittle-girl smile. Oh, Mummy, she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoketo Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, I've just had the funniest dream. No, darling, said Rosalind gently, it's we who had the dream. We'vejust awakened. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is Celeste's attitude towards other members of her family and how does it change?

From the beginning, Celeste seems to struggle with her complex marriage. She finds it hard to find complete security in three men simultaneously. In a crisis, it’s disturbing for her to have her source of security divided into three. She also cannot accept that Dotty is her daughter because the girl was born from Frieda. Celeste points out that the probability of Dotty being Theodor’s daughter is only one-third. She reckons that humanity might have gone too far with some things, including monogamous marriages. While in the committee room, she tries to determine if they are a true family or just experimenting with their relationship. The family members seem both familiar and unfamiliar to her. When she wants to check up on Dotty, she thinks that she is no one to the girl but still goes on. Dotty, after a small chat, makes Celeste say that she loves her. In the end, the reader understands that, no matter what Celeste’s feelings are, Dotty loves all three women and considers them mothers.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> BREAKDOWN By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by COWLES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine June 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick that way—in the head! Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing. The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste.... Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school. He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie? She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who? I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children. He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast? Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed. She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could— You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and.... She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said. He himself just couldn't remember it. He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they had had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't. <doc-sep>He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.Part way through the meal, he paused. Got an awful craving for meat,he said. Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stockfor his own table! We're having meat for lunch, she said placatingly. Nice cut ofmulti-pro. Multi-pro, he scoffed. God knows what's in it. Like spam put througha grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly tasteany meat there. Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The currentcrisis, you know. The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no onecould question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finishedquickly and without speaking went on out to the barn. He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done insideof two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewnfloor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam thatwas too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as heleaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sidewardstaggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. Why, this ain't theway I had my barn.... He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senselesspanic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it was his barn! He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, Get down to thepatch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang. He walked outside andtook a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure andclean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe.... He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelvepigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where thehalf-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometimelater, Edna called to him. Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.Pick up rest? Yes, he shouted. She disappeared. He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard,moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him. The car. He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be niceto take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers. No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further thanWalt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. Andthe gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because itwas no use to him lying in the tractor shed. <doc-sep>He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractorshed had stood just fifty feet from the house! No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled andall. He was leaving it there until he had use for it. He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why shoulda man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly startlosing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too. He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box witha sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicinesand other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, andthey left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid thebill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receiptand your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found somemoney from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn.It came out just about even. He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna hadordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried itinto the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. Atelevision program guide. Edna hustled over excitedly. Anything good on this week, Harry? He looked down the listings, and frowned. All old movies. Still onlyone channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night. He gave it toher, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thinglast week. And she had said the films were all new to her. She said it now. Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with ClarkGable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither. I'm gonna lie down, he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; thestove. But the door.... he began. He cut himself short. He turned andsaw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went thereand out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed waswrong. The windows were wrong. The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong! <doc-sep>Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now. When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock? Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease? He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week. She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna? Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates. He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs. He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions. Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny? Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week. She's five already? Harry asked. Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book. And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved. <doc-sep>They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing. Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming. He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor. He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out! But why, Harry, why? He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid. If you say so, Harry. He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people.... He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone. He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he? He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town. Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine. He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field. His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind. He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around. Was he forgetting again? <doc-sep>Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. Heopened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted androde forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and afterthe Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton'splace. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemedas if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to getalong without crops for years more. He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't surewhy, but ... everything was wrong. His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum wentsedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Anotherfence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped bythree feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world hadSam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this? He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing butfence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.Yes, there was a slight inward curve. He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figuredthe best way to get to the other side. The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as theyused to say back when he was a kid. It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he gotover and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changedbeneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.He'd never seen the like of it in this county. He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. Helistened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make surehe was heading in the right direction. And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring. Flooring! He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, andglanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was asick laugh, so he stopped it. He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring soundgrowing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never hadbefore in Cultwait County. <doc-sep>His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray. He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt. He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything. Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again. It was getting light. His head was splitting. Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown.... Town! He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening. He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs. Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately? The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that.... He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life? He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou! <doc-sep>He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with threechildren playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. Amoment later, adult voices yelled after him: You theah! Stop! Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods! There was no place called Piney Woods in this county. Was this how a man's mind went? He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, andpeople shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three orfour sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures ofNew England he'd seen in magazines. He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence witha three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped hisclothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleamingin bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earthsway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, andshook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up andwent back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yetstrange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he sawit—a car. A car! <doc-sep>It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas atall. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. You broke regulations,Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us. He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turnedtoward Plum. The other officer was walking around the horse. Rode her hard, hesaid, and he sounded real worried. Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.We have so very few now.... The officer holding Harry's arm said, Pete. The officer examining Plum said, It won't make any difference in awhile. Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear. Take the horse back to his farm, the officer holding Harry said. Heopened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He wentaround to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,walking him. He sure must like horses, he said. Yes. Am I going to jail? No. Where then? The doctor's place. They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to knowabout it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks? He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up thepath. Harry noticed that the new house was big. When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seenor heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens ofdoors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it inat least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good twohundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plasterwalls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that hedidn't see or hear people. He did hear something ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they camealong the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep downsomewhere. <doc-sep>They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowlessroom. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundredyears old. Where's Petey? he asked. Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm. The old man sighed. I didn't know what form it would take. I expectedone or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual orsudden, whether or not it would lead to violence. No violence, Dad. Fine, Stan. He looked at Harry. I'm going to give you a littletreatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything.... What happened to Davie? Harry asked, things pushing at his brainagain. Stan helped him up. Just step this way, Mr. Burr. He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room withthe big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and letthem lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce hisscalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; hewould let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer soas to know whether or not he was insane. What happened to my son Davie? The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like theinsides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch. Please, Harry whispered. Just tell me about my son. The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left theswitch. Dead, he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. Like somany millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyoneknew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhapsthe whole world is dead—except for us. Harry stared at him. <doc-sep>I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you. I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities.... I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would. Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines? You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin. His son said, Please, Dad.... No! I want to talk to someone sane ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all, sanity ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife.... He choked and stopped. Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on all sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa. And this wasn't Iowa. The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons.... <doc-sep>Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments? Diathermy, the little doctor muttered. Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said. The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations. Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency? You will, Mr. Burr. Harry walked to the door. We're on an ark, the doctor said. Harry turned around, smiling. What? A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye. Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations. Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Harry Burr is begged by his wife Edna to go see a doctor because she believes that he is sick in the head. He refuses to believe that anything is wrong, but he does admit that there are times where he lies in fear over nothing and mixes up his memories. The story then jumps to the present, where he begins to think about a blond boy named Davie. Edna is confused because they have no children. Edna brings up seeing a doctor again, he angrily responds that it will only be Timkins who brought their son into the world. Edna tells him they had no son, and Timkins died a while ago. The scene cuts to breakfast, where Harry complains about a lack of meat. Edna explains that there is only multi-pro because of the current crisis in the country. Harry begins to go walk outside, but he experiences more strange memories that don’t add up. He picks up the delivery that Edna ordered. Edna asks if there is anything good on television this week because there is only one channel. After a late lunch, Harry goes to check on the animals again and wonders what happened to the rest of the livestock. Edna tells him that they got the same as everyone else, and he goes upstairs again. When he awakes again, Gloria and Walt have arrived. He asks about Penny and Frances. After they leave, He takes his mare Plum out for a ride, and they arrive at a barbed wire fence area up north. He gets over the wire and continues to walk north, until the earth changes to sand. Then, the sand becomes wooden flooring; there is also a loud roaring sound. When he reaches a waist-high metal railing, he runs back to Plum again. Harry has the idea to ride to town, even if the other neighbors tell him to stop and for somebody to call the police. Soon, two policemen come out to escort him to the doctor. Harry asks the doctor where his son is, and the doctor explains that he is dead like so many millions of others. The doctor tells him he has so many things to do, and he says there are a few remaining people who are still alive. Harry’s brain struggles with the impossible concept, and he thinks about how this is not Iowa. Just as Harry realizes what they are on, the switch is thrown, and he finds himself feeling better from the diathermy treatment. Before Harry leaves, the doctor tests him one last time by telling him that they are on an ark. Harry is confused, which means that the treatment works. He goes home to Edna and is happier than ever.

Who is Doctor Hamming, and what are his traits? [SEP] <s> BREAKDOWN By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by COWLES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine June 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick that way—in the head! Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing. The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste.... Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school. He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie? She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who? I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children. He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast? Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed. She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could— You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and.... She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said. He himself just couldn't remember it. He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they had had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't. <doc-sep>He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.Part way through the meal, he paused. Got an awful craving for meat,he said. Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stockfor his own table! We're having meat for lunch, she said placatingly. Nice cut ofmulti-pro. Multi-pro, he scoffed. God knows what's in it. Like spam put througha grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly tasteany meat there. Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The currentcrisis, you know. The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no onecould question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finishedquickly and without speaking went on out to the barn. He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done insideof two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewnfloor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam thatwas too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as heleaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sidewardstaggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. Why, this ain't theway I had my barn.... He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senselesspanic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it was his barn! He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, Get down to thepatch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang. He walked outside andtook a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure andclean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe.... He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelvepigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where thehalf-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometimelater, Edna called to him. Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.Pick up rest? Yes, he shouted. She disappeared. He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard,moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him. The car. He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be niceto take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers. No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further thanWalt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. Andthe gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because itwas no use to him lying in the tractor shed. <doc-sep>He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractorshed had stood just fifty feet from the house! No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled andall. He was leaving it there until he had use for it. He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why shoulda man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly startlosing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too. He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box witha sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicinesand other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, andthey left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid thebill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receiptand your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found somemoney from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn.It came out just about even. He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna hadordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried itinto the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. Atelevision program guide. Edna hustled over excitedly. Anything good on this week, Harry? He looked down the listings, and frowned. All old movies. Still onlyone channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night. He gave it toher, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thinglast week. And she had said the films were all new to her. She said it now. Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with ClarkGable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither. I'm gonna lie down, he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; thestove. But the door.... he began. He cut himself short. He turned andsaw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went thereand out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed waswrong. The windows were wrong. The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong! <doc-sep>Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now. When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock? Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease? He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week. She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna? Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates. He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs. He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions. Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny? Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week. She's five already? Harry asked. Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book. And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved. <doc-sep>They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing. Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming. He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor. He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out! But why, Harry, why? He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid. If you say so, Harry. He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people.... He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone. He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he? He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town. Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine. He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field. His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind. He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around. Was he forgetting again? <doc-sep>Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. Heopened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted androde forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and afterthe Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton'splace. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemedas if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to getalong without crops for years more. He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't surewhy, but ... everything was wrong. His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum wentsedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Anotherfence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped bythree feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world hadSam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this? He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing butfence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.Yes, there was a slight inward curve. He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figuredthe best way to get to the other side. The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as theyused to say back when he was a kid. It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he gotover and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changedbeneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.He'd never seen the like of it in this county. He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. Helistened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make surehe was heading in the right direction. And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring. Flooring! He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, andglanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was asick laugh, so he stopped it. He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring soundgrowing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never hadbefore in Cultwait County. <doc-sep>His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray. He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt. He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything. Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again. It was getting light. His head was splitting. Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown.... Town! He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening. He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs. Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately? The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that.... He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life? He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou! <doc-sep>He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with threechildren playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. Amoment later, adult voices yelled after him: You theah! Stop! Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods! There was no place called Piney Woods in this county. Was this how a man's mind went? He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, andpeople shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three orfour sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures ofNew England he'd seen in magazines. He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence witha three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped hisclothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleamingin bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earthsway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, andshook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up andwent back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yetstrange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he sawit—a car. A car! <doc-sep>It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas atall. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. You broke regulations,Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us. He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turnedtoward Plum. The other officer was walking around the horse. Rode her hard, hesaid, and he sounded real worried. Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.We have so very few now.... The officer holding Harry's arm said, Pete. The officer examining Plum said, It won't make any difference in awhile. Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear. Take the horse back to his farm, the officer holding Harry said. Heopened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He wentaround to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,walking him. He sure must like horses, he said. Yes. Am I going to jail? No. Where then? The doctor's place. They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to knowabout it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks? He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up thepath. Harry noticed that the new house was big. When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seenor heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens ofdoors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it inat least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good twohundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plasterwalls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that hedidn't see or hear people. He did hear something ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they camealong the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep downsomewhere. <doc-sep>They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowlessroom. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundredyears old. Where's Petey? he asked. Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm. The old man sighed. I didn't know what form it would take. I expectedone or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual orsudden, whether or not it would lead to violence. No violence, Dad. Fine, Stan. He looked at Harry. I'm going to give you a littletreatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything.... What happened to Davie? Harry asked, things pushing at his brainagain. Stan helped him up. Just step this way, Mr. Burr. He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room withthe big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and letthem lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce hisscalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; hewould let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer soas to know whether or not he was insane. What happened to my son Davie? The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like theinsides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch. Please, Harry whispered. Just tell me about my son. The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left theswitch. Dead, he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. Like somany millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyoneknew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhapsthe whole world is dead—except for us. Harry stared at him. <doc-sep>I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you. I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities.... I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would. Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines? You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin. His son said, Please, Dad.... No! I want to talk to someone sane ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all, sanity ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife.... He choked and stopped. Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on all sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa. And this wasn't Iowa. The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons.... <doc-sep>Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments? Diathermy, the little doctor muttered. Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said. The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations. Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency? You will, Mr. Burr. Harry walked to the door. We're on an ark, the doctor said. Harry turned around, smiling. What? A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye. Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations. Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Doctor Hamming, and what are his traits?

Doctor Hamming is first described by Edna as someone who can treat Harry’s so-called “mental problems”. She insists for Harry to go see him multiple times, but Harry refuses every time. Finally, when Harry is escorted by the policemen does he go meet Doctor Hamming in person. In person, Doctor Hamming is a thin little man with a bald head and framed glasses. He also wears a white coat and looks about one hundred years old. He lives with his two sons, and his wife is not around anymore. His son’s names are Pete and Stan. Doctor Hamming is a very stressed person, constantly trying to manage the ark. He is also impatient as well, raising his voice when Harry asks him about his dead son. However, although the doctor is impatient, he is very knowledgeable in his field as well. He predicted that people will begin to die from a disaster and invested a lot of his money to build the ark. He has exceptional planning skills, picking out the farmers in the rural areas as people to continue living on the ark because he knows how important the farmers are. The doctor’s treatments are very successful as well, capable of completely erasing Harry Burr’s conflicting memories and making him forget that they are on an ark.

What is the relationship between Edna and Harry? [SEP] <s> BREAKDOWN By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by COWLES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine June 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick that way—in the head! Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing. The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste.... Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school. He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie? She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who? I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children. He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast? Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed. She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could— You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and.... She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said. He himself just couldn't remember it. He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they had had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't. <doc-sep>He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.Part way through the meal, he paused. Got an awful craving for meat,he said. Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stockfor his own table! We're having meat for lunch, she said placatingly. Nice cut ofmulti-pro. Multi-pro, he scoffed. God knows what's in it. Like spam put througha grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly tasteany meat there. Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The currentcrisis, you know. The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no onecould question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finishedquickly and without speaking went on out to the barn. He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done insideof two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewnfloor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam thatwas too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as heleaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sidewardstaggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. Why, this ain't theway I had my barn.... He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senselesspanic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it was his barn! He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, Get down to thepatch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang. He walked outside andtook a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure andclean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe.... He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelvepigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where thehalf-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometimelater, Edna called to him. Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.Pick up rest? Yes, he shouted. She disappeared. He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard,moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him. The car. He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be niceto take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers. No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further thanWalt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. Andthe gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because itwas no use to him lying in the tractor shed. <doc-sep>He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractorshed had stood just fifty feet from the house! No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled andall. He was leaving it there until he had use for it. He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why shoulda man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly startlosing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too. He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box witha sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicinesand other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, andthey left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid thebill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receiptand your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found somemoney from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn.It came out just about even. He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna hadordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried itinto the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. Atelevision program guide. Edna hustled over excitedly. Anything good on this week, Harry? He looked down the listings, and frowned. All old movies. Still onlyone channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night. He gave it toher, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thinglast week. And she had said the films were all new to her. She said it now. Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with ClarkGable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither. I'm gonna lie down, he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; thestove. But the door.... he began. He cut himself short. He turned andsaw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went thereand out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed waswrong. The windows were wrong. The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong! <doc-sep>Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now. When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock? Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease? He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week. She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna? Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates. He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs. He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions. Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny? Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week. She's five already? Harry asked. Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book. And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved. <doc-sep>They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing. Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming. He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor. He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out! But why, Harry, why? He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid. If you say so, Harry. He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people.... He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone. He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he? He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town. Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine. He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field. His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind. He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around. Was he forgetting again? <doc-sep>Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. Heopened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted androde forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and afterthe Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton'splace. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemedas if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to getalong without crops for years more. He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't surewhy, but ... everything was wrong. His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum wentsedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Anotherfence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped bythree feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world hadSam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this? He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing butfence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.Yes, there was a slight inward curve. He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figuredthe best way to get to the other side. The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as theyused to say back when he was a kid. It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he gotover and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changedbeneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.He'd never seen the like of it in this county. He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. Helistened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make surehe was heading in the right direction. And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring. Flooring! He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, andglanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was asick laugh, so he stopped it. He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring soundgrowing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never hadbefore in Cultwait County. <doc-sep>His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray. He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt. He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything. Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again. It was getting light. His head was splitting. Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown.... Town! He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening. He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs. Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately? The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that.... He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life? He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou! <doc-sep>He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with threechildren playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. Amoment later, adult voices yelled after him: You theah! Stop! Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods! There was no place called Piney Woods in this county. Was this how a man's mind went? He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, andpeople shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three orfour sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures ofNew England he'd seen in magazines. He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence witha three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped hisclothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleamingin bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earthsway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, andshook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up andwent back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yetstrange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he sawit—a car. A car! <doc-sep>It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas atall. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. You broke regulations,Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us. He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turnedtoward Plum. The other officer was walking around the horse. Rode her hard, hesaid, and he sounded real worried. Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.We have so very few now.... The officer holding Harry's arm said, Pete. The officer examining Plum said, It won't make any difference in awhile. Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear. Take the horse back to his farm, the officer holding Harry said. Heopened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He wentaround to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,walking him. He sure must like horses, he said. Yes. Am I going to jail? No. Where then? The doctor's place. They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to knowabout it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks? He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up thepath. Harry noticed that the new house was big. When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seenor heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens ofdoors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it inat least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good twohundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plasterwalls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that hedidn't see or hear people. He did hear something ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they camealong the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep downsomewhere. <doc-sep>They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowlessroom. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundredyears old. Where's Petey? he asked. Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm. The old man sighed. I didn't know what form it would take. I expectedone or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual orsudden, whether or not it would lead to violence. No violence, Dad. Fine, Stan. He looked at Harry. I'm going to give you a littletreatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything.... What happened to Davie? Harry asked, things pushing at his brainagain. Stan helped him up. Just step this way, Mr. Burr. He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room withthe big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and letthem lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce hisscalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; hewould let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer soas to know whether or not he was insane. What happened to my son Davie? The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like theinsides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch. Please, Harry whispered. Just tell me about my son. The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left theswitch. Dead, he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. Like somany millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyoneknew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhapsthe whole world is dead—except for us. Harry stared at him. <doc-sep>I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you. I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities.... I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would. Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines? You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin. His son said, Please, Dad.... No! I want to talk to someone sane ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all, sanity ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife.... He choked and stopped. Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on all sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa. And this wasn't Iowa. The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons.... <doc-sep>Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments? Diathermy, the little doctor muttered. Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said. The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations. Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency? You will, Mr. Burr. Harry walked to the door. We're on an ark, the doctor said. Harry turned around, smiling. What? A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye. Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations. Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Edna and Harry?

Harry and Edna Burr are married. Initially, Edna is very concerned about Harry because of the strange memories that he experiences. She tries to plead with him to see a doctor, but he refuses to believe it. Harry is seen getting impatient with Edna, mainly because she is confused about the questions or people that he talks about. Even though she is concerned, Edna is good at comforting Harry. When he complains about the lack of meat, she tells him that they will have some multi-pro for lunch. The two of them split their duties as well, with Edna doing a lot of the housework and Harry doing the more manual labor. She also tries to suggest activities to do, such as asking what’s on the channel for this week. Edna loves Harry very much, but she does encourage him to seek a doctor to help his mental health. At the end, when Harry returns from his treatment, she asks if he has gone out to break any regulations. He only laughs and says he would rather kill a pig than do that.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> BREAKDOWN By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by COWLES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine June 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick that way—in the head! Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing. The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste.... Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school. He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie? She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who? I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children. He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast? Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed. She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could— You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and.... She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said. He himself just couldn't remember it. He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they had had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't. <doc-sep>He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.Part way through the meal, he paused. Got an awful craving for meat,he said. Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stockfor his own table! We're having meat for lunch, she said placatingly. Nice cut ofmulti-pro. Multi-pro, he scoffed. God knows what's in it. Like spam put througha grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly tasteany meat there. Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The currentcrisis, you know. The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no onecould question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finishedquickly and without speaking went on out to the barn. He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done insideof two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewnfloor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam thatwas too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as heleaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sidewardstaggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. Why, this ain't theway I had my barn.... He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senselesspanic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it was his barn! He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, Get down to thepatch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang. He walked outside andtook a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure andclean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe.... He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelvepigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where thehalf-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometimelater, Edna called to him. Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.Pick up rest? Yes, he shouted. She disappeared. He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard,moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him. The car. He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be niceto take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers. No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further thanWalt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. Andthe gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because itwas no use to him lying in the tractor shed. <doc-sep>He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractorshed had stood just fifty feet from the house! No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled andall. He was leaving it there until he had use for it. He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why shoulda man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly startlosing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too. He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box witha sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicinesand other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, andthey left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid thebill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receiptand your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found somemoney from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn.It came out just about even. He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna hadordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried itinto the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. Atelevision program guide. Edna hustled over excitedly. Anything good on this week, Harry? He looked down the listings, and frowned. All old movies. Still onlyone channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night. He gave it toher, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thinglast week. And she had said the films were all new to her. She said it now. Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with ClarkGable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither. I'm gonna lie down, he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; thestove. But the door.... he began. He cut himself short. He turned andsaw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went thereand out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed waswrong. The windows were wrong. The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong! <doc-sep>Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now. When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock? Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease? He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week. She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna? Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates. He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs. He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions. Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny? Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week. She's five already? Harry asked. Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book. And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved. <doc-sep>They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing. Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming. He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor. He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out! But why, Harry, why? He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid. If you say so, Harry. He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people.... He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone. He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he? He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town. Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine. He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field. His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind. He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around. Was he forgetting again? <doc-sep>Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. Heopened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted androde forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and afterthe Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton'splace. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemedas if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to getalong without crops for years more. He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't surewhy, but ... everything was wrong. His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum wentsedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Anotherfence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped bythree feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world hadSam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this? He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing butfence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.Yes, there was a slight inward curve. He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figuredthe best way to get to the other side. The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as theyused to say back when he was a kid. It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he gotover and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changedbeneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.He'd never seen the like of it in this county. He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. Helistened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make surehe was heading in the right direction. And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring. Flooring! He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, andglanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was asick laugh, so he stopped it. He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring soundgrowing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never hadbefore in Cultwait County. <doc-sep>His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray. He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt. He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything. Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again. It was getting light. His head was splitting. Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown.... Town! He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening. He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs. Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately? The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that.... He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life? He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou! <doc-sep>He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with threechildren playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. Amoment later, adult voices yelled after him: You theah! Stop! Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods! There was no place called Piney Woods in this county. Was this how a man's mind went? He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, andpeople shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three orfour sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures ofNew England he'd seen in magazines. He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence witha three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped hisclothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleamingin bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earthsway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, andshook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up andwent back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yetstrange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he sawit—a car. A car! <doc-sep>It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas atall. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. You broke regulations,Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us. He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turnedtoward Plum. The other officer was walking around the horse. Rode her hard, hesaid, and he sounded real worried. Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.We have so very few now.... The officer holding Harry's arm said, Pete. The officer examining Plum said, It won't make any difference in awhile. Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear. Take the horse back to his farm, the officer holding Harry said. Heopened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He wentaround to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,walking him. He sure must like horses, he said. Yes. Am I going to jail? No. Where then? The doctor's place. They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to knowabout it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks? He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up thepath. Harry noticed that the new house was big. When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seenor heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens ofdoors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it inat least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good twohundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plasterwalls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that hedidn't see or hear people. He did hear something ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they camealong the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep downsomewhere. <doc-sep>They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowlessroom. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundredyears old. Where's Petey? he asked. Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm. The old man sighed. I didn't know what form it would take. I expectedone or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual orsudden, whether or not it would lead to violence. No violence, Dad. Fine, Stan. He looked at Harry. I'm going to give you a littletreatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything.... What happened to Davie? Harry asked, things pushing at his brainagain. Stan helped him up. Just step this way, Mr. Burr. He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room withthe big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and letthem lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce hisscalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; hewould let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer soas to know whether or not he was insane. What happened to my son Davie? The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like theinsides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch. Please, Harry whispered. Just tell me about my son. The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left theswitch. Dead, he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. Like somany millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyoneknew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhapsthe whole world is dead—except for us. Harry stared at him. <doc-sep>I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you. I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities.... I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would. Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines? You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin. His son said, Please, Dad.... No! I want to talk to someone sane ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all, sanity ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife.... He choked and stopped. Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on all sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa. And this wasn't Iowa. The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons.... <doc-sep>Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments? Diathermy, the little doctor muttered. Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said. The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations. Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency? You will, Mr. Burr. Harry walked to the door. We're on an ark, the doctor said. Harry turned around, smiling. What? A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye. Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations. Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The story is set on an ark that Doctor Hamming put money into creating. Although it resembles Iowa, the residents are fooled to believe that it is indeed Iowa. Each of the residents have their own farm and land area, and they are restricted to only staying inside a certain area. For the Burrs, they cannot go beyond the Shanks’ place. Harry’s farm area has his house, an area for the livestock, and a tractor shed that was supposed to be torn off. Their area also has a supply bin that is shaped like an old-fashioned wood bin for deliveries from the government. The land they live on is also shared with the Franklins. When Harry takes Plum out for a ride, they go up north past the Franklins to where the Bessers should be. Then, they reach a small Pangborn farm. Beyond Pangborn, there lies old Wallace Elverton’s place, which is known as the biggest farm in the country. There is barbed wire in this area, and he walks past it. Slowly, the earth becomes sand and then wood. There are also colored folks living here, when there shouldn’t have been, and a place called Piney Woods exists as well. The place where Doctor Hamming lives is two miles past Dugan’s farm. It resembles a hospital, but there is nobody else inside of it.

What are some of the government regulations that are imposed in the story? [SEP] <s> BREAKDOWN By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by COWLES [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine June 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick that way—in the head! Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing. The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste.... Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school. He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie? She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who? I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children. He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast? Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed. She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could— You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and.... She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said. He himself just couldn't remember it. He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they had had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't. <doc-sep>He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.Part way through the meal, he paused. Got an awful craving for meat,he said. Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stockfor his own table! We're having meat for lunch, she said placatingly. Nice cut ofmulti-pro. Multi-pro, he scoffed. God knows what's in it. Like spam put througha grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly tasteany meat there. Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The currentcrisis, you know. The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no onecould question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finishedquickly and without speaking went on out to the barn. He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done insideof two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewnfloor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam thatwas too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as heleaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sidewardstaggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. Why, this ain't theway I had my barn.... He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senselesspanic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it was his barn! He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, Get down to thepatch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang. He walked outside andtook a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure andclean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe.... He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelvepigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where thehalf-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometimelater, Edna called to him. Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.Pick up rest? Yes, he shouted. She disappeared. He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard,moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him. The car. He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be niceto take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers. No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further thanWalt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. Andthe gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because itwas no use to him lying in the tractor shed. <doc-sep>He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractorshed had stood just fifty feet from the house! No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled andall. He was leaving it there until he had use for it. He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why shoulda man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly startlosing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too. He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box witha sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicinesand other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, andthey left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid thebill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receiptand your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found somemoney from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn.It came out just about even. He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna hadordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried itinto the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. Atelevision program guide. Edna hustled over excitedly. Anything good on this week, Harry? He looked down the listings, and frowned. All old movies. Still onlyone channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night. He gave it toher, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thinglast week. And she had said the films were all new to her. She said it now. Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with ClarkGable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither. I'm gonna lie down, he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; thestove. But the door.... he began. He cut himself short. He turned andsaw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went thereand out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed waswrong. The windows were wrong. The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong! <doc-sep>Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now. When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock? Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease? He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week. She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna? Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates. He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs. He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions. Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny? Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week. She's five already? Harry asked. Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book. And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved. <doc-sep>They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing. Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming. He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor. He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out! But why, Harry, why? He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid. If you say so, Harry. He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people.... He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone. He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he? He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town. Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine. He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field. His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind. He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around. Was he forgetting again? <doc-sep>Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. Heopened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted androde forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and afterthe Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton'splace. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemedas if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to getalong without crops for years more. He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't surewhy, but ... everything was wrong. His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum wentsedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Anotherfence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped bythree feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world hadSam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this? He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing butfence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.Yes, there was a slight inward curve. He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figuredthe best way to get to the other side. The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as theyused to say back when he was a kid. It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he gotover and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changedbeneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.He'd never seen the like of it in this county. He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. Helistened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make surehe was heading in the right direction. And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring. Flooring! He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, andglanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was asick laugh, so he stopped it. He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring soundgrowing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never hadbefore in Cultwait County. <doc-sep>His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray. He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt. He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything. Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again. It was getting light. His head was splitting. Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown.... Town! He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening. He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs. Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately? The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that.... He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life? He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou! <doc-sep>He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with threechildren playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. Amoment later, adult voices yelled after him: You theah! Stop! Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods! There was no place called Piney Woods in this county. Was this how a man's mind went? He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, andpeople shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three orfour sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures ofNew England he'd seen in magazines. He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence witha three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped hisclothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleamingin bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earthsway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, andshook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up andwent back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yetstrange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he sawit—a car. A car! <doc-sep>It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas atall. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. You broke regulations,Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us. He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turnedtoward Plum. The other officer was walking around the horse. Rode her hard, hesaid, and he sounded real worried. Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.We have so very few now.... The officer holding Harry's arm said, Pete. The officer examining Plum said, It won't make any difference in awhile. Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear. Take the horse back to his farm, the officer holding Harry said. Heopened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He wentaround to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,walking him. He sure must like horses, he said. Yes. Am I going to jail? No. Where then? The doctor's place. They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to knowabout it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks? He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up thepath. Harry noticed that the new house was big. When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seenor heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens ofdoors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it inat least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good twohundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plasterwalls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that hedidn't see or hear people. He did hear something ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they camealong the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep downsomewhere. <doc-sep>They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowlessroom. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundredyears old. Where's Petey? he asked. Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm. The old man sighed. I didn't know what form it would take. I expectedone or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual orsudden, whether or not it would lead to violence. No violence, Dad. Fine, Stan. He looked at Harry. I'm going to give you a littletreatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything.... What happened to Davie? Harry asked, things pushing at his brainagain. Stan helped him up. Just step this way, Mr. Burr. He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room withthe big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and letthem lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce hisscalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; hewould let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer soas to know whether or not he was insane. What happened to my son Davie? The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like theinsides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch. Please, Harry whispered. Just tell me about my son. The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left theswitch. Dead, he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. Like somany millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyoneknew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhapsthe whole world is dead—except for us. Harry stared at him. <doc-sep>I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you. I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities.... I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would. Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines? You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin. His son said, Please, Dad.... No! I want to talk to someone sane ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all, sanity ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife.... He choked and stopped. Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on all sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa. And this wasn't Iowa. The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons.... <doc-sep>Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments? Diathermy, the little doctor muttered. Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said. The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations. Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency? You will, Mr. Burr. Harry walked to the door. We're on an ark, the doctor said. Harry turned around, smiling. What? A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye. Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations. Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are some of the government regulations that are imposed in the story?

One of the government restrictions that Edna reminds Harry about is the rationing of meat. Due to the crisis in the country, there is a shortage of meat. Instead of actual meat, most people eat multi-pro, which is similar to spam. The government also sets up boundaries for the residents to stay inside of, and they are not allowed to go past these regulations or else the police will come. The government also takes care of supplies, and most residents just have to write down what they want and pay a bill. In terms of money, the government takes care of it as well each week. Each farm receives the same number of animals because government agents paid flat rates. When Harry finds the stock of grain, he notes that the government has enough to keep going for a few years. Television is also restricted to old movies, playing only on one channel from nine to eleven at night. Later, it is revealed that these restrictions are imposed to keep the people alive on the ark long enough until they can begin to expand civilization again.