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Can you provide a summary of the Morgue Ship's storyline? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>Lethla half-crouched in the midst of the smell of death and thechugging of blood-pumps below. In the silence he reached up with quickfingers, tapped a tiny crystal stud upon the back of his head, and thehalves of a microscopically thin chrysalis parted transparently offof his face. He shucked it off, trailing air-tendrils that had beeninserted, hidden in the uniform, ending in thin globules of oxygen. He spoke. Triumph warmed his crystal-thin voice. That's how I did it,Earthman. Glassite! said Rice. A face-moulded mask of glassite! Lethla nodded. His milk-blue eyes dilated. Very marvelously pared toan unbreakable thickness of one-thirtieth of an inch; worn only on thehead. You have to look quickly to notice it, and, unfortunately, viewedas you saw it, outside the ship, floating in the void, not discernibleat all. Prickles of sweat appeared on Rice's face. He swore at the Venusian andthe Venusian laughed like some sort of stringed instrument, high andquick. Burnett laughed, too. Ironically. First time in years a man ever cameaboard the Constellation alive. It's a welcome change. Lethla showed his needle-like teeth. I thought it might be. Where'syour radio? Go find it! snapped Rice, hotly. I will. One hand, blue-veined, on the ladder-rungs, Lethla paused.I know you're weaponless; Purple Cross regulations. And this air-lockis safe. Don't move. Whispering, his naked feet padded white up theladder. Two long breaths later something crashed; metal and glass andcoils. The radio. Burnett put his shoulder blades against the wall-metal, looking at hisfeet. When he glanced up, Rice's fresh, animated face was spoiled bythe new bitterness in it. Lethla came down. Like a breath of air on the rungs. He smiled. That's better. Now. We can talk— Rice said it, slow: Interplanetary law declares it straight, Lethla! Get out! Only deadmen belong here. Lethla's gun grip tightened. More talk of that nature, and only deadmen there will be. He blinked. But first—we must rescue Kriere.... Kriere! Rice acted as if he had been hit in the jaw. Burnett moved his tongue back and forth on his lips silently, his eyeslidded, listening to the two of them as if they were a radio drama.Lethla's voice came next: Rather unfortunately, yes. He's still alive, heading toward Venusat an orbital velocity of two thousand m.p.h., wearing one of theseair-chrysali. Enough air for two more hours. Our flag ship was attackedunexpectedly yesterday near Mars. We were forced to take to thelife-boats, scattering, Kriere and I in one, the others sacrificingtheir lives to cover our escape. We were lucky. We got through theEarth cordon unseen. But luck can't last forever. We saw your morgue ship an hour ago. It's a long, long way to Venus.We were running out of fuel, food, water. Radio was broken. Capturewas certain. You were coming our way; we took the chance. We set asmall time-bomb to destroy the life-rocket, and cast off, wearing ourchrysali-helmets. It was the first time we had ever tried using them totrick anyone. We knew you wouldn't know we were alive until it was toolate and we controlled your ship. We knew you picked up all bodies forbrief exams, returning alien corpses to space later. Rice's voice was sullen. A set-up for you, huh? Traveling under theprotection of the Purple Cross you can get your damned All-Mighty safeto Venus. Lethla bowed slightly. Who would suspect a Morgue Rocket of providingsafe hiding for precious Venusian cargo? Precious is the word for you, brother! said Rice. Enough! Lethla moved his gun several inches. Accelerate toward Venus, mote-detectors wide open. Kriere must bepicked up— now! <doc-sep> Morgue Ship By RAY BRADBURY This was Burnett's last trip. Three more shelves to fill with space-slain warriors—and he would be among the living again. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He heard the star-port grind open, and the movement of the metal clawsgroping into space, and then the star-port closed. There was another dead man aboard the Constellation . Sam Burnett shook his long head, trying to think clearly. Pallid andquiet, three bodies lay on the cold transparent tables around him;machines stirred, revolved, hummed. He didn't see them. He didn't seeanything but a red haze over his mind. It blotted out the far wall ofthe laboratory where the shelves went up and down, numbered in scarlet,keeping the bodies of soldiers from all further harm. Burnett didn't move. He stood there in his rumpled white surgicalgown, staring at his fingers gloved in bone-white rubber; feeling alltight and wild inside himself. It went on for days. Moving the ship.Opening the star-port. Extending the retriever claw. Plucking some poorwarrior's body out of the void. He didn't like it any more. Ten years is too long to go back andforth from Earth to nowhere. You came out empty and you went backfull-cargoed with a lot of warriors who didn't laugh or talk or smoke,who just lay on their shelves, all one hundred of them, waiting for adecent burial. Number ninety-eight. Coming matter of fact and slow, Rice's voicefrom the ceiling radio hit Burnett. Number ninety-eight, Burnett repeated. Working on ninety-five,ninety-six and ninety-seven now. Blood-pumps, preservative, slightsurgery. Off a million miles away his voice was talking. It soundeddeep. It didn't belong to him anymore. Rice said: Boyohbody! Two more pick-ups and back to New York. Me for a ten-daydrunk! Burnett peeled the gloves off his huge, red, soft hands, slapped theminto a floor incinerator mouth. Back to Earth. Then spin around andshoot right out again in the trail of the war-rockets that blasted oneanother in galactic fury, to sidle up behind gutted wrecks of ships,salvaging any bodies still intact after the conflict. Two men. Rice and himself. Sharing a cozy morgue ship with a hundredother men who had forgotten, quite suddenly, however, to talk again. Ten years of it. Every hour of those ten years eating like maggotsinside, working out to the surface of Burnett's face, working under thehusk of his starved eyes and starved limbs. Starved for life. Starvedfor action. This would be his last trip, or he'd know the reason why! Sam! Burnett jerked. Rice's voice clipped through the drainage-preservativelab, bounded against glassite retorts, echoed from the refrigeratorshelves. Burnett stared at the tabled bodies as if they would leap tolife, even while preservative was being pumped into their veins. Sam! On the double! Up the rungs! Burnett closed his eyes and said a couple of words, firmly. Nothing wasworth running for any more. Another body. There had been one hundredthousand bodies preceding it. Nothing unusual about a body with bloodcooling in it. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the Morgue Ship's storyline?

Sam Burnett hears the familiar sounds that indicate another dead body has been retrieved and collected onto the Morgue ship where he works. Burnett is a coroner that works to retrieve dead bodies from space lost in war and bring them back to Earth. He thinks of how his job has emotionally drained him. Rice interrupts his thoughts and yells for Sam to meet with him. Sam climbs up to the control room of the rocket. When he meets Rice, he realizes that the recovered body is an enemy official. Sam is suspicious of the condition of the body when Rice excitedly exclaims that it is the body of Lethla, Kriere’s majordomo. Burnett is indifferent to the revelation. Yet, Rice is excited for the possibility of a high enemy official being dead and the possibility of the war coming to an end; Sam is still jaded. Lethla moves and they realize that he is not dead. Lethla was able to survive in the void of space with the usage of a well-hidden face mask made of glassite. Lethla threatens the two to not make any moves and communicates his intent to control the ship. Rice tells Lethla to leave because it is against Interplanetary law to mess with a morgue ship. Lethla rebuffs that defense. All the while, Sam is observing the two interact. Lethla lets the two know that Kriere is still alive and is also wearing the same mask that Lethla had worn. He explains that they were attacked near Mars while they were on their way to Venus. They were running out of supplies and decided to trick the morgue ship to continue their trip to Venus. After Lethla explains why and how he got to the morgue ship, he commands them to go pick up Kriere. Sam smiles and complies with Lethla’s orders. Sam thinks over his options and considers getting Lethla and Kriere to Venus so that he can peacefully return to Earth. They spot Kriere in space floating as if he is dead. Sam continues thinking about his options to overpower both Kriere and Lethla and experiences some fear over the possible success of his plan. He begins to sweat nervously but becomes more confident as he puts the plan into action. Sam activates the ship’s claw mechanism to pick up Kriere’s body. As Lethla watches him he mentions a saying about how the ship is meant for dead men and then unexpectedly begins to crush Kriere’s body with the claw, killing Kriere. Lethla is caught off guard but manages to fire his gun at Sam before Rice attacks him. Lethla screams in horror for a time while Burnett uncontrollably laughs. Rice expresses how he doesn’t believe Sam should have killed Kriere. Sam argues that it didn’t matter as long as it was his last trip somehow. Sam dies and becomes the 100 body on the ship, filling it and allowing the ship to return back to Earth fulfilling Sam’s last desire.

What is Sam Burnett's occupation on the Morgue Ship? [SEP] <s> Morgue Ship By RAY BRADBURY This was Burnett's last trip. Three more shelves to fill with space-slain warriors—and he would be among the living again. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He heard the star-port grind open, and the movement of the metal clawsgroping into space, and then the star-port closed. There was another dead man aboard the Constellation . Sam Burnett shook his long head, trying to think clearly. Pallid andquiet, three bodies lay on the cold transparent tables around him;machines stirred, revolved, hummed. He didn't see them. He didn't seeanything but a red haze over his mind. It blotted out the far wall ofthe laboratory where the shelves went up and down, numbered in scarlet,keeping the bodies of soldiers from all further harm. Burnett didn't move. He stood there in his rumpled white surgicalgown, staring at his fingers gloved in bone-white rubber; feeling alltight and wild inside himself. It went on for days. Moving the ship.Opening the star-port. Extending the retriever claw. Plucking some poorwarrior's body out of the void. He didn't like it any more. Ten years is too long to go back andforth from Earth to nowhere. You came out empty and you went backfull-cargoed with a lot of warriors who didn't laugh or talk or smoke,who just lay on their shelves, all one hundred of them, waiting for adecent burial. Number ninety-eight. Coming matter of fact and slow, Rice's voicefrom the ceiling radio hit Burnett. Number ninety-eight, Burnett repeated. Working on ninety-five,ninety-six and ninety-seven now. Blood-pumps, preservative, slightsurgery. Off a million miles away his voice was talking. It soundeddeep. It didn't belong to him anymore. Rice said: Boyohbody! Two more pick-ups and back to New York. Me for a ten-daydrunk! Burnett peeled the gloves off his huge, red, soft hands, slapped theminto a floor incinerator mouth. Back to Earth. Then spin around andshoot right out again in the trail of the war-rockets that blasted oneanother in galactic fury, to sidle up behind gutted wrecks of ships,salvaging any bodies still intact after the conflict. Two men. Rice and himself. Sharing a cozy morgue ship with a hundredother men who had forgotten, quite suddenly, however, to talk again. Ten years of it. Every hour of those ten years eating like maggotsinside, working out to the surface of Burnett's face, working under thehusk of his starved eyes and starved limbs. Starved for life. Starvedfor action. This would be his last trip, or he'd know the reason why! Sam! Burnett jerked. Rice's voice clipped through the drainage-preservativelab, bounded against glassite retorts, echoed from the refrigeratorshelves. Burnett stared at the tabled bodies as if they would leap tolife, even while preservative was being pumped into their veins. Sam! On the double! Up the rungs! Burnett closed his eyes and said a couple of words, firmly. Nothing wasworth running for any more. Another body. There had been one hundredthousand bodies preceding it. Nothing unusual about a body with bloodcooling in it. <doc-sep>Sam! Rice turned swiftly as Burnett dragged himself up the ladder.Red and warm, Rice's face hovered over the body of a sprawled enemyofficial. Take a look at this! Burnett caught his breath. His eyes narrowed. There was something wrongwith the body; his experienced glance knew that. He didn't know what itwas. Maybe it was because the body looked a little too dead. Burnett didn't say anything, but he climbed the rest of the way,stood quietly in the grey-metal air-lock. The enemy official was asdelicately made as a fine white spider. Eyelids, closed, were faintlyblue. The hair was thin silken strands of pale gold, waved and pressedclose to a veined skull. Where the thin-lipped mouth fell open acluster of needle-tipped teeth glittered. The fragile body was enclosedcompletely in milk-pale syntha-silk, a holstered gun at the middle. Burnett rubbed his jaw. Well? Rice exploded. His eyes were hot in his young, sharp-cut face, hot andblack. Good Lord, Sam, do you know who this is? Burnett scowled uneasily and said no. It's Lethla! Rice retorted. Burnett said, Lethla? And then: Oh, yes! Kriere's majordomo. Thatright? Don't say it calm, Sam. Say it big. Say it big! If Lethla is here inspace, then Kriere's not far away from him! Burnett shrugged. More bodies, more people, more war. What the hell.What the hell. He was tired. Talk about bodies and rulers to someoneelse. Rice grabbed him by the shoulders. Snap out of it, Sam. Think!Kriere—The All-Mighty—in our territory. His right hand man dead. Thatmeans Kriere was in an accident, too! Sam opened his thin lips and the words fell out all by themselves.Look, Rice, you're new at this game. I've been at it ever since theVenus-Earth mess started. It's been see-sawing back and forth since theday you played hookey in the tenth grade, and I've been in the thickof it. When there's nothing left but seared memories, I'll be prowlingthrough the void picking up warriors and taking them back to the goodgreen Earth. Grisly, yes, but it's routine. As for Kriere—if he's anywhere around, he's smart. Every precautionis taken to protect that one. But Lethla! His body must mean something! And if it does? Have we got guns aboard this morgue-ship? Are we abattle-cuiser to go against him? We'll radio for help? Yeah? If there's a warship within our radio range, seven hundredthousand miles, we'll get it. Unfortunately, the tide of battle hasswept out past Earth in a new war concerning Io. That's out, Rice. Rice stood about three inches below Sam Burnett's six-foot-one. Jawhard and determined, he stared at Sam, a funny light in his eyes. Hisfingers twitched all by themselves at his sides. His mouth twisted,You're one hell of a patriot, Sam Burnett! Burnett reached out with one long finger, tapped it quietly on Rice'sbarrel-chest. Haul a cargo of corpses for three thousand nights anddays and see how patriotic you feel. All those fine muscled ladsbloated and crushed by space pressures and heat-blasts. Fine lads whostart out smiling and get the smile burned off down to the bone— Burnett swallowed and didn't say anything more, but he closed his eyes.He stood there, smelling the death-odor in the hot air of the ship,hearing the chug-chug-chug of the blood pumps down below, and his ownheart waiting warm and heavy at the base of his throat. This is my last cargo, Rice. I can't take it any longer. And I don'tcare much how I go back to earth. This Venusian here—what's his name?Lethla. He's number ninety-eight. Shove me into shelf ninety-ninebeside him and get the hell home. That's how I feel! Rice was going to say something, but he didn't have time. Lethla was alive. He rose from the floor with slow, easy movements, almost like a dream.He didn't say anything. The heat-blast in his white fingers did all thenecessary talking. It didn't say anything either, but Burnett knew whatlanguage it would use if it had to. Burnett swallowed hard. The body had looked funny. Too dead. Now heknew why. Involuntarily, Burnett moved forward. Lethla moved like apale spider, flicking his fragile arm to cover Burnett, the gun in itlike a dead cold star. Rice sucked in his breath. Burnett forced himself to take it easy. Fromthe corners of his eyes he saw Rice's expression go deep and tight,biting lines into his sharp face. Rice got it out, finally. How'd you do it? he demanded, bitterly.How'd you live in the void? It's impossible! A crazy thought came ramming down and exploded in Burnett's head. Younever catch up with the war! But what if the war catches up with you? What in hell would Lethla be wanting aboard a morgue ship? <doc-sep>And the claw closed as Burnett spoke, closed slowly and certainly, allaround Kriere, crushing him into a ridiculous posture of silence. Therewas blood running on the claw, and the only recognizable part was thehead, which was carefully preserved for identification. That was the only way to draw Lethla off guard. Burnett spun about and leaped. The horror on Lethla's face didn't go away as he fired his gun. Rice came in fighting, too, but not before something like a red-hotramrod stabbed Sam Burnett, catching him in the ribs, spinning him backlike a drunken idiot to fall in a corner. Fists made blunt flesh noises. Lethla went down, weaponless andscreaming. Rice kicked. After awhile Lethla quit screaming, and theroom swam around in Burnett's eyes, and he closed them tight andstarted laughing. He didn't finish laughing for maybe ten minutes. He heard the retrieverclaws come inside, and the star-port grind shut. Out of the red darkness, Rice's voice came and then he could see Rice'syoung face over him. Burnett groaned. Rice said, Sam, you shouldn't have done it. You shouldn't have, Sam. To hell with it. Burnett winced, and fought to keep his eyes open.Something wet and sticky covered his chest. I said this was my lasttrip and I meant it. One way or the other, I'd have quit! This is the hard way— Maybe. I dunno. Kind of nice to think of all those kids who'll neverhave to come aboard the Constellation , though, Rice. His voicetrailed off. You watch the shelves fill up and you never know who'llbe next. Who'd have thought, four days ago— Something happened to his tongue so it felt like hard ice blocking hismouth. He had a lot more words to say, but only time to get a few ofthem out: Rice? Yeah, Sam? We haven't got a full cargo, boy. Full enough for me, sir. But still not full. If we went back to Center Base without fillingthe shelves, it wouldn't be right. Look there—number ninety-eight isLethla—number ninety-nine is Kriere. Three thousand days of rollingthis rocket, and not once come back without a bunch of the kids whowant to sleep easy on the good green earth. Not right to be going backany way—but—the way—we used to— His voice got all full of fog. As thick as the fists of a dozenwarriors. Rice was going away from him. Rice was standing still, andBurnett was lying down, not moving, but somehow Rice was going away amillion miles. Ain't I one hell of a patriot, Rice? Then everything got dark except Rice's face. And that was starting todissolve. Ninety-eight: Lethla. Ninety-nine: Kriere. He could still see Rice standing over him for a long time, breathingout and in. Down under the tables the blood-pumps pulsed and pulsed,thick and slow. Rice looked down at Burnett and then at the empty shelfat the far end of the room, and then back at Burnett again. And then he said softly: One hundred. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is Sam Burnett's occupation on the Morgue Ship?

Sam Burnett is a coroner on the morgue ship Constellation. His job is to go to space and pick up 100 dead warriors and then return to Earth for them to be given a proper burial. When the ship has filled its capacity it returns specifically to New York. Sam has been working at this job for the past ten years. He uses a machine with metal claws to pick the dead bodies from space and then bring them in through the star-port grind. After the bodies are brought onto the ship, if they are not enemy warriors, the bodies are prepared for return to Earth. The bodies are prepared by Sam in a drainage-preservative lab.

What are Sam Burnett's thoughts on his occupation while working on the Morgue Ship? [SEP] <s> Morgue Ship By RAY BRADBURY This was Burnett's last trip. Three more shelves to fill with space-slain warriors—and he would be among the living again. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He heard the star-port grind open, and the movement of the metal clawsgroping into space, and then the star-port closed. There was another dead man aboard the Constellation . Sam Burnett shook his long head, trying to think clearly. Pallid andquiet, three bodies lay on the cold transparent tables around him;machines stirred, revolved, hummed. He didn't see them. He didn't seeanything but a red haze over his mind. It blotted out the far wall ofthe laboratory where the shelves went up and down, numbered in scarlet,keeping the bodies of soldiers from all further harm. Burnett didn't move. He stood there in his rumpled white surgicalgown, staring at his fingers gloved in bone-white rubber; feeling alltight and wild inside himself. It went on for days. Moving the ship.Opening the star-port. Extending the retriever claw. Plucking some poorwarrior's body out of the void. He didn't like it any more. Ten years is too long to go back andforth from Earth to nowhere. You came out empty and you went backfull-cargoed with a lot of warriors who didn't laugh or talk or smoke,who just lay on their shelves, all one hundred of them, waiting for adecent burial. Number ninety-eight. Coming matter of fact and slow, Rice's voicefrom the ceiling radio hit Burnett. Number ninety-eight, Burnett repeated. Working on ninety-five,ninety-six and ninety-seven now. Blood-pumps, preservative, slightsurgery. Off a million miles away his voice was talking. It soundeddeep. It didn't belong to him anymore. Rice said: Boyohbody! Two more pick-ups and back to New York. Me for a ten-daydrunk! Burnett peeled the gloves off his huge, red, soft hands, slapped theminto a floor incinerator mouth. Back to Earth. Then spin around andshoot right out again in the trail of the war-rockets that blasted oneanother in galactic fury, to sidle up behind gutted wrecks of ships,salvaging any bodies still intact after the conflict. Two men. Rice and himself. Sharing a cozy morgue ship with a hundredother men who had forgotten, quite suddenly, however, to talk again. Ten years of it. Every hour of those ten years eating like maggotsinside, working out to the surface of Burnett's face, working under thehusk of his starved eyes and starved limbs. Starved for life. Starvedfor action. This would be his last trip, or he'd know the reason why! Sam! Burnett jerked. Rice's voice clipped through the drainage-preservativelab, bounded against glassite retorts, echoed from the refrigeratorshelves. Burnett stared at the tabled bodies as if they would leap tolife, even while preservative was being pumped into their veins. Sam! On the double! Up the rungs! Burnett closed his eyes and said a couple of words, firmly. Nothing wasworth running for any more. Another body. There had been one hundredthousand bodies preceding it. Nothing unusual about a body with bloodcooling in it. <doc-sep>Sam! Rice turned swiftly as Burnett dragged himself up the ladder.Red and warm, Rice's face hovered over the body of a sprawled enemyofficial. Take a look at this! Burnett caught his breath. His eyes narrowed. There was something wrongwith the body; his experienced glance knew that. He didn't know what itwas. Maybe it was because the body looked a little too dead. Burnett didn't say anything, but he climbed the rest of the way,stood quietly in the grey-metal air-lock. The enemy official was asdelicately made as a fine white spider. Eyelids, closed, were faintlyblue. The hair was thin silken strands of pale gold, waved and pressedclose to a veined skull. Where the thin-lipped mouth fell open acluster of needle-tipped teeth glittered. The fragile body was enclosedcompletely in milk-pale syntha-silk, a holstered gun at the middle. Burnett rubbed his jaw. Well? Rice exploded. His eyes were hot in his young, sharp-cut face, hot andblack. Good Lord, Sam, do you know who this is? Burnett scowled uneasily and said no. It's Lethla! Rice retorted. Burnett said, Lethla? And then: Oh, yes! Kriere's majordomo. Thatright? Don't say it calm, Sam. Say it big. Say it big! If Lethla is here inspace, then Kriere's not far away from him! Burnett shrugged. More bodies, more people, more war. What the hell.What the hell. He was tired. Talk about bodies and rulers to someoneelse. Rice grabbed him by the shoulders. Snap out of it, Sam. Think!Kriere—The All-Mighty—in our territory. His right hand man dead. Thatmeans Kriere was in an accident, too! Sam opened his thin lips and the words fell out all by themselves.Look, Rice, you're new at this game. I've been at it ever since theVenus-Earth mess started. It's been see-sawing back and forth since theday you played hookey in the tenth grade, and I've been in the thickof it. When there's nothing left but seared memories, I'll be prowlingthrough the void picking up warriors and taking them back to the goodgreen Earth. Grisly, yes, but it's routine. As for Kriere—if he's anywhere around, he's smart. Every precautionis taken to protect that one. But Lethla! His body must mean something! And if it does? Have we got guns aboard this morgue-ship? Are we abattle-cuiser to go against him? We'll radio for help? Yeah? If there's a warship within our radio range, seven hundredthousand miles, we'll get it. Unfortunately, the tide of battle hasswept out past Earth in a new war concerning Io. That's out, Rice. Rice stood about three inches below Sam Burnett's six-foot-one. Jawhard and determined, he stared at Sam, a funny light in his eyes. Hisfingers twitched all by themselves at his sides. His mouth twisted,You're one hell of a patriot, Sam Burnett! Burnett reached out with one long finger, tapped it quietly on Rice'sbarrel-chest. Haul a cargo of corpses for three thousand nights anddays and see how patriotic you feel. All those fine muscled ladsbloated and crushed by space pressures and heat-blasts. Fine lads whostart out smiling and get the smile burned off down to the bone— Burnett swallowed and didn't say anything more, but he closed his eyes.He stood there, smelling the death-odor in the hot air of the ship,hearing the chug-chug-chug of the blood pumps down below, and his ownheart waiting warm and heavy at the base of his throat. This is my last cargo, Rice. I can't take it any longer. And I don'tcare much how I go back to earth. This Venusian here—what's his name?Lethla. He's number ninety-eight. Shove me into shelf ninety-ninebeside him and get the hell home. That's how I feel! Rice was going to say something, but he didn't have time. Lethla was alive. He rose from the floor with slow, easy movements, almost like a dream.He didn't say anything. The heat-blast in his white fingers did all thenecessary talking. It didn't say anything either, but Burnett knew whatlanguage it would use if it had to. Burnett swallowed hard. The body had looked funny. Too dead. Now heknew why. Involuntarily, Burnett moved forward. Lethla moved like apale spider, flicking his fragile arm to cover Burnett, the gun in itlike a dead cold star. Rice sucked in his breath. Burnett forced himself to take it easy. Fromthe corners of his eyes he saw Rice's expression go deep and tight,biting lines into his sharp face. Rice got it out, finally. How'd you do it? he demanded, bitterly.How'd you live in the void? It's impossible! A crazy thought came ramming down and exploded in Burnett's head. Younever catch up with the war! But what if the war catches up with you? What in hell would Lethla be wanting aboard a morgue ship? <doc-sep>And the claw closed as Burnett spoke, closed slowly and certainly, allaround Kriere, crushing him into a ridiculous posture of silence. Therewas blood running on the claw, and the only recognizable part was thehead, which was carefully preserved for identification. That was the only way to draw Lethla off guard. Burnett spun about and leaped. The horror on Lethla's face didn't go away as he fired his gun. Rice came in fighting, too, but not before something like a red-hotramrod stabbed Sam Burnett, catching him in the ribs, spinning him backlike a drunken idiot to fall in a corner. Fists made blunt flesh noises. Lethla went down, weaponless andscreaming. Rice kicked. After awhile Lethla quit screaming, and theroom swam around in Burnett's eyes, and he closed them tight andstarted laughing. He didn't finish laughing for maybe ten minutes. He heard the retrieverclaws come inside, and the star-port grind shut. Out of the red darkness, Rice's voice came and then he could see Rice'syoung face over him. Burnett groaned. Rice said, Sam, you shouldn't have done it. You shouldn't have, Sam. To hell with it. Burnett winced, and fought to keep his eyes open.Something wet and sticky covered his chest. I said this was my lasttrip and I meant it. One way or the other, I'd have quit! This is the hard way— Maybe. I dunno. Kind of nice to think of all those kids who'll neverhave to come aboard the Constellation , though, Rice. His voicetrailed off. You watch the shelves fill up and you never know who'llbe next. Who'd have thought, four days ago— Something happened to his tongue so it felt like hard ice blocking hismouth. He had a lot more words to say, but only time to get a few ofthem out: Rice? Yeah, Sam? We haven't got a full cargo, boy. Full enough for me, sir. But still not full. If we went back to Center Base without fillingthe shelves, it wouldn't be right. Look there—number ninety-eight isLethla—number ninety-nine is Kriere. Three thousand days of rollingthis rocket, and not once come back without a bunch of the kids whowant to sleep easy on the good green earth. Not right to be going backany way—but—the way—we used to— His voice got all full of fog. As thick as the fists of a dozenwarriors. Rice was going away from him. Rice was standing still, andBurnett was lying down, not moving, but somehow Rice was going away amillion miles. Ain't I one hell of a patriot, Rice? Then everything got dark except Rice's face. And that was starting todissolve. Ninety-eight: Lethla. Ninety-nine: Kriere. He could still see Rice standing over him for a long time, breathingout and in. Down under the tables the blood-pumps pulsed and pulsed,thick and slow. Rice looked down at Burnett and then at the empty shelfat the far end of the room, and then back at Burnett again. And then he said softly: One hundred. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are Sam Burnett's thoughts on his occupation while working on the Morgue Ship?

Sam Burnett is very jaded by his job. He has spent years returning dead bodies to Earth, lost in a seemingly endless war. He suggests that he began the job with less of a sullen view, but that opinion is forever lost. He no longer has the emotional capacity to acknowledge the individual lives of each lost warrior. Sam feels as if his job is rotting him from the inside and starving him from real life and action. He has no energy or excitement in his actions anymore because of his job causing him to complete it in an almost mechanical way. He becomes numb to the bodies; seeing them and preparing them to be stored is just a regular part of his routine. All Sam wants to do is return back to Earth, dead or alive.

What is the location where the events of Morgue Ship take place? [SEP] <s> Morgue Ship By RAY BRADBURY This was Burnett's last trip. Three more shelves to fill with space-slain warriors—and he would be among the living again. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He heard the star-port grind open, and the movement of the metal clawsgroping into space, and then the star-port closed. There was another dead man aboard the Constellation . Sam Burnett shook his long head, trying to think clearly. Pallid andquiet, three bodies lay on the cold transparent tables around him;machines stirred, revolved, hummed. He didn't see them. He didn't seeanything but a red haze over his mind. It blotted out the far wall ofthe laboratory where the shelves went up and down, numbered in scarlet,keeping the bodies of soldiers from all further harm. Burnett didn't move. He stood there in his rumpled white surgicalgown, staring at his fingers gloved in bone-white rubber; feeling alltight and wild inside himself. It went on for days. Moving the ship.Opening the star-port. Extending the retriever claw. Plucking some poorwarrior's body out of the void. He didn't like it any more. Ten years is too long to go back andforth from Earth to nowhere. You came out empty and you went backfull-cargoed with a lot of warriors who didn't laugh or talk or smoke,who just lay on their shelves, all one hundred of them, waiting for adecent burial. Number ninety-eight. Coming matter of fact and slow, Rice's voicefrom the ceiling radio hit Burnett. Number ninety-eight, Burnett repeated. Working on ninety-five,ninety-six and ninety-seven now. Blood-pumps, preservative, slightsurgery. Off a million miles away his voice was talking. It soundeddeep. It didn't belong to him anymore. Rice said: Boyohbody! Two more pick-ups and back to New York. Me for a ten-daydrunk! Burnett peeled the gloves off his huge, red, soft hands, slapped theminto a floor incinerator mouth. Back to Earth. Then spin around andshoot right out again in the trail of the war-rockets that blasted oneanother in galactic fury, to sidle up behind gutted wrecks of ships,salvaging any bodies still intact after the conflict. Two men. Rice and himself. Sharing a cozy morgue ship with a hundredother men who had forgotten, quite suddenly, however, to talk again. Ten years of it. Every hour of those ten years eating like maggotsinside, working out to the surface of Burnett's face, working under thehusk of his starved eyes and starved limbs. Starved for life. Starvedfor action. This would be his last trip, or he'd know the reason why! Sam! Burnett jerked. Rice's voice clipped through the drainage-preservativelab, bounded against glassite retorts, echoed from the refrigeratorshelves. Burnett stared at the tabled bodies as if they would leap tolife, even while preservative was being pumped into their veins. Sam! On the double! Up the rungs! Burnett closed his eyes and said a couple of words, firmly. Nothing wasworth running for any more. Another body. There had been one hundredthousand bodies preceding it. Nothing unusual about a body with bloodcooling in it. <doc-sep>Lethla half-crouched in the midst of the smell of death and thechugging of blood-pumps below. In the silence he reached up with quickfingers, tapped a tiny crystal stud upon the back of his head, and thehalves of a microscopically thin chrysalis parted transparently offof his face. He shucked it off, trailing air-tendrils that had beeninserted, hidden in the uniform, ending in thin globules of oxygen. He spoke. Triumph warmed his crystal-thin voice. That's how I did it,Earthman. Glassite! said Rice. A face-moulded mask of glassite! Lethla nodded. His milk-blue eyes dilated. Very marvelously pared toan unbreakable thickness of one-thirtieth of an inch; worn only on thehead. You have to look quickly to notice it, and, unfortunately, viewedas you saw it, outside the ship, floating in the void, not discernibleat all. Prickles of sweat appeared on Rice's face. He swore at the Venusian andthe Venusian laughed like some sort of stringed instrument, high andquick. Burnett laughed, too. Ironically. First time in years a man ever cameaboard the Constellation alive. It's a welcome change. Lethla showed his needle-like teeth. I thought it might be. Where'syour radio? Go find it! snapped Rice, hotly. I will. One hand, blue-veined, on the ladder-rungs, Lethla paused.I know you're weaponless; Purple Cross regulations. And this air-lockis safe. Don't move. Whispering, his naked feet padded white up theladder. Two long breaths later something crashed; metal and glass andcoils. The radio. Burnett put his shoulder blades against the wall-metal, looking at hisfeet. When he glanced up, Rice's fresh, animated face was spoiled bythe new bitterness in it. Lethla came down. Like a breath of air on the rungs. He smiled. That's better. Now. We can talk— Rice said it, slow: Interplanetary law declares it straight, Lethla! Get out! Only deadmen belong here. Lethla's gun grip tightened. More talk of that nature, and only deadmen there will be. He blinked. But first—we must rescue Kriere.... Kriere! Rice acted as if he had been hit in the jaw. Burnett moved his tongue back and forth on his lips silently, his eyeslidded, listening to the two of them as if they were a radio drama.Lethla's voice came next: Rather unfortunately, yes. He's still alive, heading toward Venusat an orbital velocity of two thousand m.p.h., wearing one of theseair-chrysali. Enough air for two more hours. Our flag ship was attackedunexpectedly yesterday near Mars. We were forced to take to thelife-boats, scattering, Kriere and I in one, the others sacrificingtheir lives to cover our escape. We were lucky. We got through theEarth cordon unseen. But luck can't last forever. We saw your morgue ship an hour ago. It's a long, long way to Venus.We were running out of fuel, food, water. Radio was broken. Capturewas certain. You were coming our way; we took the chance. We set asmall time-bomb to destroy the life-rocket, and cast off, wearing ourchrysali-helmets. It was the first time we had ever tried using them totrick anyone. We knew you wouldn't know we were alive until it was toolate and we controlled your ship. We knew you picked up all bodies forbrief exams, returning alien corpses to space later. Rice's voice was sullen. A set-up for you, huh? Traveling under theprotection of the Purple Cross you can get your damned All-Mighty safeto Venus. Lethla bowed slightly. Who would suspect a Morgue Rocket of providingsafe hiding for precious Venusian cargo? Precious is the word for you, brother! said Rice. Enough! Lethla moved his gun several inches. Accelerate toward Venus, mote-detectors wide open. Kriere must bepicked up— now! <doc-sep>The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those? It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place? This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far? Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange? The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance? An angry muttering started among the bystanders. The policeman made up his mind. You come with me. At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten. I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished. His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare. Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten. There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation. The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him. The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this? The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country. In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated. In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy. IV He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door. Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable. Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was? No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew. All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here. The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner? You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated? If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war. Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then? The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two? Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then? Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me? So far. Keep talking. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the location where the events of Morgue Ship take place?

The story begins on the morgue ship named Constellation. Sam Burnett is mentally exhausted standing in his white gown in the laboratory room of the ship. In the laboratory there are many shelves stacked upon each other, each numbered with a scarlet color. The shelves are meant to hold the 100 dead bodies that the ship is capable of storing. Once the shelves are filled, the ship is able to return back to New York. The lab is meant for performing the work of draining and preserving the dead bodies for them to then be stored. Sam leaves the laboratory at the request of Rice’s calls. After they realize that Lethla is alive, Lethla orders the two to go find Kriere. They head to the control room full of levers and audio and visual plates where Sam begins to maneuver the ship. It is in the control room that Sam dies on the ship.

What does the phrase "You can never catch up with war" mean in Morgue Ship? [SEP] <s>Sam! Rice turned swiftly as Burnett dragged himself up the ladder.Red and warm, Rice's face hovered over the body of a sprawled enemyofficial. Take a look at this! Burnett caught his breath. His eyes narrowed. There was something wrongwith the body; his experienced glance knew that. He didn't know what itwas. Maybe it was because the body looked a little too dead. Burnett didn't say anything, but he climbed the rest of the way,stood quietly in the grey-metal air-lock. The enemy official was asdelicately made as a fine white spider. Eyelids, closed, were faintlyblue. The hair was thin silken strands of pale gold, waved and pressedclose to a veined skull. Where the thin-lipped mouth fell open acluster of needle-tipped teeth glittered. The fragile body was enclosedcompletely in milk-pale syntha-silk, a holstered gun at the middle. Burnett rubbed his jaw. Well? Rice exploded. His eyes were hot in his young, sharp-cut face, hot andblack. Good Lord, Sam, do you know who this is? Burnett scowled uneasily and said no. It's Lethla! Rice retorted. Burnett said, Lethla? And then: Oh, yes! Kriere's majordomo. Thatright? Don't say it calm, Sam. Say it big. Say it big! If Lethla is here inspace, then Kriere's not far away from him! Burnett shrugged. More bodies, more people, more war. What the hell.What the hell. He was tired. Talk about bodies and rulers to someoneelse. Rice grabbed him by the shoulders. Snap out of it, Sam. Think!Kriere—The All-Mighty—in our territory. His right hand man dead. Thatmeans Kriere was in an accident, too! Sam opened his thin lips and the words fell out all by themselves.Look, Rice, you're new at this game. I've been at it ever since theVenus-Earth mess started. It's been see-sawing back and forth since theday you played hookey in the tenth grade, and I've been in the thickof it. When there's nothing left but seared memories, I'll be prowlingthrough the void picking up warriors and taking them back to the goodgreen Earth. Grisly, yes, but it's routine. As for Kriere—if he's anywhere around, he's smart. Every precautionis taken to protect that one. But Lethla! His body must mean something! And if it does? Have we got guns aboard this morgue-ship? Are we abattle-cuiser to go against him? We'll radio for help? Yeah? If there's a warship within our radio range, seven hundredthousand miles, we'll get it. Unfortunately, the tide of battle hasswept out past Earth in a new war concerning Io. That's out, Rice. Rice stood about three inches below Sam Burnett's six-foot-one. Jawhard and determined, he stared at Sam, a funny light in his eyes. Hisfingers twitched all by themselves at his sides. His mouth twisted,You're one hell of a patriot, Sam Burnett! Burnett reached out with one long finger, tapped it quietly on Rice'sbarrel-chest. Haul a cargo of corpses for three thousand nights anddays and see how patriotic you feel. All those fine muscled ladsbloated and crushed by space pressures and heat-blasts. Fine lads whostart out smiling and get the smile burned off down to the bone— Burnett swallowed and didn't say anything more, but he closed his eyes.He stood there, smelling the death-odor in the hot air of the ship,hearing the chug-chug-chug of the blood pumps down below, and his ownheart waiting warm and heavy at the base of his throat. This is my last cargo, Rice. I can't take it any longer. And I don'tcare much how I go back to earth. This Venusian here—what's his name?Lethla. He's number ninety-eight. Shove me into shelf ninety-ninebeside him and get the hell home. That's how I feel! Rice was going to say something, but he didn't have time. Lethla was alive. He rose from the floor with slow, easy movements, almost like a dream.He didn't say anything. The heat-blast in his white fingers did all thenecessary talking. It didn't say anything either, but Burnett knew whatlanguage it would use if it had to. Burnett swallowed hard. The body had looked funny. Too dead. Now heknew why. Involuntarily, Burnett moved forward. Lethla moved like apale spider, flicking his fragile arm to cover Burnett, the gun in itlike a dead cold star. Rice sucked in his breath. Burnett forced himself to take it easy. Fromthe corners of his eyes he saw Rice's expression go deep and tight,biting lines into his sharp face. Rice got it out, finally. How'd you do it? he demanded, bitterly.How'd you live in the void? It's impossible! A crazy thought came ramming down and exploded in Burnett's head. Younever catch up with the war! But what if the war catches up with you? What in hell would Lethla be wanting aboard a morgue ship? <doc-sep>Shaking his head, he walked unsteadily toward the rungs that gleamedup into the air-lock, control-room sector of the rocket. He climbedwithout making any noise on the rungs. He kept thinking the one thing he couldn't forget. You never catch up with the war. All the color is ahead of you. The drive of orange rocket traces acrossstars, the whamming of steel-nosed bombs into elusive targets, thetitanic explosions and breathless pursuits, the flags and the excitedglory are always a million miles ahead. He bit his teeth together. You never catch up with the war. You come along when space has settled back, when the vacuum has stoppedtrembling from unleashed forces between worlds. You come along in thedark quiet of death to find the wreckage plunging with all the fury ofits original acceleration in no particular direction. You can only seeit; you don't hear anything in space but your own heart kicking yourribs. You see bodies, each in its own terrific orbit, given impetus bygrinding collisions, tossed from mother ships and dancing head overfeet forever and forever with no goal. Bits of flesh in ruptured spacesuits, mouths open for air that had never been there in a hundredbillion centuries. And they kept dancing without music until youextended the retriever-claw and culled them into the air-lock. That was all the war-glory he got. Nothing but the stunned, shiveringsilence, the memory of rockets long gone, and the shelves filling upall too quickly with men who had once loved laughing. You wondered who all the men were; and who the next ones would be.After ten years you made yourself blind to them. You went around doingyour job with mechanical hands. But even a machine breaks down.... <doc-sep>It isn't so much our defense that worries me, my mother muttered, aslack of adequate medical machinery. War is bound to mean casualtiesand there aren't enough cure-alls on the planet to take care of them.It's useless to expect the government to build more right now; they'llbe too busy producing weapons. Sylvia, you'd better take a leave ofabsence from your job and come down to Psycho Center to learn first-aidtechniques. And you too, Kevin, she added, obviously a littlesurprised herself at what she was saying. Probably you'd be evenbetter at it than Sylvia since you aren't sensitive to other people'spain. I looked at her. It is an ill wind, she agreed, smiling wryly, but don't let mecatch you thinking that way, Kevin. Can't you see it would be betterthat there should be no war and you should remain useless? I couldn't see it, of course, and she knew that, with her wretchedtalent for stripping away my feeble attempts at privacy. Psi-powersusually included some ability to form a mental shield; being withoutone, I was necessarily devoid of the other. My attitude didn't matter, though, because it was definitely war. Thealiens came back with a fleet clearly bent on our annihilation—eventhe 'paths couldn't figure out their motives, for the thought patternwas entirely different from ours—and the war was on. I had enjoyed learning first-aid; it was the first time I had everworked with people as an equal. And I was good at it because psi-powersaren't much of an advantage there. Telekinesis maybe a little, butI was big enough to lift anybody without needing any superhumanabilities—normal human abilities, rather. Gee, Mr. Faraday, one of the other students breathed, you're sostrong. And without 'kinesis or anything. I looked at her and liked what I saw. She was blonde and pretty. Myname's not Mr. Faraday, I said. It's Kevin. My name's Lucy, she giggled. No girl had ever giggled at me in that way before. Immediately Istarted to envision a beautiful future for the two of us, then flushedwhen I realized that she might be a telepath. But she was winding atourniquet around the arm of another member of the class with apparentunconcern. Hey, quit that! the windee yelled. You're making it too tight! I'llbe mortified! So Lucy was obviously not a telepath. Later I found out she was onlya low-grade telesensitive—just a poetess—so I had nothing to worryabout as far as having my thoughts read went. I was a little afraid ofSylvia's kidding me about my first romance, but, as it happened, shegot interested in one of the guys who was taking the class with us, andshe was not only too busy to be bothered with me, but in too vulnerablea position herself. However, when the actual bombs—or their alien equivalent—struck nearour town, I wasn't nearly so happy, especially after they startedcarrying the wounded into the Psycho Center, which had been turned intoa hospital for the duration. I took one look at the gory scene—I hadnever seen anybody really injured before; few people had, as a matterof fact—and started for the door. But Mother was already blocking theway. It was easy to see from which side of the family Tim had got histalent for prognostication. If the telepaths who can pick up all the pain can stand this, Kevin,she said, you certainly can. And there was no kindness at all inthe you . She gave me a shove toward the nearest stretcher. Go on—now's yourchance to show you're of some use in this world. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What does the phrase "You can never catch up with war" mean in Morgue Ship?

At the beginning of the story, Sam Burnett makes note of the phrase to dictate the endless feeling that he associates with the conflict. He suggests that there is always going to be more bodies no matter how long or how many he retrieves. Even as victory may seem near, there is always another obstacle to face and the war never truly ends. During the middle of the story, Burnett questions whether it is possible for war to catch up on someone. He and Rice work on a non-combative ship and yet have found themselves thrust into a pivotal moment in the conflict that should theoretically not have ever involved them. Sam sticks to his conviction that one can still not catch up with war. While Sam is taking the ship towards Kriere, he thinks about whether he should fully comply with Lethla and Kriere or not to comply with their orders. He realizes that the situation as convoluted as it was, meant that he had unintentionally caught up with the war. That it was a rare and singular opportunity. While one may not be able to purposefully catch up with war, because war is unable to be controlled or predicted, it is possible for one’s path to cross with war. That presents an opportunity to greatly influence the war.

Can you provide a summary of the storyline in LEX? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself. Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring. It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated. It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in. You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do. It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled. It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed. The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'. <doc-sep> LEX By W. T. HAGGERT Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine August 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Nothing in the world could be happier and mere serene than a man who loves his work—but what happens when it loves him back? Keep your nerve, Peter Manners told himself; it's only a job. But nervehas to rest on a sturdier foundation than cash reserves just above zeroand eviction if he came away from this interview still unemployed.Clay, at the Association of Professional Engineers, who had set up theappointment, hadn't eased Peter's nervousness by admitting, I don'tknow what in hell he's looking for. He's turned down every man we'vesent him. The interview was at three. Fifteen minutes to go. Coming early wouldbetray overeagerness. Peter stood in front of the Lex Industries plantand studied it to kill time. Plain, featureless concrete walls, notlarge for a manufacturing plant—it took a scant minute to exhaust itssightseeing potential. If he walked around the building, he could, ifhe ambled, come back to the front entrance just before three. He turned the corner, stopped, frowned, wondering what there was aboutthe building that seemed so puzzling. It could not have been plainer,more ordinary. It was in fact, he only gradually realized, so plain andordinary that it was like no other building he had ever seen. There had been windows at the front. There were none at the side, andnone at the rear. Then how were the working areas lit? He looked forthe electric service lines and found them at one of the rear corners.They jolted him. The distribution transformers were ten times as largeas they should have been for a plant this size. Something else was wrong. Peter looked for minutes before he found outwhat it was. Factories usually have large side doorways for employeeschanging shifts. This building had one small office entrance facing thestreet, and the only other door was at the loading bay—big enough tohandle employee traffic, but four feet above the ground. Without anystairs, it could be used only by trucks backing up to it. Maybe theemployees' entrance was on the third side. It wasn't. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in LEX?

Peter Manners is awaiting his job interview at Lex Industries. He is very nervous but also has to worry about still being unemployed with barely any money saved. Since he is fifteen minutes early, he decides to look around the manufacturing plant. Peter then goes to his interview, and a voice from a loudspeaker directs him down to the hall where Mr. Lexington is waiting. He goes in through the multiple doors, where Mr. Lexington greets him roughly and looks over his qualifications. The other man begins asking Peter questions, to which Peter responds but is confused about how they have any relation to his job application. Mr. Lexington tells Peter that he has been stockpiled at his last company, given skills that will only ever help that specific company and nowhere else. Mr. Lexington then tells Peter that he had just proven that he has fewer skills than when he was in school, but he is pleased by Peter’s performance in the interview so far nonetheless. He tells Peter that he is the only person in the building and makes Peter follow him. They go through the machinery, and they reach the inside of a loading truck. Mr. Lexington explains that this area is where raw materials are delivered and that he has small machines, part of a bigger machine, all working together to operate the factory. They go to the office section of the building, where there is a small typewriter working. A central control mechanism operates everything, and Mr. Lexington does not even have to deal with much mail at all each week. Mr. Lexington explains his own history working as an engineer and how he spent most of his time developing his machinery. Peter is amazed by all of the machinery, and he continues to discuss machine parts such as the kicker button with Mr. Lexington. Just as they keep talking, the door opens, and a self-propelled cart asks if he would like cream and sugar with his coffee. Mr. Lexington is angry about the cup, and he insults them as being impractical. He also further clarifies that Lex Industries is named after his wife Alexis’ nickname. The company continues to earn a lot of money, and he also does not need to monitor progress constantly. Mr. Lexington also mentions that when he was extremely pleased with progress one day, he went to the kicker button and found it removed. He asked the machine what was going on, and the machine sent him a long message detailing how it was aware of when he was pleased with the progress made and had relieved him of the burden of having to press it every time.

What are the characteristics exhibited by Mr. Lexington? [SEP] <s>Staring back at the last blank wall, Peter suddenly remembered the timehe had set out to kill. He looked at his watch and gasped. At a run,set to straight-arm the door, he almost fell on his face. The door hadopened by itself. He stopped and looked for a photo-electric eye, buta soft voice said through a loudspeaker in the anteroom wall: Mr.Manners? What? he panted. Who—? You are Mr. Manners? the voice asked. He nodded, then realized he had to answer aloud if there was amicrophone around; but the soft voice said: Follow the open doors downthe hall. Mr. Lexington is expecting you. Thanks, Peter said, and a door at one side of the anteroom swung openfor him. He went through it with his composure slipping still further from hisgrip. This was no way to go into an interview, but doors kept openingbefore and shutting after him, until only one was left, and the last ofhis calm was blasted away by a bellow from within. Don't stand out there like a jackass! Either come in or go away! Peter found himself leaping obediently toward the doorway. He stoppedjust short of it, took a deep breath and huffed it out, took another,all the while thinking, Hold on now; you're in no shape for aninterview—and it's not your fault—this whole setup is geared tounnerve you: the kindergarten kid called in to see the principal. He let another bellow bounce off him as he blew out the second breath,straightened his jacket and tie, and walked in as an engineer applyingfor a position should. Mr. Lexington? he said. I'm Peter Manners. The Association— Sit down, said the man at the desk. Let's look you over. He was a huge man behind an even huger desk. Peter took a chair infront of the desk and let himself be inspected. It wasn't comfortable.He did some looking over of his own to ease the tension. The room was more than merely large, carpeted throughout witha high-pile, rich, sound-deadening rug. The oversized desk andmassive leather chairs, heavy patterned drapes, ornately framedpaintings—by God, even a glass-brick manteled fireplace and bowls withflowers!—made him feel as if he had walked down a hospital corridorinto Hollywood's idea of an office. His eyes eventually had to move to Lexington, and they were dauntedfor another instant. This was a citadel of a man—great girders offrame supporting buttresses of muscle—with a vaulting head anddrawbridge chin and a steel gaze that defied any attempt to storm it. But then Peter came out of his momentary flinch, and there was an ageto the man, about 65, and he saw the muscles had turned to fat, thecomplexion ashen, the eyes set deep as though retreating from pain, andthis was a citadel of a man, yes, but beginning to crumble. What can you do? asked Lexington abruptly. <doc-sep>The little Regulan was as good as hired. Only the formalities remained.You understand our terms, Mr. Fitzgerald? I'll be placed on exhibition at your Institute on Earth. You'll payfor my services, transportation and expenses. I'll be required toremain on exhibit no more than one-third of each Terran sidereal day. And the pay will be—ah—$50 Galactic a week, plus expenses andtransportation. The spherical creature clapped his hands in joy, three hands clappingon one side, two on the other. Wonderful! I will see Earth at last! Iaccept the terms! I buzzed for Ludlow and gave him the fast signal that meant we weresigning this alien up at half the usual pay, and Ludlow took him intothe other office to sign him up. I grinned, pleased with myself. We needed a green Regulan in our show;the last one had quit four years ago. But just because we needed himdidn't mean we had to be extravagant in hiring him. A Terraphile alienwho goes to the extent of rechristening himself with a Terran monickerwould work for nothing, or even pay us, just so long as we let him getto Earth. My conscience won't let me really exploit a being, but Idon't believe in throwing money away, either. The next applicant was a beefy ursinoid from Aldebaran IX. Our outfithas all the ursinoids it needs or is likely to need in the next fewdecades, and so I got rid of him in a couple of minutes. He wasfollowed by a roly-poly blue-skinned humanoid from Donovan's Planet,four feet high and five hundred pounds heavy. We already had a coupleof his species in the show, but they made good crowd-pleasers, beingso plump and cheerful. I passed him along to Auchinleck to sign atanything short of top rate. Next came a bedraggled Sirian spider who was more interested in ahandout than a job. If there's any species we have a real over-supplyof, it's those silver-colored spiders, but this seedy specimen gave ita try anyway. He got the gate in half a minute, and he didn't even getthe handout he was angling for. I don't approve of begging. The flora of applicants was steady. Ghryne is in the heart of theCaledonia Cluster, where the interstellar crossroads meet. We hadfigured to pick up plenty of new exhibits here and we were right. <doc-sep>Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don'tthink your story will be good enough. It is for you to explain! This person who was beaten— Not beaten. Just rapped a few times to loosen his memory. Then you admit— It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind toit. Fith rose; Shluh followed suit. I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not foryour diplomatic immunity, I should do more— Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task forcepaid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrialdiplomatic mission. This is an internal matter! Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice.The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. Ithas outdone itself— —to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark, Retiefsaid. And the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you'vevisaed. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside thediplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, oryour satellite— Enough! Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. I can talk no more ofthis matter— You'll talk to me, or there'll be a task force here in five days to dothe talking, Retief said. You can't! Miss Meuhl gasped. Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. TheGroaci sat down. Answer me this one, Retief said, looking at Shluh. A few yearsback—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Somecurious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged,they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through thestreets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show. Funny thing about these animals. They wore clothes. They seemed tocommunicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit. Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after theparade was over? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are the characteristics exhibited by Mr. Lexington?

Mr. Lexington is the owner of Lex Industries. He is the only person in the manufacturing plant. He is an eccentric but genius man who is surrounded by his machinery. Lexington started his business twenty years ago, and he never went through university despite having many interests. He gave up arts and biology, later re-entering through engineering. He also went through many stages, including commerce, accounting, and even working for a competitor. Lexington is especially interested in machine parts, which led him to begin firing employees and replacing them with automatic machines. His wife died in a car accident earlier, so he focused all of his attention on the machinery. By creating the central control system, he could give up his old company and build this new one. Although he is very rough towards Peter, he is also somewhat sympathetic to Peter’s past experiences and skills. He is very proud of his machinery and does not hesitate to show all of it to Peter.

What is the backdrop of the story LEX? [SEP] <s>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself. Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring. It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated. It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in. You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do. It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled. It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed. The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'. <doc-sep> LEX By W. T. HAGGERT Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine August 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Nothing in the world could be happier and mere serene than a man who loves his work—but what happens when it loves him back? Keep your nerve, Peter Manners told himself; it's only a job. But nervehas to rest on a sturdier foundation than cash reserves just above zeroand eviction if he came away from this interview still unemployed.Clay, at the Association of Professional Engineers, who had set up theappointment, hadn't eased Peter's nervousness by admitting, I don'tknow what in hell he's looking for. He's turned down every man we'vesent him. The interview was at three. Fifteen minutes to go. Coming early wouldbetray overeagerness. Peter stood in front of the Lex Industries plantand studied it to kill time. Plain, featureless concrete walls, notlarge for a manufacturing plant—it took a scant minute to exhaust itssightseeing potential. If he walked around the building, he could, ifhe ambled, come back to the front entrance just before three. He turned the corner, stopped, frowned, wondering what there was aboutthe building that seemed so puzzling. It could not have been plainer,more ordinary. It was in fact, he only gradually realized, so plain andordinary that it was like no other building he had ever seen. There had been windows at the front. There were none at the side, andnone at the rear. Then how were the working areas lit? He looked forthe electric service lines and found them at one of the rear corners.They jolted him. The distribution transformers were ten times as largeas they should have been for a plant this size. Something else was wrong. Peter looked for minutes before he found outwhat it was. Factories usually have large side doorways for employeeschanging shifts. This building had one small office entrance facing thestreet, and the only other door was at the loading bay—big enough tohandle employee traffic, but four feet above the ground. Without anystairs, it could be used only by trucks backing up to it. Maybe theemployees' entrance was on the third side. It wasn't. <doc-sep> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the backdrop of the story LEX?

The story is set at Lex Industries. The manufacturing plant has no employee doors, and there are no windows on the side and rear of the building. Peter goes through the many doors to reach the office. The office has a huge desk, a chair behind the desk, and a chair in front of it. The office also is also carpeted by a sound-deadening rug, massive leather chairs, framed paintings, expensive drapes, and even a glass-brick mantel fireplace. The plant is filled with machinery of all kinds, and there are factory lights that constantly shine on the machines that do work. There are many types of machines too, such as ones that look like a pair of hands and even a typewriter.

What is the importance of the machinery in LEX? [SEP] <s>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself. Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring. It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated. It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in. You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do. It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled. It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed. The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'. <doc-sep> LEX By W. T. HAGGERT Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine August 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Nothing in the world could be happier and mere serene than a man who loves his work—but what happens when it loves him back? Keep your nerve, Peter Manners told himself; it's only a job. But nervehas to rest on a sturdier foundation than cash reserves just above zeroand eviction if he came away from this interview still unemployed.Clay, at the Association of Professional Engineers, who had set up theappointment, hadn't eased Peter's nervousness by admitting, I don'tknow what in hell he's looking for. He's turned down every man we'vesent him. The interview was at three. Fifteen minutes to go. Coming early wouldbetray overeagerness. Peter stood in front of the Lex Industries plantand studied it to kill time. Plain, featureless concrete walls, notlarge for a manufacturing plant—it took a scant minute to exhaust itssightseeing potential. If he walked around the building, he could, ifhe ambled, come back to the front entrance just before three. He turned the corner, stopped, frowned, wondering what there was aboutthe building that seemed so puzzling. It could not have been plainer,more ordinary. It was in fact, he only gradually realized, so plain andordinary that it was like no other building he had ever seen. There had been windows at the front. There were none at the side, andnone at the rear. Then how were the working areas lit? He looked forthe electric service lines and found them at one of the rear corners.They jolted him. The distribution transformers were ten times as largeas they should have been for a plant this size. Something else was wrong. Peter looked for minutes before he found outwhat it was. Factories usually have large side doorways for employeeschanging shifts. This building had one small office entrance facing thestreet, and the only other door was at the loading bay—big enough tohandle employee traffic, but four feet above the ground. Without anystairs, it could be used only by trucks backing up to it. Maybe theemployees' entrance was on the third side. It wasn't. <doc-sep>They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed. He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship. Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head. One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum. He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway. What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again. Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive. A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened? Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years. Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't.... Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner Stardust toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat.... Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home? He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man. Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the importance of the machinery in LEX?

The machinery is what keeps Lex Industries running and for Mr. Lexington to earn astronomical amounts of money continuously. It replaces the need for human workers and saves much of the costs that would have had to be distributed to workers. It is also the lifeline of Mr. Lexington’s work and the breakthrough of his research career. Peter considers the machinery to be ideas that are planned for ten to twenty years into the future. This makes the machinery even more impressive. The fact that an entire business can be operated with the central control system makes it even more significant in helping Mr. Lexington get ahead of his competitors.

What is the connection between Peter and Mr. Lexington in the story of LEX? [SEP] <s>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself. Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring. It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated. It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in. You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do. It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled. It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed. The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'. <doc-sep>Staring back at the last blank wall, Peter suddenly remembered the timehe had set out to kill. He looked at his watch and gasped. At a run,set to straight-arm the door, he almost fell on his face. The door hadopened by itself. He stopped and looked for a photo-electric eye, buta soft voice said through a loudspeaker in the anteroom wall: Mr.Manners? What? he panted. Who—? You are Mr. Manners? the voice asked. He nodded, then realized he had to answer aloud if there was amicrophone around; but the soft voice said: Follow the open doors downthe hall. Mr. Lexington is expecting you. Thanks, Peter said, and a door at one side of the anteroom swung openfor him. He went through it with his composure slipping still further from hisgrip. This was no way to go into an interview, but doors kept openingbefore and shutting after him, until only one was left, and the last ofhis calm was blasted away by a bellow from within. Don't stand out there like a jackass! Either come in or go away! Peter found himself leaping obediently toward the doorway. He stoppedjust short of it, took a deep breath and huffed it out, took another,all the while thinking, Hold on now; you're in no shape for aninterview—and it's not your fault—this whole setup is geared tounnerve you: the kindergarten kid called in to see the principal. He let another bellow bounce off him as he blew out the second breath,straightened his jacket and tie, and walked in as an engineer applyingfor a position should. Mr. Lexington? he said. I'm Peter Manners. The Association— Sit down, said the man at the desk. Let's look you over. He was a huge man behind an even huger desk. Peter took a chair infront of the desk and let himself be inspected. It wasn't comfortable.He did some looking over of his own to ease the tension. The room was more than merely large, carpeted throughout witha high-pile, rich, sound-deadening rug. The oversized desk andmassive leather chairs, heavy patterned drapes, ornately framedpaintings—by God, even a glass-brick manteled fireplace and bowls withflowers!—made him feel as if he had walked down a hospital corridorinto Hollywood's idea of an office. His eyes eventually had to move to Lexington, and they were dauntedfor another instant. This was a citadel of a man—great girders offrame supporting buttresses of muscle—with a vaulting head anddrawbridge chin and a steel gaze that defied any attempt to storm it. But then Peter came out of his momentary flinch, and there was an ageto the man, about 65, and he saw the muscles had turned to fat, thecomplexion ashen, the eyes set deep as though retreating from pain, andthis was a citadel of a man, yes, but beginning to crumble. What can you do? asked Lexington abruptly. <doc-sep>It made Peter feel he had been suckered, but he had decided to playthis straight all the way. He nodded. Why'd you leave? Lexington pursued, unrelenting. I finished the course and the increase they offered on a permanentbasis wasn't enough, so I went elsewhere— With your head full of this nonsense about a shortage of engineers. Peter swallowed. I thought it would be easier to get a job than it hasbeen, yes. They start the talk about a shortage and then they keep it going. Why?So youngsters will take up engineering thinking they'll wind up among ahighly paid minority. You did, didn't you? Yes, sir. And so did all the others there with you, at school and in thisstockpiling outfit? That's right. Well, said Lexington unexpectedly, there is a shortage! And thestockpiles are the ones who made it, and who keep it going! And thehell of it is that they can't stop—when one does it, they all haveto, or their costs get out of line and they can't compete. What's thesolution? I don't know, Peter said. Lexington leaned back. That's quite a lot of admissions you've made.What makes you think you're qualified for the job I'm offering? You said you wanted an engineer. And I've just proved you're less of an engineer than when you leftschool. I have, haven't I? All right, you have, Peter said angrily. And now you're wondering why I don't get somebody fresh out of school.Right? Peter straightened up and met the old man's challenging gaze. That andwhether you're giving me a hard time just for the hell of it. Well, am I? Lexington demanded. Looking at him squarely, seeing the intensity of the pain-drawn eyes,Peter had the startling feeling that Lexington was rooting for him!No, you're not. Then what am I after? Suppose you tell me. So suddenly that it was almost like a collapse, the tension went outof the old man's face and shoulders. He nodded with inexpressibletiredness. Good again. The man I want doesn't exist. He has tobe made—the same as I was. You qualify, so far. You've lost yourillusions, but haven't had time yet to replace them with dogma orcynicism or bitterness. You saw immediately that fake humilityor cockiness wouldn't get you anywhere here, and you were right.Those were the important things. The background data I got from theAssociation on you counted, of course, but only if you were teachable.I think you are. Am I right? At least I can face knowing how much I don't know, said Peter, ifthat answers the question. It does. Partly. What did you notice about this plant? In precis form, Peter listed his observations: the absence of windowsat sides and rear, the unusual amount of power, the automatic doors,the lack of employees' entrances. Very good, said Lexington. Most people only notice the automaticdoors. Anything else? Yes, Peter said. You're the only person I've seen in the building. I'm the only one there is. Peter stared his disbelief. Automated plants were nothing new, butthey all had their limitations. Either they dealt with exactly similarproducts or things that could be handled on a flow basis, like oil orwater-soluble chemicals. Even these had no more to do than process thegoods. Come on, said Lexington, getting massively to his feet. I'll showyou. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the connection between Peter and Mr. Lexington in the story of LEX?

Peter first meets Mr. Lexington at his interview. He finds the other man strange from the seemingly random questions that he asks. Mr. Lexington, however, becomes more interested in Peter when he is satisfied with the responses given. While the two of them are not close, Mr. Lexington does not dismiss him on the spot and instead takes him to tour the entire factory. He also elaborates on his life story to Peter, and he does have a certain degree of trust for the other man. On the other hand, Peter is very impressed by Mr. Lexington’s work and becomes more interested in how he has accomplished all of this in the time since he first began working on his business.

Can you provide a summary of the storyline in Hagerty's Enzymes? [SEP] <s>Back on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknownto the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recoveredfrom deceleration. Look, Scrib! Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. It's finallyopening. They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. Theywatched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed. There he is! cried Bella. Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,it's amazing! Look at him! And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fitand years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was thefirst pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years. Well, you old dog! exclaimed Scribney affectionately. So you did itagain! Harper smirked. Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought outHagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Gotboth of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because theydidn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bitfor that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock toyou. All right? All right? Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was humanafter all. All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some ofthose robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that? Harper's smile vanished. Don't even mention such a thing! he yelped.You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things forweeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where theybelong! He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,waiting patiently in the background. Oh there you are, Smythe. Heturned to his relatives. Busy day ahead. See you later, folks— Same old Harp, observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block ofstock. What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,honey? Wonderful! She squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they leftthe port. <doc-sep>There was a tentative knock on the door. Come in, called Harperbleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, forthe opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on thedesk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered. Say, pardner, he said hoarsely, you haven't seen any of them robotsaround here, have you? Harper scowled. Oh, haven't I? he grated. Robots! Do you know whatthey did to me. Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. Came in herewhile I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyedin months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! Theonly meal I've enjoyed in months! Blackly he sank his chin onto hisfist and contemplated the outrage. Why didn't you stop 'em? reasonably asked the visitor. Stop a robot? Harper glared pityingly. How? You can't reason withthe blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. Youtry it! He ground his teeth together in futile rage. And to think Ihad the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was readyto staff my offices with the things! The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach andgroaned. I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could usesome of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions Iate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on. Tundra? A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. Youmean you work out here on the tundra? That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'msuperintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty'sEnzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worthmentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where theycould use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And infact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,he's about out of business. Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With ahorrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a thirdrobot enter, wheeling a chair. A wheel chair! squeaked the victim. I tell you, there's nothingwrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!Take it away! The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular andruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neitherbribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered hisebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly. The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all toJake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, Takeme, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all thetreatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers— Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strappedhim down and marched out with him. Dejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiverof the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed. <doc-sep> HAGERTY'S ENZYMES By A. L. HALEY There's a place for every man and a man for every place, but on robot-harried Mars the situation was just a little different. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Harper Breen sank down gingerly into the new Relaxo-Lounge. He placedtwitching hands on the arm-rests and laid his head back stiffly. Heclosed his fluttering eyelids and clamped his mouth to keep the cornerfrom jumping. Just lie back, Harp, droned his sister soothingly. Just give in andlet go of everything. Harper tried to let go of everything. He gave in to the chair. Andgently the chair went to work. It rocked rhythmically, it vibratedtenderly. With velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs. For all of five minutes Harper stood it. Then with a frenzied lungehe escaped the embrace of the Relaxo-Lounge and fled to a gloriouslystationary sofa. Harp! His sister, Bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. Dr.Franz said it would be just the thing for you! Why won't you give it atrial? Harper glared at the preposterous chair. Franz! he snarled. Thatprize fathead! I've paid him a fortune in fees. I haven't slept forweeks. I can't eat anything but soup. My nerves are jangling likea four-alarm fire. And what does he prescribe? A blasted jigglingbaby carriage! Why, I ought to send him the bill for it! Completelyoutraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. Now, Harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. He told youlast year that you'd have to ease up. Why do you have to try to runthe whole world? It's the strain of all your business worries that'scausing your trouble. He told you to take a long vacation or you'dcrack up. Don't blame him for your own stubbornness. Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.Vacation! he snorted. Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hookafter a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-agedman! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are drivingme to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's theidiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the— Hey, Harp, old man! His brother-in-law, turning the pages of thenew colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunktwenty years ago? Harper's hands twitched violently. Don't mention that fiasco! herasped. That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wellsspewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in Hagerty's Enzymes?

Harper Breen is exhausted. His business worries are keeping him up at night, and he hasn't had a proper night's sleep in too long. His brother in law, Scribney , suggests paying a visit to a hotel on mars, where they have equatorial wells which cure people's ailments. There is also a fungus that grows there that breaks down crude oil, a financial gold mine! Harper decides to go to this hotel, both for rest and the opportunity of getting into this new fungi business. After what seems like a mere number of hours, the rocket comes into land, and Harper goes directly to the lobby of the Emerald Star Hotel. Harper notices the beauty of his surroundings, and how the entire hotel is staffed by very efficient, silent robots. He goes over to the desk, where a woman is complaining to the clerk about the treatment she is receiving from these robots. Harper decides to go over and interrupt the conversation, asking for his room key. A large man walks over, also asking for service. In a panic, the clerk hastily gives a room key to Harper, and hands him off to a robot to show him to his room. Harper arrives in his room where he gets settled, and then makes his way to the restaurant. Suddenly, Harper wakes up to see two robots bending over him. They take him by force and wheel him away into surgery. Harper wakes up to find the same man from the clerk desk knocking at his door. The man introduces himself as Jake Ellis, of Hagerty's Enzymes. He works on the tundra in the fungus plants. Two more robots enter and take Harper away again. Hey put him through a rigorous amount of detoxing procedures that wipe him out. He speaks with Ellis again, who complains that he hasn't received any treatments yet. Harper proposes that the clerk probably mixed up their room keys. They decide to switch rooms and clothes to see what happens. Harper goes to Ellis' room, puts on his clothes, and walks down to the lobby, where he meets the clerk once again. He demands to see the manager, and after an altercation, the clerk shows him to his office. Harper states to the manager that he is Harper S. Breen, of Breen and Helgart Inc. He complains to him about the treatment he had received because the clerk mixed up his room key.The manager tells him to sue if he wants, the business is already failing. He knows the robots are turning people away. Breen tells the manager that he could take the robots off his hands, for a reasonable price, that way the hotel would be able to afford real nurses again. Harper arrives back on Earth to tell his sister and brother in law that he has bought out Hagerty's Enzymes, and staffed it with the robots from the hotel.

What is the primary location where the events of Hagerty's Enzymes take place? [SEP] <s>Back on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknownto the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recoveredfrom deceleration. Look, Scrib! Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. It's finallyopening. They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. Theywatched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed. There he is! cried Bella. Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,it's amazing! Look at him! And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fitand years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was thefirst pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years. Well, you old dog! exclaimed Scribney affectionately. So you did itagain! Harper smirked. Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought outHagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Gotboth of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because theydidn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bitfor that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock toyou. All right? All right? Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was humanafter all. All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some ofthose robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that? Harper's smile vanished. Don't even mention such a thing! he yelped.You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things forweeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where theybelong! He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,waiting patiently in the background. Oh there you are, Smythe. Heturned to his relatives. Busy day ahead. See you later, folks— Same old Harp, observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block ofstock. What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,honey? Wonderful! She squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they leftthe port. <doc-sep>There was a tentative knock on the door. Come in, called Harperbleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, forthe opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on thedesk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered. Say, pardner, he said hoarsely, you haven't seen any of them robotsaround here, have you? Harper scowled. Oh, haven't I? he grated. Robots! Do you know whatthey did to me. Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. Came in herewhile I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyedin months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! Theonly meal I've enjoyed in months! Blackly he sank his chin onto hisfist and contemplated the outrage. Why didn't you stop 'em? reasonably asked the visitor. Stop a robot? Harper glared pityingly. How? You can't reason withthe blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. Youtry it! He ground his teeth together in futile rage. And to think Ihad the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was readyto staff my offices with the things! The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach andgroaned. I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could usesome of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions Iate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on. Tundra? A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. Youmean you work out here on the tundra? That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'msuperintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty'sEnzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worthmentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where theycould use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And infact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,he's about out of business. Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With ahorrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a thirdrobot enter, wheeling a chair. A wheel chair! squeaked the victim. I tell you, there's nothingwrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!Take it away! The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular andruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neitherbribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered hisebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly. The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all toJake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, Takeme, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all thetreatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers— Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strappedhim down and marched out with him. Dejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiverof the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed. <doc-sep> HAGERTY'S ENZYMES By A. L. HALEY There's a place for every man and a man for every place, but on robot-harried Mars the situation was just a little different. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Harper Breen sank down gingerly into the new Relaxo-Lounge. He placedtwitching hands on the arm-rests and laid his head back stiffly. Heclosed his fluttering eyelids and clamped his mouth to keep the cornerfrom jumping. Just lie back, Harp, droned his sister soothingly. Just give in andlet go of everything. Harper tried to let go of everything. He gave in to the chair. Andgently the chair went to work. It rocked rhythmically, it vibratedtenderly. With velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs. For all of five minutes Harper stood it. Then with a frenzied lungehe escaped the embrace of the Relaxo-Lounge and fled to a gloriouslystationary sofa. Harp! His sister, Bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. Dr.Franz said it would be just the thing for you! Why won't you give it atrial? Harper glared at the preposterous chair. Franz! he snarled. Thatprize fathead! I've paid him a fortune in fees. I haven't slept forweeks. I can't eat anything but soup. My nerves are jangling likea four-alarm fire. And what does he prescribe? A blasted jigglingbaby carriage! Why, I ought to send him the bill for it! Completelyoutraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. Now, Harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. He told youlast year that you'd have to ease up. Why do you have to try to runthe whole world? It's the strain of all your business worries that'scausing your trouble. He told you to take a long vacation or you'dcrack up. Don't blame him for your own stubbornness. Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.Vacation! he snorted. Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hookafter a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-agedman! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are drivingme to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's theidiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the— Hey, Harp, old man! His brother-in-law, turning the pages of thenew colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunktwenty years ago? Harper's hands twitched violently. Don't mention that fiasco! herasped. That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wellsspewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the primary location where the events of Hagerty's Enzymes take place?

The main setting of the story in the Emerald Star Hotel. The half acre wide floor is covered with grey carpeting. There are glass walls which tint the light from the sun green. Outside are stunning domed gardens in a dozen acre lot. The lobby which holds the clerks desk is huge. Harper's room inside the hotel is stunning. The walls are made from the same green glass, which are accentuated with windows which look out onto the Martian hinterland. On the top of the skyscraper hotel is a domed roof restaurant, which is furnished with cushioned chairs. In another area of the hotel is a hospital, where it treats patients. Near the lobby is the manager's office.

What makes robots unsuitable for working in hotels according to the story of Hagerty's Enzymes? [SEP] <s>Back on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknownto the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recoveredfrom deceleration. Look, Scrib! Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. It's finallyopening. They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. Theywatched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed. There he is! cried Bella. Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,it's amazing! Look at him! And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fitand years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was thefirst pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years. Well, you old dog! exclaimed Scribney affectionately. So you did itagain! Harper smirked. Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought outHagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Gotboth of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because theydidn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bitfor that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock toyou. All right? All right? Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was humanafter all. All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some ofthose robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that? Harper's smile vanished. Don't even mention such a thing! he yelped.You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things forweeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where theybelong! He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,waiting patiently in the background. Oh there you are, Smythe. Heturned to his relatives. Busy day ahead. See you later, folks— Same old Harp, observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block ofstock. What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,honey? Wonderful! She squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they leftthe port. <doc-sep>There was a tentative knock on the door. Come in, called Harperbleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, forthe opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on thedesk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered. Say, pardner, he said hoarsely, you haven't seen any of them robotsaround here, have you? Harper scowled. Oh, haven't I? he grated. Robots! Do you know whatthey did to me. Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. Came in herewhile I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyedin months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! Theonly meal I've enjoyed in months! Blackly he sank his chin onto hisfist and contemplated the outrage. Why didn't you stop 'em? reasonably asked the visitor. Stop a robot? Harper glared pityingly. How? You can't reason withthe blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. Youtry it! He ground his teeth together in futile rage. And to think Ihad the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was readyto staff my offices with the things! The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach andgroaned. I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could usesome of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions Iate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on. Tundra? A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. Youmean you work out here on the tundra? That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'msuperintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty'sEnzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worthmentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where theycould use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And infact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,he's about out of business. Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With ahorrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a thirdrobot enter, wheeling a chair. A wheel chair! squeaked the victim. I tell you, there's nothingwrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!Take it away! The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular andruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neitherbribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered hisebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly. The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all toJake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, Takeme, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all thetreatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers— Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strappedhim down and marched out with him. Dejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiverof the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed. <doc-sep>Scribney, whose large, phlegmatic person and calm professorial brainwere the complete antithesis of Harper's picked-crow physique andscheming financier's wits, looked severely over his glasses. Harp'snervous tribulations were beginning to bore him, as well as interferewith the harmony of his home. You're away behind the times, Harp, he declared. Don't you knowthat those have proved to be the most astoundingly curative springsever discovered anywhere? Don't you know that a syndicate has builtthe largest extra-terrestial hotel of the solar system there and thatpeople are flocking to it to get cured of whatever ails 'em? Old man,you missed a bet! Leaping from the sofa, Harper rudely snatched the magazine fromScribney's hands. He glared at the spread which depicted a star-shapedstructure of bottle-green glass resting jewel-like on the rufous rockof Mars. The main portion of the building consisted of a circularskyscraper with a glass-domed roof. Between its star-shaped annexes,other domes covered landscaped gardens and noxious pools which in thedrawing looked lovely and enticing. Why, I remember now! exclaimed Bella. That's where the Durants wenttwo years ago! He was about dead and she looked like a hag. They cameback in wonderful shape. Don't you remember, Scrib? Dutifully Scribney remembered and commented on the change the Martiansprings had effected in the Durants. It's the very thing for you,Harp, he advised. You'd get a good rest on the way out. This gasthey use in the rockets nowadays is as good as a rest-cure; it sort offloats you along the time-track in a pleasant daze, they tell me. Andyou can finish the cure at the hotel while looking it over. And notonly that. Confidentially he leaned toward his insignificant lookingbrother-in-law. The chemists over at Dade McCann have just isolated anenzyme from one species of Martian fungus that breaks down crude oilinto its components without the need for chemical processing. There's afortune waiting for the man who corners that fungus market and learnsto process the stuff! Scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. Themagazine sagged in Harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd andcalculating. He even forgot to twitch. Maybe you're right, Scrib, heacknowledged. Combine a rest-cure with business, eh? Raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. And thatwas when he saw the line about the robots. —the only hotel staffedentirely with robot servants— Robots! he shrilled. You mean they've developed the things to thatpoint? Why hasn't somebody told me? I'll have Jackson's hide! I'lldisfranchise him! I'll— Harp! exploded Bella. Stop it! Maybe Jackson doesn't know a thingabout it, whatever it is! If it's something at the Emerald Star Hotel,why don't you just go and find out for yourself instead of throwing atantrum? That's the only sensible way! You're right, Bella, agreed Harper incisively. I'll go and find outfor myself. Immediately! Scooping up his hat, he left at his usuallope. Well! remarked his sister. All I can say is that they'd better turnthat happy-gas on extra strong for Harp's trip out! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What makes robots unsuitable for working in hotels according to the story of Hagerty's Enzymes?

The robots do not make good hotel staff because they are so efficient, they lack any comprehension that humans inherently possess. When Harper first arrives in the hotel, he notices that a woman named Mrs. Jacobsen is giving out about her treatment by the robots. She thinks that the service they provide is too good. She isn't able to change her mind because the robots won't listen, they will just follow orders. They don't listen to Harper when he tries to tell them that he did not book into the hotel for treatment, as they are simply following orders. They don't reason with him when he tries to get out of the treatment, and force him to undergo the procedures. The manager knows that the robots aren't working, and he tells Harper that guest reservations have already declined because of it.

What were the different therapies Harper received and what impact did they have? [SEP] <s>There was a tentative knock on the door. Come in, called Harperbleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, forthe opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on thedesk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered. Say, pardner, he said hoarsely, you haven't seen any of them robotsaround here, have you? Harper scowled. Oh, haven't I? he grated. Robots! Do you know whatthey did to me. Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. Came in herewhile I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyedin months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! Theonly meal I've enjoyed in months! Blackly he sank his chin onto hisfist and contemplated the outrage. Why didn't you stop 'em? reasonably asked the visitor. Stop a robot? Harper glared pityingly. How? You can't reason withthe blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. Youtry it! He ground his teeth together in futile rage. And to think Ihad the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was readyto staff my offices with the things! The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach andgroaned. I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could usesome of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions Iate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on. Tundra? A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. Youmean you work out here on the tundra? That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'msuperintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty'sEnzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worthmentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where theycould use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And infact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,he's about out of business. Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With ahorrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a thirdrobot enter, wheeling a chair. A wheel chair! squeaked the victim. I tell you, there's nothingwrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!Take it away! The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular andruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neitherbribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered hisebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly. The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all toJake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, Takeme, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all thetreatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers— Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strappedhim down and marched out with him. Dejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiverof the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed. <doc-sep> HAGERTY'S ENZYMES By A. L. HALEY There's a place for every man and a man for every place, but on robot-harried Mars the situation was just a little different. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Harper Breen sank down gingerly into the new Relaxo-Lounge. He placedtwitching hands on the arm-rests and laid his head back stiffly. Heclosed his fluttering eyelids and clamped his mouth to keep the cornerfrom jumping. Just lie back, Harp, droned his sister soothingly. Just give in andlet go of everything. Harper tried to let go of everything. He gave in to the chair. Andgently the chair went to work. It rocked rhythmically, it vibratedtenderly. With velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs. For all of five minutes Harper stood it. Then with a frenzied lungehe escaped the embrace of the Relaxo-Lounge and fled to a gloriouslystationary sofa. Harp! His sister, Bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. Dr.Franz said it would be just the thing for you! Why won't you give it atrial? Harper glared at the preposterous chair. Franz! he snarled. Thatprize fathead! I've paid him a fortune in fees. I haven't slept forweeks. I can't eat anything but soup. My nerves are jangling likea four-alarm fire. And what does he prescribe? A blasted jigglingbaby carriage! Why, I ought to send him the bill for it! Completelyoutraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. Now, Harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. He told youlast year that you'd have to ease up. Why do you have to try to runthe whole world? It's the strain of all your business worries that'scausing your trouble. He told you to take a long vacation or you'dcrack up. Don't blame him for your own stubbornness. Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.Vacation! he snorted. Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hookafter a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-agedman! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are drivingme to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's theidiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the— Hey, Harp, old man! His brother-in-law, turning the pages of thenew colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunktwenty years ago? Harper's hands twitched violently. Don't mention that fiasco! herasped. That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wellsspewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped! <doc-sep>Only the robots were immune to Harper Breen's progress across the hugesuave lobby. He was a blot on its rich beauty, a grotesque enigma that rooted theother visitors into paralyzed staring groups. Stepping out of theelevator, he had laid a course for the desk which loomed like an islandin a moss-gray lake, and now he strode manfully toward it, ignoring theoversize trousers slapping around his stocking feet. Only the robotsshared his self control. The clerk was the first to recover from the collective stupor.Frantically he pushed the button that would summon the robot guard.With a gasp of relief he saw the two massive manlike machines movinginexorably forward. He pointed to Harper. Get that patient! heordered. Take him to the—to the mud-baths! No you don't! yelled Harper. I want to see the manager! Nimbly hecircled the guard and leaped behind the desk. He began to throw thingsat the robots. Things like inkwells and typewriters and card indexes.Especially, card indexes. Stop it! begged the clerk. You'll wreck the system! We'll never getit straight again! Stop it! Call them off! snarled Harper. Call them off or I'll ruin yourswitchboard! He put a shoulder against it and prepared to heave. With one last appalled glare at the madman, the clerk picked up anelectric finger and pointed it at the approaching robots. They becameoddly inanimate. That's better! Harper straightened up and meticulously smoothed thecollar of his flapping coat. Now—the manager, please. This—this way, sir. With shrinking steps the clerk led Harper acrossthe width of the lobby among the fascinated guests. He was beyondspeech. Opening the inconspicuous door, he waved Harper inside andreturned doggedly to his desk, where he began to pick up things and atthe same time phrase his resignation in his mind. Brushing aside the startled secretary in the outer cubicle, Harperflapped and shuffled straight into the inner sanctum. The manager, whowas busy chewing a cigar to shreds behind his fortress of gun metaldesk, jerked hastily upright and glared at the intruder. My goodman— he began. Don't 'my-good-man' me! snapped Harper. He glared back at themanager. Reaching as far across the expanse of desktop as he couldstretch, he shook his puny fist. Do you know who I am? I'm HarperS. Breen, of Breen and Helgart, Incorporated! And do you know why Ihaven't even a card to prove it? Do you know why I have to make my waydownstairs in garb that makes a laughing stock of me? Do you know why?Because that assinine clerk of yours put me in the wrong room and thosedamnable robots of yours then proceeded to make a prisoner of me! Me,Harper S. Breen! Why, I'll sue you until you'll be lucky if you have asheet of writing-paper left in this idiot's retreat! Hayes, the manager, blanched. Then he began to mottle in an apoplecticpattern. And suddenly with a gusty sigh, he collapsed into his chair.With a shaking hand he mopped his forehead. My robots! he muttered.As if I invented the damned things! Despondently he looked at Harper. Go ahead and sue, Mr. Breen. If youdon't, somebody else will. And if nobody sues, we'll go broke anyway,at the rate our guest list is declining. I'm ready to hand in myresignation. Again he sighed. The trouble, he explained, is that those foolrobots are completely logical, and people aren't. There's no way to mixthe two. It's dynamite. Maybe people can gradually learn to live withrobots, but they haven't yet. Only we had to find it out the hard way.We— he grimaced disgustedly—had to pioneer in the use of robots.And it cost us so much that we can't afford to reconvert to human help.So—Operation Robot is about to bankrupt the syndicate. Listening, an amazing calm settled on Harper. Thoughtfully now hehooked a chair to the desk with his stockinged foot, sat down andreached for the cigar that Hayes automatically offered him. Oh, Idon't know, he said mildly. Hayes leaned forward like a drowning man sighting a liferaft. Whatdo you mean, you don't know? You're threatening to take our shirts,aren't you? Meticulously Harper clipped and lit his cigar. It seems to me thatthese robots might be useful in quite another capacity. I might evenmake a deal with your syndicate to take them off your hands—at areasonable price, of course—and forget the outrages I've suffered atyour establishment. Hayes leaned toward him incredulous. You mean you want these robotsafter what you've seen and experienced? Placidly Harper puffed a smoke ring. Of course, you'd have to takeinto consideration that it would be an experiment for me, too. Andthere's the suit I'm clearly justified in instituting. However, I'mwilling to discuss the matter with your superiors. With hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, Hayes lifted hishead. My dear Mr. Breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, I'llback you to the hilt! I'll notify the owners at once. At once, Mr.Breen! And while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest ofthe hotel. Coming around to Harper, he effusively shook Harp's scrawnyhand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door butacross the lobby to the elevator. Harper gazed out at the stunned audience. This was more like thetreatment he was accustomed to! Haughtily he squared his bony shouldersinside the immense jacket and stepped into the elevator. He was readyfor the second step of his private Operation Robot. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What were the different therapies Harper received and what impact did they have?

Against his will, Harper is subject to a number of treatments at the hotel. He is dunked into mud baths for extensive periods of time. He is held in rancid smelling irradiated hot water. He is made to eat and drink strange concoctions. His stomach is pumped with food. They massage and exercise him. Harper hates all of this. It does do him good though. He notices that his skin which was once yellow, is now returning to a flesh colour. He can finally sleep well again also. When he returns to Earth, he is happy and energised for the first time in years. He looks fitter, and younger than he did before he left.

What is the reason for Ellis staying at the hotel and how has his stay been so far, in relation to the story of Hagerty's enzymes? [SEP] <s>There was a tentative knock on the door. Come in, called Harperbleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, forthe opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on thedesk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered. Say, pardner, he said hoarsely, you haven't seen any of them robotsaround here, have you? Harper scowled. Oh, haven't I? he grated. Robots! Do you know whatthey did to me. Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. Came in herewhile I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyedin months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! Theonly meal I've enjoyed in months! Blackly he sank his chin onto hisfist and contemplated the outrage. Why didn't you stop 'em? reasonably asked the visitor. Stop a robot? Harper glared pityingly. How? You can't reason withthe blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. Youtry it! He ground his teeth together in futile rage. And to think Ihad the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was readyto staff my offices with the things! The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach andgroaned. I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could usesome of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions Iate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on. Tundra? A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. Youmean you work out here on the tundra? That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'msuperintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty'sEnzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worthmentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where theycould use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And infact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,he's about out of business. Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With ahorrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a thirdrobot enter, wheeling a chair. A wheel chair! squeaked the victim. I tell you, there's nothingwrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!Take it away! The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular andruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neitherbribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered hisebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly. The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all toJake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, Takeme, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all thetreatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers— Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strappedhim down and marched out with him. Dejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiverof the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed. <doc-sep>Back on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknownto the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recoveredfrom deceleration. Look, Scrib! Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. It's finallyopening. They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. Theywatched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed. There he is! cried Bella. Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,it's amazing! Look at him! And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fitand years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was thefirst pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years. Well, you old dog! exclaimed Scribney affectionately. So you did itagain! Harper smirked. Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought outHagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Gotboth of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because theydidn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bitfor that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock toyou. All right? All right? Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was humanafter all. All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some ofthose robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that? Harper's smile vanished. Don't even mention such a thing! he yelped.You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things forweeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where theybelong! He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,waiting patiently in the background. Oh there you are, Smythe. Heturned to his relatives. Busy day ahead. See you later, folks— Same old Harp, observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block ofstock. What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,honey? Wonderful! She squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they leftthe port. <doc-sep> HAGERTY'S ENZYMES By A. L. HALEY There's a place for every man and a man for every place, but on robot-harried Mars the situation was just a little different. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Harper Breen sank down gingerly into the new Relaxo-Lounge. He placedtwitching hands on the arm-rests and laid his head back stiffly. Heclosed his fluttering eyelids and clamped his mouth to keep the cornerfrom jumping. Just lie back, Harp, droned his sister soothingly. Just give in andlet go of everything. Harper tried to let go of everything. He gave in to the chair. Andgently the chair went to work. It rocked rhythmically, it vibratedtenderly. With velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs. For all of five minutes Harper stood it. Then with a frenzied lungehe escaped the embrace of the Relaxo-Lounge and fled to a gloriouslystationary sofa. Harp! His sister, Bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. Dr.Franz said it would be just the thing for you! Why won't you give it atrial? Harper glared at the preposterous chair. Franz! he snarled. Thatprize fathead! I've paid him a fortune in fees. I haven't slept forweeks. I can't eat anything but soup. My nerves are jangling likea four-alarm fire. And what does he prescribe? A blasted jigglingbaby carriage! Why, I ought to send him the bill for it! Completelyoutraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. Now, Harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. He told youlast year that you'd have to ease up. Why do you have to try to runthe whole world? It's the strain of all your business worries that'scausing your trouble. He told you to take a long vacation or you'dcrack up. Don't blame him for your own stubbornness. Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.Vacation! he snorted. Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hookafter a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-agedman! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are drivingme to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's theidiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the— Hey, Harp, old man! His brother-in-law, turning the pages of thenew colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunktwenty years ago? Harper's hands twitched violently. Don't mention that fiasco! herasped. That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wellsspewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the reason for Ellis staying at the hotel and how has his stay been so far, in relation to the story of Hagerty's enzymes?

Jake Ellis is a man who works on the tundra, as one of the superintendents of the fungus plants. He booked into the hotel as his health has been on a decline because of his working conditions. The temperature in the factories are usually below freezing, he has to wear a pressure suit, the air quality is terrible and he has to live on processed food. He hoped to get treatment at the hotel, but since his arrival, he has been practically ignored by the staff, and left in his room. This is because the clerk switched his room key with Ellis'. When he meets Ellis and they decide to switch rooms, he finally gets his first treatment.

Can you provide a summary of The Ignoble Savages' storyline? [SEP] <s> The Ignoble Savages By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Snaddra had but one choice in its fight to afford to live belowground—underhandedly pretend theirs was an aboveboard society! Go Away from me, Skkiru, Larhgan said, pushing his hand off her arm.A beggar does not associate with the high priestess of Snaddra. But the Earthmen aren't due for another fifteen minutes, Skkiruprotested. Of what importance are fifteen minutes compared to eternity! sheexclaimed. Her lovely eyes fuzzed softly with emotion. You don't seemto realize, Skkiru, that this isn't just a matter of minutes or hours.It's forever. Forever! He looked at her incredulously. You mean we're going tokeep this up as a permanent thing? You're joking! Bbulas groaned, but Skkiru didn't care about that. The sad, sweet wayLarhgan shook her beautiful head disturbed him much more, and whenshe said, No, Skkiru, I am not joking, a tiny pang of doubt andapprehension began to quiver in his second smallest left toe. This is, in effect, good-by, she continued. We shall see each otheragain, of course, but only from a distance. On feast days, perhaps youmay be permitted to kiss the hem of my robe ... but that will be all. Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea! There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincereregret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas hadalways felt about the girl. I am sorry, Skkiru, Bbulas intoned. I had fancied you understood.This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we areadopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep onliving at all. It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru, Larhgan put in gently, butthe welfare of our planet comes first. <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of The Ignoble Savages' storyline?

qds-lb-writing-099be7bcf434f75d.elb.us-east-2.amazonaws.com/?uid=fbb302599a4a417fbc34eb1b65558c19The Ignoble Savages by Evelyn E. Smith details the tale of a race on the brink of extinction and their strange attempt to save themselves. Snaddra is a rainy planet with a mud surface. Due to the harsh weather, the Snaddrath chose to build their cities underground. Their civilized culture allowed for excellence in the metal industry and architecture, however, their isolation caused for poor education and expensive trade deals. In the face of crisis, the Bbulas Plan emerged, a plot to move their capital aboveground to convince visiting Terrans of their primitive nature and need for help. It begins with Skirru, an architect-turned-beggar, arguing with his former fiance, Larhgan, who is now the High Priestess. Their new jobs forbid marriage between the two, so Larhgan returns his grimpatch with regret. Bbulas, the new High Priest, watches gleefully, as he was in love with Larhgan all along. After much fighting, they levitate to the surface of the planet and wait for the Terrans to arrive. Now covered with huts, the new caste system emerges. Skirru is upset about his current position and feels ill. The woven metal clothes he was given to wear did not shield him from the light, so his green skin starts fading to yellow. The Terrans arrive, Raoul and Cyril, to analyze the planet. Skirru begs in front of them, and they give him a chocolate bar, a delicacy on Snaddra. He eats it quickly, grateful for the treat as it restores health to sick Snaddrath. He remembers a pair of shoes he once got and dashes belowground to get them, returning with booted feet. Able to walk easier now, he follows the Terrans to the temple, where Bbulas and Larhgan are waiting. Raoul eyes the female Snaddrath hungrily. Cyril reminds him that they are there to investigate, not fraternize with the natives. Once there, Larhgan welcomes them with a long speech Bbulas wrote. Bbulas invites the Terrans to a rain dance, which they laugh at seeing as the planet is covered in mud. Bbulas recovers quickly and claims it’s a ceremony to stop the rain. Already, his plot to save his planet is falling apart. Raoul quickly notices that the beggar, Skkiru, is wearing mudshoes, which makes no sense. Bbulas changes the subject and points them towards their hut, evidently the nicest one on Snaddra. He runs to Skkiru and angrily confronts him about his footwear.

What is the purpose of the Terrans' presence on Snaddra and what does it signify? [SEP] <s>The traditional office of Planetary Dilettante was a civil-servicejob, awarded by competitive examination whenever it fell vacant tothe person who scored highest in intelligence, character and generalgloonatz. However, the tests were inadequate when it came to measuringsense of proportion, adaptiveness and charm—and there, Skkiru felt,was where the essential flaw lay. After all, no really effective testwould have let a person like Bbulas come out on top. The winner was sent to Gambrell, the nearest planet with a TerranLeague University, to be given a thorough Terran-type education. Noindividual on Snaddra could afford such schooling, no matter howgreat his personal fortune, because the transportation costs were soimmense that only a government could afford them. That was the reasonwhy only one person in each generation could be chosen to go abroad atthe planet's expense and acquire enough finish to cover the rest of thepopulation. The Dilettante's official function had always been, in theory, to servethe planet when an emergency came—and this, old Luccar, the formerPresident, had decided, when he and the Parliament had awakened to thefact that Snaddra was falling into ruin, was an emergency. So he had,after considerable soul-searching, called upon Bbulas to plan a methodof saving Snaddra—and Bbulas, happy to be in the limelight at last,had come up with this program. It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, hefelt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, theBbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept thestatus of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case ofthe planet, there was no choice. But all was not necessarily lost, he told himself. Had he not, in hisanthropological viewings—though Bbulas might have been the only oneprivileged to go on ethnological field trips to other planets, he wasnot the only one who could use a library—seen accounts of societieswhere beggarhood could be a rewarding and even responsible station inlife? There was no reason why, within the framework of the primitivesociety Bbulas had created to allure Terran anthropologists, Skkirushould not make something of himself and show that a beggar was worthyof the high priestess's hand—which would be entirely in the Terranprimitive tradition of romance. Skkiru! Bbulas was screaming, as he spun, now that the Terrans wereout of ear- and eye-shot Skkiru, you idiot, listen to me! What arethose ridiculous things you are wearing on your silly feet? Skkiru protruded all of his eyes in innocent surprise. Just someold pontoons I took from a wrecked air-car once. I have a habit ofcollecting junk and I thought— Bbulas twirled madly in the air. You are not supposed to think. Leaveall the thinking to me! Yes, Bbulas, Skkiru said meekly. <doc-sep>She had been seeing too many of the Terrestrial fictapes from thelibrary, Skkiru thought resentfully. There was too damn much Terraninfluence on this planet. And this new project was the last straw. No longer able to control his rage and grief, he turned a triplesomersault in the air with rage. Then why was I made a beggar and shethe high priestess? You arranged that purposely, Bbulas. You— Now, Skkiru, Bbulas said wearily, for they had been through all thisbefore, you know that all the ranks and positions were distributedby impartial lot, except for mine, and, of course, such jobs as couldcarry over from the civilized into the primitive. Bbulas breathed on the spectacles he was wearing, as contact lenseswere not considered backward enough for the kind of planet Snaddrawas now supposed to be, and attempted to wipe them dry on his robe.However, the thick, jewel-studded embroidery got in his way and so hewas forced to lift the robe and wipe all three of the lenses on thesmooth, soft, spun metal of his top underskirt. After all, he went on speaking as he wiped, I have to be highpriest, since I organized this culture and am the only one herequalified to administer it. And, as the president himself concurred inthese arrangements, I hardly think you—a mere private citizen—havethe right to question them. Just because you went to school in another solar system, Skkiru said,whirling with anger, you think you're so smart! I won't deny that I do have educational and cultural advantageswhich were, unfortunately, not available to the general populace ofthis planet. However, even under the old system, I was always glad toutilize my superior attainments as Official Dilettante for the good ofall and now— Sure, glad to have a chance to rig this whole setup so you could breakup things between Larhgan and me. You've had your eye on her for sometime. Skkiru coiled his antennae at Bbulas, hoping the insult would provokehim into an unbecoming whirl, but the Dilettante remained calm. One ofthe chief outward signs of Terran-type training was self-control andBbulas had been thoroughly terranized. I hate Terrestrials , Skkiru said to himself. I hate Terra. Thequiver of anxiety had risen up his leg and was coiling and uncoilingin his stomach. He hoped it wouldn't reach his antennae—if he wereto break down and psonk in front of Larhgan, it would be the finalhumiliation. Skkiru! the girl exclaimed, rotating gently, for she, like herfiance—her erstwhile fiance, that was, for the new regime had causedall such ties to be severed—and every other literate person on theplanet, had received her education at the local university. Althoughsound, the school was admittedly provincial in outlook and very poorin the emotional department. One would almost think that the lots hadsome sort of divine intelligence behind them, because you certainly arebehaving in a beggarly manner! And I have already explained to you, Skkiru, Bbulas said, with apatience much more infuriating than the girl's anger, that I had noidea of who was to become my high priestess. The lots chose Larhgan. Itis, as the Earthmen say, kismet. <doc-sep>Unfortunately, the fees that he'd received in the past had not enabledhim both to live well and to save, and now that his fortunes had beenso drastically reduced, he seemed in a fair way of starving to death.It gave him a gentle, moody pleasure to envisage his own funeral,although, at the same time, he realized that Bbulas would probably haveto arrange some sort of pension for him; he could not expect Skkiru'spatriotism to extend to abnormal limits. A man might be willing to diefor his planet in many ways—but wantonly starving to death as theresult of a primitive affectation was hardly one of them. All the same, Skkiru reflected as he watched the visitors being led offto the native hut prepared for them, how ignominious it would be forone of the brightest young architects on the planet to have to subsistmiserably on the dole just because the world had gone aboveground. Thecapital had risen to the surface and the other cities would soon followsuit. Meanwhile, a careful system of tabus had been designed to keepthe Earthmen from discovering the existence of those other cities. He could, of course, emigrate to another part of the planet, to one ofthem, and stave off his doom for a while—but that would not be playingthe game. Besides, in such a case, he wouldn't be able to see Larhgan. As if all this weren't bad enough, he had been done an injury whichstruck directly at his professional pride. He hadn't even been allowedto help in planning the huts. Bbulas and some workmen had done all thatthemselves with the aid of some antique blueprints that had been putout centuries before by a Terrestrial magazine and had been acquiredfrom a rare tape-and-book dealer on Gambrell, for, Skkiru thought, fartoo high a price. He could have designed them himself just as badly andmuch more cheaply. It wasn't that Skkiru didn't understand well enough that Snaddra hadbeen forced into making such a drastic change in its way of life.What resources it once possessed had been depleted and—aside fromminerals—they had never been very extensive to begin with. Alllife-forms on the planet were on the point of extinction, save fish andrice—the only vegetable that would grow on Snaddra, and originally aTerran import at that. So food and fiber had to be brought from theother planets, at fabulous expense, for Snaddra was not on any ofthe direct trade routes and was too unattractive to lure the touristbusiness. Something definitely had to be done, if it were not to decayaltogether. And that was where the Planetary Dilettante came in. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the purpose of the Terrans' presence on Snaddra and what does it signify?

The visiting Terrans, Cyril and Raoul, are visiting Snaddra to survey and analyze the native culture. Evidently, Terrans do this on planets across the universe, immersing themselves in the culture only to leave however many days, months, or years later with a full-fledged report. Their visit is significant because it may give the Snaddrath a chance to revitalize their economy and people. Due to their current lack of resources, muddy surface, and planetary isolation, the Snaddrath are facing extinction. They hope that by presenting themselves as a primitive civilization, the Terrans will be more inclined to establish trade with them and give them an economic boost.

What can you tell me about the inhabitants of Snaddra, as mentioned in The Ignoble Savages? [SEP] <s> The Ignoble Savages By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Snaddra had but one choice in its fight to afford to live belowground—underhandedly pretend theirs was an aboveboard society! Go Away from me, Skkiru, Larhgan said, pushing his hand off her arm.A beggar does not associate with the high priestess of Snaddra. But the Earthmen aren't due for another fifteen minutes, Skkiruprotested. Of what importance are fifteen minutes compared to eternity! sheexclaimed. Her lovely eyes fuzzed softly with emotion. You don't seemto realize, Skkiru, that this isn't just a matter of minutes or hours.It's forever. Forever! He looked at her incredulously. You mean we're going tokeep this up as a permanent thing? You're joking! Bbulas groaned, but Skkiru didn't care about that. The sad, sweet wayLarhgan shook her beautiful head disturbed him much more, and whenshe said, No, Skkiru, I am not joking, a tiny pang of doubt andapprehension began to quiver in his second smallest left toe. This is, in effect, good-by, she continued. We shall see each otheragain, of course, but only from a distance. On feast days, perhaps youmay be permitted to kiss the hem of my robe ... but that will be all. Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea! There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincereregret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas hadalways felt about the girl. I am sorry, Skkiru, Bbulas intoned. I had fancied you understood.This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we areadopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep onliving at all. It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru, Larhgan put in gently, butthe welfare of our planet comes first. <doc-sep>He adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polishedfour-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber. Kismet , Skkiru muttered to himself, and a little sleight of hand. But he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws ofSnaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, And Isuppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on theground during the day, like—like savages. It is necessary, Bbulas replied without turning. Pooh, Skkiru said. Pooh, pooh , POOH! Larhgan's dainty earflaps closed. Skkiru! Such language! As you said, Bbulas murmured, contemptuously coiling one antenna atSkkiru, the lots chose well and if you touch me, Skkiru, we shall haveanother drawing for beggar and you will be made a metal-worker. But I can't work metal! Then that will make it much worse for you than for the otheroutcasts, Bbulas said smugly, because you will be a pariah without atrade. Speaking of pariahs, that reminds me, Skkiru, before I forget, I'dbetter give you back your grimpatch— Larhgan handed the glitteringbauble to him—and you give me mine. Since we can't be betrothed anylonger, you might want to give yours to some nice beggar girl. I don't want to give my grimpatch to some nice beggar girl! Skkiruyelled, twirling madly in the air. As for me, she sighed, standing soulfully on her head, I do notthink I shall ever marry. I shall make the religious life my career.Are there going to be any saints in your mythos, Bbulas? Even if there will be, Bbulas said, you certainly won't qualify ifyou keep putting yourself into a position which not only represents atrait wholly out of keeping with the new culture, but is most unseemlywith the high priestess's robes. Larhgan ignored his unfeeling observations. I shall set myself apartfrom mundane affairs, she vowed, and I shall pretend to be happy,even though my heart will be breaking. It was only at that moment that Skkiru realized just how outrageous thewhole thing really was. There must be another solution to the planet'sproblem. Listen— he began, but just then excited noises filtereddown from overhead. It was too late. Earth ship in view! a squeaky voice called through the intercom.Everybody topside and don't forget your shoes. Except the beggar. Beggars went barefoot. Beggars suffered. Bbulas hadmade him beggar purposely, and the lots were a lot of slibwash. Hurry up, Skkiru. <doc-sep>Unfortunately, the fees that he'd received in the past had not enabledhim both to live well and to save, and now that his fortunes had beenso drastically reduced, he seemed in a fair way of starving to death.It gave him a gentle, moody pleasure to envisage his own funeral,although, at the same time, he realized that Bbulas would probably haveto arrange some sort of pension for him; he could not expect Skkiru'spatriotism to extend to abnormal limits. A man might be willing to diefor his planet in many ways—but wantonly starving to death as theresult of a primitive affectation was hardly one of them. All the same, Skkiru reflected as he watched the visitors being led offto the native hut prepared for them, how ignominious it would be forone of the brightest young architects on the planet to have to subsistmiserably on the dole just because the world had gone aboveground. Thecapital had risen to the surface and the other cities would soon followsuit. Meanwhile, a careful system of tabus had been designed to keepthe Earthmen from discovering the existence of those other cities. He could, of course, emigrate to another part of the planet, to one ofthem, and stave off his doom for a while—but that would not be playingthe game. Besides, in such a case, he wouldn't be able to see Larhgan. As if all this weren't bad enough, he had been done an injury whichstruck directly at his professional pride. He hadn't even been allowedto help in planning the huts. Bbulas and some workmen had done all thatthemselves with the aid of some antique blueprints that had been putout centuries before by a Terrestrial magazine and had been acquiredfrom a rare tape-and-book dealer on Gambrell, for, Skkiru thought, fartoo high a price. He could have designed them himself just as badly andmuch more cheaply. It wasn't that Skkiru didn't understand well enough that Snaddra hadbeen forced into making such a drastic change in its way of life.What resources it once possessed had been depleted and—aside fromminerals—they had never been very extensive to begin with. Alllife-forms on the planet were on the point of extinction, save fish andrice—the only vegetable that would grow on Snaddra, and originally aTerran import at that. So food and fiber had to be brought from theother planets, at fabulous expense, for Snaddra was not on any ofthe direct trade routes and was too unattractive to lure the touristbusiness. Something definitely had to be done, if it were not to decayaltogether. And that was where the Planetary Dilettante came in. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What can you tell me about the inhabitants of Snaddra, as mentioned in The Ignoble Savages?

The natives of Snaddra are a very civilized race, progressing beyond what life on Earth is like now. They live underground, due to the terrible weather on the surface of the planet, and have built extensive cities and tunnels. They designed flying cars to use on the surface, and they have the capability to levitate. Their outward appearance is somewhat humanoid, though there are some very distinct and different features. For one, the natives have antennae, as well as green skin. When healthy, their skin is a beautiful emerald green color, but if they grow ill it will become more yellow. The Snaddrath also have three eyes, requiring spectacles to have three individual lenses. When upset, anxious, or provoked, they have a tendency to twirl mid-air. If a Snaddrath falls in love with another, they give their lover their grimpatch, a beautiful bauble, to indicate their dedication. Many Snaddrath work in the metal industry since some of the few resources left on the planet are minerals.

What is the location of the story, The Ignoble Savages, set in? [SEP] <s> The Ignoble Savages By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Snaddra had but one choice in its fight to afford to live belowground—underhandedly pretend theirs was an aboveboard society! Go Away from me, Skkiru, Larhgan said, pushing his hand off her arm.A beggar does not associate with the high priestess of Snaddra. But the Earthmen aren't due for another fifteen minutes, Skkiruprotested. Of what importance are fifteen minutes compared to eternity! sheexclaimed. Her lovely eyes fuzzed softly with emotion. You don't seemto realize, Skkiru, that this isn't just a matter of minutes or hours.It's forever. Forever! He looked at her incredulously. You mean we're going tokeep this up as a permanent thing? You're joking! Bbulas groaned, but Skkiru didn't care about that. The sad, sweet wayLarhgan shook her beautiful head disturbed him much more, and whenshe said, No, Skkiru, I am not joking, a tiny pang of doubt andapprehension began to quiver in his second smallest left toe. This is, in effect, good-by, she continued. We shall see each otheragain, of course, but only from a distance. On feast days, perhaps youmay be permitted to kiss the hem of my robe ... but that will be all. Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea! There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincereregret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas hadalways felt about the girl. I am sorry, Skkiru, Bbulas intoned. I had fancied you understood.This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we areadopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep onliving at all. It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru, Larhgan put in gently, butthe welfare of our planet comes first. <doc-sep>Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him. Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down. He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate? Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel! What? Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor. Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays. Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how— Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers? Uh-huh. What are they, Star? They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life! He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri! <doc-sep>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once. I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation. But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort? Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking. Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten. Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha. Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes. The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them. Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet. Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde. No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde. Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered. Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the location of the story, The Ignoble Savages, set in?

Snaddra is a planet leagues away from many other solar systems. Its isolation and general lack of resources has left the planet as a whole in a terrible situation. Snaddra has two seasons: wet and wetter season. Raining practically every day, the surface of the planet is covered in mud. Because of the muddy surface and difficult weather, the Snaddrath have built cities underground and truly thrived there. Skkiru, one of the main characters, is an architect, and supposedly helped to build underground buildings and cities. Their futuristic lifestyle is threatened, however, by a lack of resources. The only crop that can grow on Snaddra is rice, brought in by Terrans, and much of the native animals and fish are dying out. The one commodity and resource left is minerals. However, the constant importation of foreign goods depleted their economy, leaving the Snaddrath between a rock and a hard place. Bbulas, the Planetary Dilettante, developed the Bbulas Plan to save Snaddra from ruin. He designed a whole aboveground world, new garbs for citizens, as well as an entirely new culture. He believes, as does most of Snaddra, that a primitive culture will draw Terrans in more than an equally advanced and civilized one. So, the story mostly takes place on the surface of Snaddra, now covered in huts.

What is the story of Bbulas in The Ignoble Savages? [SEP] <s> The Ignoble Savages By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Snaddra had but one choice in its fight to afford to live belowground—underhandedly pretend theirs was an aboveboard society! Go Away from me, Skkiru, Larhgan said, pushing his hand off her arm.A beggar does not associate with the high priestess of Snaddra. But the Earthmen aren't due for another fifteen minutes, Skkiruprotested. Of what importance are fifteen minutes compared to eternity! sheexclaimed. Her lovely eyes fuzzed softly with emotion. You don't seemto realize, Skkiru, that this isn't just a matter of minutes or hours.It's forever. Forever! He looked at her incredulously. You mean we're going tokeep this up as a permanent thing? You're joking! Bbulas groaned, but Skkiru didn't care about that. The sad, sweet wayLarhgan shook her beautiful head disturbed him much more, and whenshe said, No, Skkiru, I am not joking, a tiny pang of doubt andapprehension began to quiver in his second smallest left toe. This is, in effect, good-by, she continued. We shall see each otheragain, of course, but only from a distance. On feast days, perhaps youmay be permitted to kiss the hem of my robe ... but that will be all. Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea! There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincereregret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas hadalways felt about the girl. I am sorry, Skkiru, Bbulas intoned. I had fancied you understood.This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we areadopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep onliving at all. It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru, Larhgan put in gently, butthe welfare of our planet comes first. <doc-sep>He adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polishedfour-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber. Kismet , Skkiru muttered to himself, and a little sleight of hand. But he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws ofSnaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, And Isuppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on theground during the day, like—like savages. It is necessary, Bbulas replied without turning. Pooh, Skkiru said. Pooh, pooh , POOH! Larhgan's dainty earflaps closed. Skkiru! Such language! As you said, Bbulas murmured, contemptuously coiling one antenna atSkkiru, the lots chose well and if you touch me, Skkiru, we shall haveanother drawing for beggar and you will be made a metal-worker. But I can't work metal! Then that will make it much worse for you than for the otheroutcasts, Bbulas said smugly, because you will be a pariah without atrade. Speaking of pariahs, that reminds me, Skkiru, before I forget, I'dbetter give you back your grimpatch— Larhgan handed the glitteringbauble to him—and you give me mine. Since we can't be betrothed anylonger, you might want to give yours to some nice beggar girl. I don't want to give my grimpatch to some nice beggar girl! Skkiruyelled, twirling madly in the air. As for me, she sighed, standing soulfully on her head, I do notthink I shall ever marry. I shall make the religious life my career.Are there going to be any saints in your mythos, Bbulas? Even if there will be, Bbulas said, you certainly won't qualify ifyou keep putting yourself into a position which not only represents atrait wholly out of keeping with the new culture, but is most unseemlywith the high priestess's robes. Larhgan ignored his unfeeling observations. I shall set myself apartfrom mundane affairs, she vowed, and I shall pretend to be happy,even though my heart will be breaking. It was only at that moment that Skkiru realized just how outrageous thewhole thing really was. There must be another solution to the planet'sproblem. Listen— he began, but just then excited noises filtereddown from overhead. It was too late. Earth ship in view! a squeaky voice called through the intercom.Everybody topside and don't forget your shoes. Except the beggar. Beggars went barefoot. Beggars suffered. Bbulas hadmade him beggar purposely, and the lots were a lot of slibwash. Hurry up, Skkiru. <doc-sep>The traditional office of Planetary Dilettante was a civil-servicejob, awarded by competitive examination whenever it fell vacant tothe person who scored highest in intelligence, character and generalgloonatz. However, the tests were inadequate when it came to measuringsense of proportion, adaptiveness and charm—and there, Skkiru felt,was where the essential flaw lay. After all, no really effective testwould have let a person like Bbulas come out on top. The winner was sent to Gambrell, the nearest planet with a TerranLeague University, to be given a thorough Terran-type education. Noindividual on Snaddra could afford such schooling, no matter howgreat his personal fortune, because the transportation costs were soimmense that only a government could afford them. That was the reasonwhy only one person in each generation could be chosen to go abroad atthe planet's expense and acquire enough finish to cover the rest of thepopulation. The Dilettante's official function had always been, in theory, to servethe planet when an emergency came—and this, old Luccar, the formerPresident, had decided, when he and the Parliament had awakened to thefact that Snaddra was falling into ruin, was an emergency. So he had,after considerable soul-searching, called upon Bbulas to plan a methodof saving Snaddra—and Bbulas, happy to be in the limelight at last,had come up with this program. It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, hefelt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, theBbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept thestatus of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case ofthe planet, there was no choice. But all was not necessarily lost, he told himself. Had he not, in hisanthropological viewings—though Bbulas might have been the only oneprivileged to go on ethnological field trips to other planets, he wasnot the only one who could use a library—seen accounts of societieswhere beggarhood could be a rewarding and even responsible station inlife? There was no reason why, within the framework of the primitivesociety Bbulas had created to allure Terran anthropologists, Skkirushould not make something of himself and show that a beggar was worthyof the high priestess's hand—which would be entirely in the Terranprimitive tradition of romance. Skkiru! Bbulas was screaming, as he spun, now that the Terrans wereout of ear- and eye-shot Skkiru, you idiot, listen to me! What arethose ridiculous things you are wearing on your silly feet? Skkiru protruded all of his eyes in innocent surprise. Just someold pontoons I took from a wrecked air-car once. I have a habit ofcollecting junk and I thought— Bbulas twirled madly in the air. You are not supposed to think. Leaveall the thinking to me! Yes, Bbulas, Skkiru said meekly. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the story of Bbulas in The Ignoble Savages?

Bbulas, a Snaddrath, was chosen as a young boy to attend a Terran school on Gambrell. This Terran League University was far too expensive for any Snaddrath to afford, not only due to tuition costs. The travel expenses alone were outrageous. And so, only one student per generation would receive funds to attend. Since Bbulas was schooled there, he has more Terran tendencies than his brethren, such as his ability to not show emotions or keep from whirling when upset. After attending university, he was selected to work as the Planetary Dilettante. This selection process involves testing Snaddrath in a variety of subjects. Evidently, Bbulas’ scores were the highest, so when President Luccar declared a state of emergency, he chose Bbulas to fix the situation at hand. Bbulas designed the Bbulas Plan to solve Snaddra’s economic downfall. His ultimate goal was to entice Terrans to come to Snaddra and support the planet with foreign trade. In order to do so, he decided to completely redesign their entire culture and move their capital aboveground. Bbulas believes that Terrans will be more likely to help if Snaddra is primitive in nature. The story begins with an argument between Skkiru, Larhgan, and Bbulas. Bbulas elected himself High Priest in the new world, and the lots elected Larhgan to be the High Priestess. Skkiru, her fiance, was to be a beggar, sot hey could no longer be together, much to Bbulas’ delight. After passively threatening Skkiru, the three rise to the surface and ready themselves for the Terrans’ arrival. Bbulas welcomes the Terrans at the temple and invites them to a stop-the-rain ceremony. He sends the Terrans to their hut and then becomes upset at Skkiru for wearing mud shoes when he is supposed to be a beggar.

Can you provide a summary of The Gravity Business's storyline? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>Joyce glared at him furiously. Four! Act your age! We've got to dosomething with him. It's preposterous that we should be detained hereat the whim of a mere blob! I don't figure it's a whim, Grampa said. Circular gravity is whathe's got to have for one reason or another, so he just naturally bendsthe space-time continuum around him—conscious or subconscious, I don'tknow. But protoplasm is always more efficient than machines, so theflivver won't move. I don't care why that thing does it, Joyce said icily. I want itstopped, and the sooner the better. If it won't turn the gravity off,we'll just have to do away with it. How? asked Four. Fweep's skin is pretty close to impervious andyou can't shoot him, stab him or poison him. He doesn't breathe, soyou can't drown or strangle him. You can't imprison him; he 'eats'everything. And violence might be more dangerous to us than to him.Right now, Fweep is friendly, but suppose he got mad! He could lowerhis radioactive shield or he might increase the gravity by a few times.Either way, you'd feel rather uncomfortable, Grammy. Don't call me 'Grammy!' Well, what are we going to do, just sit aroundand wait for that thing to die? We'd have a long wait, Four observed. Fweep is the only one of hiskind on this planet. Well? Probably he's immortal. And he doesn't reproduce? Reba asked sympathetically. Probably not. If he doesn't die, there's no point in reproduction.Reproduction is nature's way of providing racial immortality to mortalcreatures. But he must have some way of reproduction, Reba argued. An egg orsomething. He couldn't just have sprung into being as he is now. Maybe he developed, Four offered. It seems to me that he's biggerthan when we first landed. He must have been here a long, long time,Fred said. Fweepland, as Four calls it, kept its atmosphere and itswater, which a planet this size ordinarily would have lost by now. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep turned slowly on its axis. The orange sun set androse again and stared down once more at the meadow where the improbablespaceship rested on its improbable stern. The sixteen Earth hours thatthe rotation had taken had changed nothing inside the ship, either. Grampa looked up from his pircuit and said, If I were you, Junior, Iwould take a good look at the TV repairman when we get back to Earth. If we get back to Earth, he amended. You can't be Four's father.All over the Universe, gravity is the same, and if it's gravity, thepolarizer will polarize it. That's just supposition, Junior said stubbornly. The fact is, itisn't because it doesn't. Q.E.D. Maybe the polarizer is broken, Fred suggested. Grampa snorted. Broken-shmoken. Nothing to break, Young Fred. Just afew coils of copper wire and they're all right. We checked. We knowthe power plant is working: the lights are on, the air and waterrecirculation systems are going, the food resynthesizer is okay. And,anyway, the polarizer could work from the storage battery if it had to. Then it goes deeper, Junior insisted. It goes right to the principleof polarization itself. For some reason, it doesn't work here. Why?Before we can discover the answer to that, we'll have to know moreabout polarization itself. How does it work, Grampa? Grampa gave him a sarcastic grin. Now you're curious, eh? Couldn'tbe bothered with Grampa's invention before. Oh, no! Too busy. Acceptwithout question the blessings that the Good Lord provideth— Let's not get up on any pulpits, Fred growled. Come on, Grampa,what's the theory behind polarization? Grampa looked at the four faces staring at him hopefully and thejeering grin turned to a smile. Well, he said, at last. You knowhow light is polarized, eh? The smile faded. No, I guess you don't. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of The Gravity Business's storyline?

Grampa Peppergrass is an inventor, creator of the gravity polarizer and the space flivver, which have earned him one hundred million dollars. But he invested much of his earnings in perpetual motion machines and longevity pills. Now, the Peppergrass family travels to different planets, searching for radioactive metals that they can exploit to make themselves a fortune. The family consists of four generations of men and their spouses. Apparently, Grandpa, who is 90-years-old, is a widower. His son, Fred, is 60 and married to Joyce. Their son Junior, 35, is married to Reba; they are parents of an eight-year-old genius son known as Four. The flivver they travel in was purchased by Grampa, who gave ⅙ ownership to each of the family members. The flivver’s landing is unusually bumpy because the gravity polarizer failed. Through the view screen, they see that the planet has meadows, woodlands, plains, and lakes, and Four announces that it also has fauna before he rushes out the air lock to check it out. The ship has already ascertained that the air is almost like that on Earth, and there are no micro-organisms. When Four returns to the flivver accompanied by the native fauna, Fweep, he announces they are friends. The creature looks like a transparent blob and likes to sweep. Four is curious about what Fweep does with the sweepings since the outer inch or so of his body turns cloudy but clears afterward. After Fred and Junior use their scintillation counters to search for heavy metals, they return to the flivver to report there aren’t any, just low-grade iron. The group mulls over what could be making the planet so heavy if it doesn’t have heavy metals, but no one has the answer. Junior and Fred tell the rest of the family that the gravity polarizer isn’t working and that without it, they will not be able to lift off. Reba looks on the bright side and says they can have more children instead of stopping at one child, as is currently the dictated number on Earth. In the meantime, Four returns from an excursion searching for the center of gravity for the planet and announces that it changes because of Fweep’s presence. The little guy is a circular polarizer, making the planet heavy and preventing their gravity polarizer from working. Fweep is also radioactive and has impervious skin. Joyce is furious that Fweep is making them stay there, and when Grampa jokingly, or as a test, suggests leaving Four behind with Fweep, she immediately goes along with it. Four offers to stay behind with Fweep, who is lonely and likes having a friend so much it doesn’t want to lose Four. Grampa announces that the problem isn’t one that their computer can solve; instead, it’s a logic problem like the ones Four told him earlier.

What is the backdrop of The Gravity Business? [SEP] <s>The land of the Fweep turned slowly on its axis. The orange sun set androse again and stared down once more at the meadow where the improbablespaceship rested on its improbable stern. The sixteen Earth hours thatthe rotation had taken had changed nothing inside the ship, either. Grampa looked up from his pircuit and said, If I were you, Junior, Iwould take a good look at the TV repairman when we get back to Earth. If we get back to Earth, he amended. You can't be Four's father.All over the Universe, gravity is the same, and if it's gravity, thepolarizer will polarize it. That's just supposition, Junior said stubbornly. The fact is, itisn't because it doesn't. Q.E.D. Maybe the polarizer is broken, Fred suggested. Grampa snorted. Broken-shmoken. Nothing to break, Young Fred. Just afew coils of copper wire and they're all right. We checked. We knowthe power plant is working: the lights are on, the air and waterrecirculation systems are going, the food resynthesizer is okay. And,anyway, the polarizer could work from the storage battery if it had to. Then it goes deeper, Junior insisted. It goes right to the principleof polarization itself. For some reason, it doesn't work here. Why?Before we can discover the answer to that, we'll have to know moreabout polarization itself. How does it work, Grampa? Grampa gave him a sarcastic grin. Now you're curious, eh? Couldn'tbe bothered with Grampa's invention before. Oh, no! Too busy. Acceptwithout question the blessings that the Good Lord provideth— Let's not get up on any pulpits, Fred growled. Come on, Grampa,what's the theory behind polarization? Grampa looked at the four faces staring at him hopefully and thejeering grin turned to a smile. Well, he said, at last. You knowhow light is polarized, eh? The smile faded. No, I guess you don't. <doc-sep> The Gravity Business By JAMES E. GUNN Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.] This little alien beggar could dictate his own terms, but how couldhe—and how could anyone find out what those terms might be? The flivver descended vertically toward the green planet circling theold, orange sun. It was a spaceship, but not the kind men had once dreamed about. Theflivver was shaped like a crude bullet, blunt at one end of a fatcylinder and tapering abruptly to a point at the other. It had beenslapped together out of sheet metal and insulation board, and it sold,fully equipped, for $15,730. It didn't behave like a spaceship, either. As it hurtled down, its speed increased with dramatic swiftness. Then,at the last instant before impact, it stopped. Just like that. A moment later, it thumped a last few inches into the ankle-deep grassand knee-high white flowers of the meadow. It was a shock of a jar thatmade the sheet-metal walls boom like thunder machines. The flivverrocked unsteadily on its flat stern before it decided to stay upright. Then all was quiet—outside. Inside the big, central cabin, Grampa waved his pircuit irately in theair. Now look what you made me do! Just when I had the blamed thingpractically whipped, too! <doc-sep> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the backdrop of The Gravity Business?

The first setting mentioned in the story is the flivver, a bullet-shaped spaceship that lands vertically on the blunt end. It is made of sheet metal and insulation board. Fully equipped, a flivver sells for $15,730. The flivver has a large central cabin with the pilot’s chair; the control stick is situated between the pilot’s knees, and there is an on/off button for the gravity polarizer. It is also equipped with a computer named Abacus that analyzes data that fed into it. Flivvers have their own power plants that operate their lights, air and water recirculation systems, and food and clothing synthesizers. It also has a storage battery. Off of the central cabin, there are several private rooms. The flivver is owned jointly by the Peppergrass family; Grandpa bought it the ‘23 model and gave everyone ⅙ shares. The flivver also carries devices that can analyze the air and detect microorganisms.The other setting where the story takes place is on a planet much like Earth, with a diameter smaller than Mercury’s but a gravitational pull as strong as Earth’s. The Peppergrass family calls the world Fweepland since “Fweep” is the sound/word the one organism there says. Fweepland’s air is within 1% of Earth’s air, and there are no microorganisms present. Fweepland features a beautiful landscape with a peaceful green woodland, grassy plains, a meadow, and a blue lake. The only organism they encounter is Fweep, a friendly blob-shaped creature that sweeps over debris and picks it up. The Peppergrass family hopes to find radioactive or heavy metals on the planet, but their scintillation counters only detect low-grade iron. Four points out that while it doesn’t have the metals they are looking for, the planet is very valuable as real estate. Interestingly, the planet’s center of gravity shifts wherever Fweep goes. A day on Fweepland is 16 Earth hours, as that is the length of time it takes for one rotation of the planet.The story presumably takes place sometime in the 22nd century as Grampa references Einstein’s work “two hundred years ago.” There are some references to life on Earth at this time. Families are only allowed one child; if they have more, they are exiled from civilization. We can also assume that others are traveling into space since Grampa became wealthy from his invention of flivvers and gravity polarizers. People on Earth are trying to lengthen their lives, hence Grampa’s efforts to create longevity pills and his hundred-year contract with the Life-Begins-At-Ninety longevity company.

What role does Fweep play in The Gravity Business? [SEP] <s>Reba looked at Fweep kindly. We can thank the little fellow for that,anyway. I thank him for nothing, Joyce snapped. He lured us down here bymaking us think the planet had heavy metals and I want him to let us go immediately ! Fred turned impatiently on his wife. Well, try making him understand!And if you can make him understand what you want him to do, try makinghim do it! Joyce looked at Fred with startled eyes. Fred! she said in a high,shocked voice and turned blindly toward her room. Grampa lowered his bottle and smacked his lips. Well, boy, he said toFred, I thought you'd never do that. Didn't think you had it in you. Fred stood up apologetically. I'd better go calm her down, hemuttered, and walked quickly after Joyce. Give her one for me! Grampa called. Fred's shoulders twitched as the door closed behind him. From the roomcame the filtered sound of high-pitched voices rising and falling likesome reedy folk music. Makes you think, doesn't it? Grampa said, looking at Fweep benignly.Maybe the whole theory of gravitation is cockeyed. Maybe there's aFweep for every planet and sun, big and little, polarizing the gravityin circles, and the matter business is not a cause but a result. What I can't understand, Junior said thoughtfully, is why thepolarizer worked for a little while when we landed—long enough to keepus from being squashed—and then quit. Fweep didn't recognize it immediately, didn't know what it was orwhere it came from, Four explained. All he knew was he didn't likelinear polarization and he neutralized it as soon as he could. That'swhen we dropped. <doc-sep>We're stuck, Reba said softly. We might as well admit it. All we cando is set the transmitter to send out an automatic distress call— Which, Joyce interrupted, might get picked up in a few centuries. And make the best of what we've got, Reba went on, unheeding. If welook at it the right way, it's quite a lot. A beautiful, fertile world.Earth gravity. The flivver—even if the polarizer won't work, there'sthe resynthesizer; it will keep us in food and clothes for years. Bythen, we should have a good-sized community built up, because out herewe won't have to stop with one child. We can have all the babies wewant. You know the law: one child per couple, Joyce reminded her frigidly.You can condemn yourself to exile from civilization if you wish. Notme. Junior frowned at his wife. I believe you're actually glad ithappened. I could think of worse things, Reba said. I like your spunk, Reb, Grampa muttered. Speaking of children, Junior said, where's Four? Here. Four came through the airlock and trudged across the room,carrying a curious contraption made of tripod legs supporting asmall box from which dangled a plumb bob. Behind Four, like a round,raspberry shadow, rolled Fweep. Fweep? it queried hopefully. Not now, said Four. Where've you been? Reba asked anxiously. What've you been doing? I've been all over Fweepland, Four said wearily, trying to locateits center of gravity. Well? Fred prompted. It shifts. That's impossible, said Junior. Not for Fweep, Four replied. What do you mean by that? Joyce suspiciously asked. It shifted, Four explained patiently, because Fweep kept followingme. Fweep? Junior repeated stupidly. Fweep? Fweep said eagerly. He's why the flivver won't work. What Grampa invented was a linearpolarizer. Fweep is a circular polarizer. He's what makes this planetso heavy. He's why we can't leave. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep turned like a fat old man toasting himself infront of an open fire, and Junior sat at the computer's keyboardswearing in a steady monotone. Junior! said Joyce, shocked. Junior swung around impatiently. Sorry, Mother, but this damned thingwon't work. I'm sure that calling it names won't help, and besides, you shouldn'texpect a machine to do something that we can't do. And if it did work,it would only say that the logical answer is the one I sug— Mother! Junior warned. We decided not to talk about it any more.Four is strange enough without encouraging him to think like a martyr.It's out of the question. If that's the only way we can leave thisplanet, we'll stay here until Four has a beard as white as Grampa's! Well! Joyce said in a stiff, offended tone and sat back in her chair. Grampa lowered the nippled bottle from his lips and chortled. Junior,I apologize for all the mean things I ever said about you. Maybe yougot the makings of a Peppergrass yet. Junior turned back to the keyboard and studied it, his chin in hishand. It's just a matter of stating the problem in terms the computercan work on. I take it all back, said Grampa. That computer won't help you withthis problem, Junior. This ain't a long, complicated calculation; it'sa simple problem in logic. It's a pircuit problem, like the one aboutthe cannibals and the missionaries. We can't leave Fweepland becauseFweep won't let our polarizer work. He won't let our polarizer workbecause he doesn't like gravity that's polarized in a straight line,and he don't want Four to leave him. Now Fweep ain't the brightest creature in the Universe, so he can'tunderstand why we're so gosh-fired eager to leave. And as long as he'sgot Four, he's happy. Why should he make himself unhappy? As a favorto Four, he'd let us leave—if we'd leave Four here with him, which weain't gonna do. That's the problem. All we got to do is figure out the answer. No usemaking a pircuit, because a puzzle circuit is just a miniature computerwith the solution built in; if you can build the pircuit, you'vealready solved the problem. And if you can state the problem to Abacus,you've already got the answer. All you want from it then is decimalpoints. That may be, Junior said stubbornly, but I still want to know whythis computer won't work. It won't even do simple arithmetic! Where'sFour? He's the only one who understands this thing. He's outside, playing in the meadow with Fweep, Reba said, her voicesoft. No, here they come now. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What role does Fweep play in The Gravity Business?

Fweep is significant because he is the only creature living on Fweepland. He is a blob-shaped, raspberry-colored, gelatinous, transparent creature who sweeps up the debris that he runs over and engulfs it in his body. After he sweeps up particles, the outer inch or two of his body turns cloudy, then slowly clears. It seems he also absorbs substances from human contact since he follows a crooked path and hiccups after Grampa, who has been imbibing, pats him. He has a pseudo-mouth and makes the sound, or says the word, “Fweep.” His skin is impervious, and he has no enzymes or nervous system, so rat poison has no effect on him. Fweep immediately befriends Four. When Four explores Fweepland to identify its center of gravity, he discovers that it shifts because Fweep is a circular polarizer. Fweep is what makes the planet so heavy and prevents the flivver’s gravity polarizer from working so the family can leave. Fweep is slightly radioactive and likely immortal and incapable of reproduction since there is no need to reproduce. Because he has circular polarization, linear polarization is uncomfortable to him, so Fweep turned of the flivver’s gravity polarizer just before they landed. Fweep wants to be helpful, but he doesn’t want Four to leave since Four is the only friend he has ever had. Fweep was lonely before he met Four. Fweep will let the Peppergrass family leave only if Four stays with him. Fweep is responsible for the family’s landing on Fweepland and their predicament of being unable to leave.

What role does Four play in The Gravity Business? [SEP] <s>The land of the Fweep turned slowly on its axis. The orange sun set androse again and stared down once more at the meadow where the improbablespaceship rested on its improbable stern. The sixteen Earth hours thatthe rotation had taken had changed nothing inside the ship, either. Grampa looked up from his pircuit and said, If I were you, Junior, Iwould take a good look at the TV repairman when we get back to Earth. If we get back to Earth, he amended. You can't be Four's father.All over the Universe, gravity is the same, and if it's gravity, thepolarizer will polarize it. That's just supposition, Junior said stubbornly. The fact is, itisn't because it doesn't. Q.E.D. Maybe the polarizer is broken, Fred suggested. Grampa snorted. Broken-shmoken. Nothing to break, Young Fred. Just afew coils of copper wire and they're all right. We checked. We knowthe power plant is working: the lights are on, the air and waterrecirculation systems are going, the food resynthesizer is okay. And,anyway, the polarizer could work from the storage battery if it had to. Then it goes deeper, Junior insisted. It goes right to the principleof polarization itself. For some reason, it doesn't work here. Why?Before we can discover the answer to that, we'll have to know moreabout polarization itself. How does it work, Grampa? Grampa gave him a sarcastic grin. Now you're curious, eh? Couldn'tbe bothered with Grampa's invention before. Oh, no! Too busy. Acceptwithout question the blessings that the Good Lord provideth— Let's not get up on any pulpits, Fred growled. Come on, Grampa,what's the theory behind polarization? Grampa looked at the four faces staring at him hopefully and thejeering grin turned to a smile. Well, he said, at last. You knowhow light is polarized, eh? The smile faded. No, I guess you don't. <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through. I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves. I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What— Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised. The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago. At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay. You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that? Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully. What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of any kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience? Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing! But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this. He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy. I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity. One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow. Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent. No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what we did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right. <doc-sep>Grampa knitted his bushy, white eyebrows and petulantly pushed the lastbutton on his pircuit. The last light went out. You've got work todo, have you? Whose flivver do you think this is, anyhow? It belongs to all of us, Four said shrilly. You gave us all a sixthshare. That's right, Four, Grampa muttered, so I did. But whose moneybought it? You bought it, Grampa, Fred said. That's right! And who invented the gravity polarizer and the spaceflivver? Eh? Who made possible this gallivanting all over space? You, Grampa, Fred said. You bet! And who made one hundred million dollars out of it that therest of you vultures are just hanging around to gobble up when I die? And who spent it all trying to invent perpetual motion machines andlongevity pills, Joyce said bitterly, and fixed it so we'd have togo searching for uranium and habitable worlds all through this deadlygalaxy? You, Grampa! Well, now, Grampa protested, I got a little put away yet. You'll besorry when I'm dead and gone. You're never going to die, Grampa, Joyce said harshly. Justbefore we left, you bought a hundred-year contract with thatLife-Begins-At-Ninety longevity company. Well, now, said Grampa, blinking, how'd you find out about that?Well, now! In confusion, he turned back to the pircuit and jabbed abutton. Thirteen slim lights sprang on. I'll get you this time! Four stretched and stood up. He looked curiously into the corner by thecomputer where Grampa's chair stood. You brought that pircuit fromEarth, didn't you? What's the game? Grampa looked up, obviously relieved to drop his act of intenseconcentration. I'll tell you, boy. You play against the pircuit,taking turns, and you can put out one, two or three lights. The playerwho makes the other one turn out the last light is the winner. That's simple, Four said without hesitation. The winning strategy isto— Don't be a kibitzer! Grampa snapped. When I need help, I'll askfor it. No dad-blamed machine is gonna outthink Grampa! He snortedindignantly. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What role does Four play in The Gravity Business?

Four is the highly intelligent, eight-year-old youngest member of the Peppergrass family. Although he is the youngest, he is the one who figures out the answers to why Fweepland is so heavy and how Fweep disables the flivver’s gravity polarizer. As a child, he is more impulsive than the adults, for example rushing outside to meet Fweep when the others stay back, but this enables him to solve problems and answer questions faster. On the other hand, his lack of experience prevents him from solving the ultimate problem of how to leave the planet, but his riddles and comment that creating a puzzle means you already know the solution trigger an idea for Grampa that may help solve the family’s dilemma. By befriending Fweep so readily, Four discovers that Fweep is responsible for the planet’s “fake” heaviness and the failure of the flivver’s gravity polarizer. He also studies Fweep and determines his significant characteristics such as his impervious skin, lack of enzymes, and radioactivity. While the adults discuss and bemoan the fact that they cannot leave Fweepland, Four goes out and tries to identify the planet’s center of gravity and therefore discovers that Fweep affects the planet’s gravity and that he is a circular polarizer. At the end of the story, Junior even relies on Four to find out why the computer won’t work. Not only is Four a problem solver and investigator, but he is also logical and selfless. He realizes that Fweep doesn’t want him to leave and is willing to stay behind with Fweep so that the rest of his family can leave.

What is Joyce's part in The Gravity Business? [SEP] <s>Reba looked at Fweep kindly. We can thank the little fellow for that,anyway. I thank him for nothing, Joyce snapped. He lured us down here bymaking us think the planet had heavy metals and I want him to let us go immediately ! Fred turned impatiently on his wife. Well, try making him understand!And if you can make him understand what you want him to do, try makinghim do it! Joyce looked at Fred with startled eyes. Fred! she said in a high,shocked voice and turned blindly toward her room. Grampa lowered his bottle and smacked his lips. Well, boy, he said toFred, I thought you'd never do that. Didn't think you had it in you. Fred stood up apologetically. I'd better go calm her down, hemuttered, and walked quickly after Joyce. Give her one for me! Grampa called. Fred's shoulders twitched as the door closed behind him. From the roomcame the filtered sound of high-pitched voices rising and falling likesome reedy folk music. Makes you think, doesn't it? Grampa said, looking at Fweep benignly.Maybe the whole theory of gravitation is cockeyed. Maybe there's aFweep for every planet and sun, big and little, polarizing the gravityin circles, and the matter business is not a cause but a result. What I can't understand, Junior said thoughtfully, is why thepolarizer worked for a little while when we landed—long enough to keepus from being squashed—and then quit. Fweep didn't recognize it immediately, didn't know what it was orwhere it came from, Four explained. All he knew was he didn't likelinear polarization and he neutralized it as soon as he could. That'swhen we dropped. <doc-sep>He cleared his throat professorially. Well, now, in ordinary lightthe vibrations are perpendicular to the ray in all directions. Whenlight is polarized by passing through crystals or by reflection orrefraction at non-metallic surfaces, the paths of the vibrations arestill perpendicular to the ray, but they're in straight lines, circlesor ellipses. The faces were still blank and unillumined. Gravity is similar to light, he pressed on. In the absence ofmatter, gravity is non-polarized. Matter polarizes gravity in a circlearound itself. That's how we've always known it until the invention ofspaceships and later the polarizer. The polarizer polarizes gravityinto a straight line. That makes the ship take off and continueaccelerating until the polarizer is shut off or its angle is shifted. The faces looked at him silently. Finally Joyce could endure it nolonger. That's just nonsense! You all know it. Grampa's no genius.He's just a tinkerer. One day he happened to tinker out the polarizer.He doesn't know how it works any more than I do. Now wait a minute! Grampa protested. That's not fair. MaybeI didn't figure out the theory myself, but I read everything thescientists ever wrote about it. Wanted to know myself what made theblamed thing work. What I told you is what the scientists said, nearas I remember. Now me—I'm like Edison. I do it and let everybody elseworry over 'why.' The only thing you ever did was the polarizer, Joyce snapped.And then you spent everything you got from it on those foolperpetual-motion machines and those crazy longevity schemes when anymoron would know they were impossible. Grampa squinted at her sagely. That's what they said about the gravitypolarizer before I invented it. But you don't really know why it works, Junior persisted. Well, no, Grampa admitted. Actually I was just fiddling around withsome coils when one of them took off. Went right through the ceiling,dragging a battery behind it. I guess it's still going. Ought to be outnear the Horsehead Nebula by now. Luckily, I remembered how I'd woundit. Why won't the ship work then, if you know so much? Joyce demandedironically. Well, now, Grampa said in bafflement, it rightly should, you know. <doc-sep>We're stuck, Reba said softly. We might as well admit it. All we cando is set the transmitter to send out an automatic distress call— Which, Joyce interrupted, might get picked up in a few centuries. And make the best of what we've got, Reba went on, unheeding. If welook at it the right way, it's quite a lot. A beautiful, fertile world.Earth gravity. The flivver—even if the polarizer won't work, there'sthe resynthesizer; it will keep us in food and clothes for years. Bythen, we should have a good-sized community built up, because out herewe won't have to stop with one child. We can have all the babies wewant. You know the law: one child per couple, Joyce reminded her frigidly.You can condemn yourself to exile from civilization if you wish. Notme. Junior frowned at his wife. I believe you're actually glad ithappened. I could think of worse things, Reba said. I like your spunk, Reb, Grampa muttered. Speaking of children, Junior said, where's Four? Here. Four came through the airlock and trudged across the room,carrying a curious contraption made of tripod legs supporting asmall box from which dangled a plumb bob. Behind Four, like a round,raspberry shadow, rolled Fweep. Fweep? it queried hopefully. Not now, said Four. Where've you been? Reba asked anxiously. What've you been doing? I've been all over Fweepland, Four said wearily, trying to locateits center of gravity. Well? Fred prompted. It shifts. That's impossible, said Junior. Not for Fweep, Four replied. What do you mean by that? Joyce suspiciously asked. It shifted, Four explained patiently, because Fweep kept followingme. Fweep? Junior repeated stupidly. Fweep? Fweep said eagerly. He's why the flivver won't work. What Grampa invented was a linearpolarizer. Fweep is a circular polarizer. He's what makes this planetso heavy. He's why we can't leave. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is Joyce's part in The Gravity Business?

Joyce is Junior’s mother and Fred’s wife and is nearly sixty years old; she is still in good shape: slender, elegant, and attractive. However, she is described as having ice water instead of blood in her veins because she is such a cold-hearted woman much of the time. Joyce creates most of the tension in the story; she is frequently at odds with Grampa and says whatever she thinks, no matter how rude or hurtful it is. She presents as a spoiled, self-centered woman who only wants lots of money. Grampa’s inventions made him a multimillionaire, but she accuses him of wasting the money on new inventions and making it so that they had to travel the galaxy searching for uranium and other habitable worlds. When Grampa tells her he has set some money aside and she’ll be sorry when he’s dead, she responds that he’ll never die. And she knows he bought a hundred-year contract with the Life-Begins-At-Ninety longevity company. Joyce is eager to get her hands on some of Grampa’s money and resents that he is using some of it to carry out his research. When Four brings Fweep aboard the flivver, she is thoroughly disgusted and insists he take it back out; when Reba stands up for Four and Fweep and calls Joyce Grammy, Joyce is furious and goes into her private room. Later, she even tries to poison Fweep by leaving rat poison on the floor. When the men return from checking Fweepland for heavy metals or radioactive elements, she eagerly comes out of her room and immediately asks if they had found any uranium, radium, or thorium. Their negative answer again draws her ire and shows her greed. She complains to Fred that they are all supposed to get filthy rich finding radioactives and retire on Earth as billionaires. She resents the year they have spent looking for radioactives. When she learns that Fweep is the reason they can’t leave the planet, her first reaction is to kill him, and when she learns that killing him isn’t possible, she readily and seriously agrees to Grampa’s joke that they should leave Four behind so the rest of them can leave. Again, Joyce only wants what is best for her, and she is ready to kill or abandon anyone who stands in her way.

What is the storyline of THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR? [SEP] <s>But now there was a spy in the elevator. When I thought of how deeply he had penetrated our defenses, and of howmany others there might be, still penetrating, I shuddered. The wallswere our safeguards only so long as all potential enemies were on theother side of them. I sat shaken, digesting this news, until suddenly I remembered Linda. I leaped to my feet, reading from my watch that it was now ten-fifteen.I dashed once more from the apartment and down the hall to theelevator, praying that the spy had been captured by now and that Lindawould agree with me that a spy in the elevator was good and sufficientreason for me to be late. He was still there. At least, the elevator was still out. I sagged against the wall, thinking dismal thoughts. Then I noticed thedoor to the right of the elevator. Through that door was the stairway. I hadn't paid any attention to it before. No one ever uses the stairsexcept adventurous young boys playing cops and robbers, running up anddown from landing to landing. I myself hadn't set foot on a flight ofstairs since I was twelve years old. Actually, the whole idea of stairs was ridiculous. We had elevators,didn't we? Usually, I mean, when they didn't contain spies. So what wasthe use of stairs? Well, according to Dr. Kilbillie (a walking library of unnecessaryinformation), the Project had been built when there still had been suchthings as municipal governments (something to do with cities, whichwere more or less grouped Projects), and the local municipal governmenthad had on its books a fire ordinance, anachronistic even then, whichrequired a complete set of stairs in every building constructed in thecity. Ergo, the Project had stairs, thirty-two hundred of them. And now, after all these years, the stairs might prove useful afterall. It was only thirteen flights to Linda's floor. At sixteen steps aflight, that meant two hundred and eight steps. Could I descend two hundred and eight steps for my true love? I could.If the door would open. It would, though reluctantly. Who knew how many years it had been sincelast this door had been opened? It squeaked and wailed and groaned andfinally opened half way. I stepped through to the musty, dusty landing,took a deep breath, and started down. Eight steps and a landing, eightsteps and a floor. Eight steps and a landing, eight steps and a floor. On the landing between one fifty and one forty-nine, there was asmallish door. I paused, looking curiously at it, and saw that at onetime letters had been painted on it. The letters had long since flakedaway, but they left a lighter residue of dust than that which coveredthe rest of the door. And so the words could still be read, if withdifficulty. I read them. They said: EMERGENCY ENTRANCE ELEVATOR SHAFT AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY KEEP LOCKED I frowned, wondering immediately why this door wasn't being firmlyguarded by at least a platoon of Army men. Half a dozen possibleanswers flashed through my mind. The more recent maps might simplyhave omitted this discarded and unnecessary door. It might be sealedshut on the other side. The Army might have caught the spy already.Somebody in authority might simply have goofed. As I stood there, pondering these possibilities, the door opened andthe spy came out, waving a gun. III He couldn't have been anyone else but the spy. The gun, in the firstplace. The fact that he looked harried and upset and terribly nervous,in the second place. And, of course, the fact that he came from theelevator shaft. Looking back, I think he must have been just as startled as I when wecame face to face like that. We formed a brief tableau, both of usopen-mouthed and wide-eyed. Unfortunately, he recovered first. He closed the emergency door behind him, quickly but quietly. His gunstopped waving around and instead pointed directly at my middle. Don'tmove! he whispered harshly. Don't make a sound! I did exactly as I was told. I didn't move and I didn't make a sound.Which left me quite free to study him. He was rather short, perhaps three inches shorter than me, with a bonyhigh-cheekboned face featuring deepset eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. Hewore gray slacks and shirt, with brown slippers on his feet. He lookedexactly like a spy ... which is to say that he didn't look like aspy, he looked overpoweringly ordinary. More than anything else, hereminded me of a rather taciturn milkman who used to make deliveries tomy parents' apartment. His gaze darted this way and that. Then he motioned with his free handat the descending stairs and whispered, Where do they go? I had to clear my throat before I could speak. All the way down, Isaid. Good, he said—just as we both heard a sudden raucous squealing fromperhaps four flights down, a squealing which could be nothing but theopening of a hall door. It was followed by the heavy thud of ascendingboots. The Army! But if I had any visions of imminent rescue, the spy dashed them. Hesaid, Where do you live? One fifty-three, I said. This was a desperate and dangerous man.I knew my only slim chance of safety lay in answering his questionspromptly, cooperating with him until and unless I saw a chance toeither escape or capture him. All right, he whispered. Go on. He prodded me with the gun. And so we went back up the stairs to one fifty-three, and stopped atthe door. He stood close behind me, the gun pressed against my back,and grated in my ear, I'll have this gun in my pocket. If you make onefalse move I'll kill you. Now, we're going to your apartment. We'refriends, just strolling along together. You got that? I nodded. All right. Let's go. We went. I have never in my life seen that long hall quite so empty asit was right then. No one came out of any of the apartments, no oneemerged from any of the branch halls. We walked to my apartment. Ithumbed the door open and we went inside. Once the door was closed behind us, he visibly relaxed, sagging againstthe door, his gun hand hanging limp at his side, a nervous smileplaying across his lips. I looked at him, judging the distance between us, wondering if I couldleap at him before he could bring the gun up again. But he must haveread my intentions on my face. He straightened, shaking his head. Hesaid, Don't try it. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to killanybody, but I will if I have to. We'll just wait here together untilthe hue and cry passes us. Then I'll tie you up, so you won't be ableto sic your Army on me too soon, and I'll leave. If you don't try anysilly heroics, nothing will happen to you. You'll never get away, I told him. The whole Project is alerted. You let me worry about that, he said. He licked his lips. You gotany chico coffee? Yes. Make me a cup. And don't get any bright ideas about dousing me withboiling water. I only have my day's allotment, I protested. Just enough for twocups, lunch and dinner. Two cups is fine, he said. One for each of us. <doc-sep>It took three tries before I got through to a hurried-looking femalereceptionist My name is Rice! I bellowed. Edmund Rice! I live on thehundred and fifty-third floor! I just rang for the elevator and—— The-elevator-is-disconnected. She said it very rapidly, as though shewere growing very used to saying it. It only stopped me for a second. Disconnected? What do you meandisconnected? Elevators don't get disconnected! I told her. We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible, she rattled. My bellowingwas bouncing off her like radiation off the Project force-screen. I changed tactics. First I inhaled, making a production out of it,giving myself a chance to calm down a bit. And then I asked, asrationally as you could please, Would you mind terribly telling me why the elevator is disconnected? I-am-sorry-sir-but-that—— Stop, I said. I said it quietly, too, but she stopped. I saw herlooking at me. She hadn't done that before, she'd merely gazed blanklyat her screen and parroted her responses. But now she was actually looking at me . I took advantage of the fact. Calmly, rationally, I said to her, Iwould like to tell you something, Miss. I would like to tell you justwhat you people have done to me by disconnecting the elevator. You haveruined my life. She blinked, open-mouthed. Ruined your life? Precisely. I found it necessary to inhale again, even more slowlythan before. I was on my way, I explained, to propose to a girl whomI dearly love. In every way but one, she is the perfect woman. Do youunderstand me? She nodded, wide-eyed. I had stumbled on a romantic, though I was toopreoccupied to notice it at the time. In every way but one, I continued. She has one small imperfection,a fixation about punctuality. And I was supposed to meet her at teno'clock. I'm late! I shook my fist at the screen. Do you realizewhat you've done , disconnecting the elevator? Not only won't shemarry me, she won't even speak to me! Not now! Not after this! Sir, she said tremulously, please don't shout. I'm not shouting! Sir, I'm terribly sorry. I understand your— You understand ? I trembled with speechless fury. She looked all about her, and then leaned closer to the screen,revealing a cleavage that I was too distraught at the moment to payany attention to. We're not supposed to give this information out,sir, she said, her voice low, but I'm going to tell you, so you'llunderstand why we had to do it. I think it's perfectly awful that ithad to ruin things for you this way. But the fact of the matter is—she leaned even closer to the screen—there's a spy in the elevator. II It was my turn to be stunned. I just gaped at her. A—a what? A spy. He was discovered on the hundred forty-seventh floor, andmanaged to get into the elevator before the Army could catch him. Hejammed it between floors. But the Army is doing everything it can thinkof to get him out. Well—but why should there be any problem about getting him out? He plugged in the manual controls. We can't control the elevator fromoutside at all. And when anyone tries to get into the shaft, he aimsthe elevator at them. That sounded impossible. He aims the elevator? He runs it up and down the shaft, she explained, trying to crushanybody who goes after him. Oh, I said. So it might take a while. She leaned so close this time that even I, distracted as I was, couldhardly help but take note of her cleavage. She whispered, They'reafraid they'll have to starve him out. Oh, no! She nodded solemnly. I'm terribly sorry, sir, she said. Then sheglanced to her right, suddenly straightened up again, and said,We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible. Click. Blank screen. For a minute or two, all I could do was sit and absorb what I'd beentold. A spy in the elevator! A spy who had managed to work his way allthe way up to the hundred forty-seventh floor before being unmasked! What in the world was the matter with the Army? If things were gettingthat lax, the Project was doomed, force-screen or no. Who knew how manymore spies there were in the Project, still unsuspected? Until that moment, the state of siege in which we all lived had hadno reality for me. The Project, after all, was self-sufficient andcompletely enclosed. No one ever left, no one ever entered. Under ourroof, we were a nation, two hundred stories high. The ever-presentthreat of other projects had never been more for me—or for most otherpeople either, I suspected—than occasional ore-sleds that didn'treturn, occasional spies shot down as they tried to sneak into thebuilding, occasional spies of our own leaving the Project in tinyradiation-proof cars, hoping to get safely within another project andbring back news of any immediate threats and dangers that project mightbe planning for us. Most spies didn't return; most ore-sleds did. Andwithin the Project life was full, the knowledge of external dangersmerely lurking at the backs of our minds. After all, those externaldangers had been no more than potential for decades, since what Dr.Kilbillie called the Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War. Dr. Kilbillie—Intermediate Project History, when I was fifteen yearsold—had private names for every major war of the twentieth century.There was the Ignoble Nobleman's War, the Racial Non-Racial War, andthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, known to the textbooks of course asWorld Wars One, Two, and Three. The rise of the Projects, according to Dr. Kilbillie, was the result ofmany many factors, but two of the most important were the populationexplosion and the Treaty of Oslo. The population explosion, of course,meant that there was continuously more and more people but never anymore space. So that housing, in the historically short time of onecentury, made a complete transformation from horizontal expansion tovertical. Before 1900, the vast majority of human beings lived intiny huts of from one to five stories. By 2000, everybody lived inProjects. From the very beginning, small attempts were made to makethese Projects more than dwelling places. By mid-century, Projects(also called apartments and co-ops) already included restaurants,shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners and a host ofother adjuncts. By the end of the century, the Projects were completelyself-sufficient, with food grown hydroponically in the sub-basements,separate floors set aside for schools and churches and factories, robotore-sleds capable of seeking out raw materials unavailable within theProjects themselves and so on. And all because of, among other things,the population explosion. And the Treaty of Oslo. It seems there was a power-struggle between two sets of then-existingnations (they were something like Projects, only horizontal instead ofvertical) and both sets were equipped with atomic weapons. The Treatyof Oslo began by stating that atomic war was unthinkable, and addedthat just in case anyone happened to think of it only tactical atomicweapons could be used. No strategic atomic weapons. (A tacticalweapon is something you use on the soldiers, and a strategic weapons issomething you use on the folks at home.) Oddly enough, when somebodydid think of the war, both sides adhered to the Treaty of Oslo, whichmeant that no Projects were bombed. Of course, they made up for this as best they could by using tacticalatomic weapons all over the place. After the war almost the wholeworld was quite dangerously radioactive. Except for the Projects. Orat least those of them which had in time installed the force screenswhich had been invented on the very eve of battle, and which deflectedradioactive particles. However, what with all of the other treaties which were broken duringthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, by the time it was finished nobodywas quite sure any more who was on whose side. That project over thereon the horizon might be an ally. And then again it might not. Sincethey weren't sure either, it was risky to expose yourself in order toask. And so life went on, with little to remind us of the dangers lurkingOutside. The basic policy of Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparednesswas left to the Army. The rest of us simply lived our lives and let itgo at that. <doc-sep> THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was dangerously insane. He threatened to destroy everything that was noble and decent—including my date with my girl! When the elevator didn't come, that just made the day perfect. A brokenegg yolk, a stuck zipper, a feedback in the aircon exhaust, the windowsticking at full transparency—well, I won't go through the whole sorrylist. Suffice it to say that when the elevator didn't come, that putthe roof on the city, as they say. It was just one of those days. Everybody gets them. Days when you'relucky in you make it to nightfall with no bones broken. But of all times for it to happen! For literally months I'd beenbuilding my courage up. And finally, just today, I had made up mymind to do it—to propose to Linda. I'd called her second thing thismorning—right after the egg yolk—and invited myself down to herplace. Ten o'clock, she'd said, smiling sweetly at me out of thephone. She knew why I wanted to talk to her. And when Linda said teno'clock, she meant ten o'clock. Don't get me wrong. I don't mean that Linda's a perfectionist or aharridan or anything like that. Far from it. But she does have afixation on that one subject of punctuality. The result of her job,of course. She was an ore-sled dispatcher. Ore-sleds, being robots,were invariably punctual. If an ore-sled didn't return on time, no onewaited for it. They simply knew that it had been captured by some otherProject and had blown itself up. Well, of course, after working as an ore-sled dispatcher for threeyears, Linda quite naturally was a bit obsessed. I remember one time,shortly after we'd started dating, when I arrived at her place fiveminutes late and found her having hysterics. She thought I'd beenkilled. She couldn't visualize anything less than that keeping me fromarriving at the designated moment. When I told her what actually hadhappened—I'd broken a shoe lace—she refused to speak to me for fourdays. And then the elevator didn't come. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the storyline of THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR?

It was one of those days when everything that could go wrong, goes wrong. Edmund Rice, the main character, has decided to propose to his girlfriend, Linda on the day when the story takes place, but at breakfast, he broke his egg yolk; he had a stuck zipper; he had feedback in the aircon exhaust; and his window stuck at full transparency. On top of all that, the elevator is late. Edmund’s girlfriend is a dispatcher for ore-sled robots; when one doesn’t return on time, they know that the robot has been been captured and therefore blown itself up. As a result, Linda is a real stickler for punctuality because if Edmund is late, as he was once before, she goes into hysterics thinking that something horrible has happened to him. When the elevator doesn’t come, Edmund goes back to his apartment to call Linda to let her know why he will be late, but she has set her phone not to accept calls since she was expecting Edmund to come propose to her. Edmund decides to complain to the Transit Staff, who give him the official statement that the elevator is disconnected, but when Edmund explains that the late elevator is ruining his life, the operator takes pity on him and secretly tells him there is a spy on the elevator who won’t get off, and the Army might have to starve him to make him exit. Finally, at 10:15, Edmund thinks of taking the stairs, but when he does, the spy intercepts him, forcing him at gunpoint back to Edmund’s apartment. At this point, Edmund gives up on reaching Linda. The spy tells Edmund he doesn’t want to hurt him and begins a conversation, asking what Edmund does for a living. Because Edmund doesn’t want the spy to know that he teaches gymnastics and knows wrestling, judo, and karati, he lies and tells him he is an ore-sled operator, figuring he can pull off the ruse since he knows a lot about Linda’s job. This piques the spy’s interest, and he asks what Edmund knows about the radiation level of the ore-sleds when they return. Edmund says they don’t check for radiation before de-radiating the sled; there’s no point. The spy is irritated that Edmund doesn’t even care about the radiation level outside the Project and compares the Projects to caves. The spy goes on to tell Edmund he isn’t a spy, that he is an atomic engineer from a Project 80 miles north. He traveled to Edmund’s Project on foot without any kind of radiation shield to prove that the radiation level is so low that it is safe for people to leaves the Projects. He is trying to get the word out, but people don’t believe him because their Commissions tell them the radiation level is still high and that it isn’t safe to go outside. Edmund thinks the man is a lunatic and doesn’t believe any of the ludicrous claims he makes.

What role does Linda play in THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR? [SEP] <s>But now there was a spy in the elevator. When I thought of how deeply he had penetrated our defenses, and of howmany others there might be, still penetrating, I shuddered. The wallswere our safeguards only so long as all potential enemies were on theother side of them. I sat shaken, digesting this news, until suddenly I remembered Linda. I leaped to my feet, reading from my watch that it was now ten-fifteen.I dashed once more from the apartment and down the hall to theelevator, praying that the spy had been captured by now and that Lindawould agree with me that a spy in the elevator was good and sufficientreason for me to be late. He was still there. At least, the elevator was still out. I sagged against the wall, thinking dismal thoughts. Then I noticed thedoor to the right of the elevator. Through that door was the stairway. I hadn't paid any attention to it before. No one ever uses the stairsexcept adventurous young boys playing cops and robbers, running up anddown from landing to landing. I myself hadn't set foot on a flight ofstairs since I was twelve years old. Actually, the whole idea of stairs was ridiculous. We had elevators,didn't we? Usually, I mean, when they didn't contain spies. So what wasthe use of stairs? Well, according to Dr. Kilbillie (a walking library of unnecessaryinformation), the Project had been built when there still had been suchthings as municipal governments (something to do with cities, whichwere more or less grouped Projects), and the local municipal governmenthad had on its books a fire ordinance, anachronistic even then, whichrequired a complete set of stairs in every building constructed in thecity. Ergo, the Project had stairs, thirty-two hundred of them. And now, after all these years, the stairs might prove useful afterall. It was only thirteen flights to Linda's floor. At sixteen steps aflight, that meant two hundred and eight steps. Could I descend two hundred and eight steps for my true love? I could.If the door would open. It would, though reluctantly. Who knew how many years it had been sincelast this door had been opened? It squeaked and wailed and groaned andfinally opened half way. I stepped through to the musty, dusty landing,took a deep breath, and started down. Eight steps and a landing, eightsteps and a floor. Eight steps and a landing, eight steps and a floor. On the landing between one fifty and one forty-nine, there was asmallish door. I paused, looking curiously at it, and saw that at onetime letters had been painted on it. The letters had long since flakedaway, but they left a lighter residue of dust than that which coveredthe rest of the door. And so the words could still be read, if withdifficulty. I read them. They said: EMERGENCY ENTRANCE ELEVATOR SHAFT AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY KEEP LOCKED I frowned, wondering immediately why this door wasn't being firmlyguarded by at least a platoon of Army men. Half a dozen possibleanswers flashed through my mind. The more recent maps might simplyhave omitted this discarded and unnecessary door. It might be sealedshut on the other side. The Army might have caught the spy already.Somebody in authority might simply have goofed. As I stood there, pondering these possibilities, the door opened andthe spy came out, waving a gun. III He couldn't have been anyone else but the spy. The gun, in the firstplace. The fact that he looked harried and upset and terribly nervous,in the second place. And, of course, the fact that he came from theelevator shaft. Looking back, I think he must have been just as startled as I when wecame face to face like that. We formed a brief tableau, both of usopen-mouthed and wide-eyed. Unfortunately, he recovered first. He closed the emergency door behind him, quickly but quietly. His gunstopped waving around and instead pointed directly at my middle. Don'tmove! he whispered harshly. Don't make a sound! I did exactly as I was told. I didn't move and I didn't make a sound.Which left me quite free to study him. He was rather short, perhaps three inches shorter than me, with a bonyhigh-cheekboned face featuring deepset eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. Hewore gray slacks and shirt, with brown slippers on his feet. He lookedexactly like a spy ... which is to say that he didn't look like aspy, he looked overpoweringly ordinary. More than anything else, hereminded me of a rather taciturn milkman who used to make deliveries tomy parents' apartment. His gaze darted this way and that. Then he motioned with his free handat the descending stairs and whispered, Where do they go? I had to clear my throat before I could speak. All the way down, Isaid. Good, he said—just as we both heard a sudden raucous squealing fromperhaps four flights down, a squealing which could be nothing but theopening of a hall door. It was followed by the heavy thud of ascendingboots. The Army! But if I had any visions of imminent rescue, the spy dashed them. Hesaid, Where do you live? One fifty-three, I said. This was a desperate and dangerous man.I knew my only slim chance of safety lay in answering his questionspromptly, cooperating with him until and unless I saw a chance toeither escape or capture him. All right, he whispered. Go on. He prodded me with the gun. And so we went back up the stairs to one fifty-three, and stopped atthe door. He stood close behind me, the gun pressed against my back,and grated in my ear, I'll have this gun in my pocket. If you make onefalse move I'll kill you. Now, we're going to your apartment. We'refriends, just strolling along together. You got that? I nodded. All right. Let's go. We went. I have never in my life seen that long hall quite so empty asit was right then. No one came out of any of the apartments, no oneemerged from any of the branch halls. We walked to my apartment. Ithumbed the door open and we went inside. Once the door was closed behind us, he visibly relaxed, sagging againstthe door, his gun hand hanging limp at his side, a nervous smileplaying across his lips. I looked at him, judging the distance between us, wondering if I couldleap at him before he could bring the gun up again. But he must haveread my intentions on my face. He straightened, shaking his head. Hesaid, Don't try it. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to killanybody, but I will if I have to. We'll just wait here together untilthe hue and cry passes us. Then I'll tie you up, so you won't be ableto sic your Army on me too soon, and I'll leave. If you don't try anysilly heroics, nothing will happen to you. You'll never get away, I told him. The whole Project is alerted. You let me worry about that, he said. He licked his lips. You gotany chico coffee? Yes. Make me a cup. And don't get any bright ideas about dousing me withboiling water. I only have my day's allotment, I protested. Just enough for twocups, lunch and dinner. Two cups is fine, he said. One for each of us. <doc-sep> THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was dangerously insane. He threatened to destroy everything that was noble and decent—including my date with my girl! When the elevator didn't come, that just made the day perfect. A brokenegg yolk, a stuck zipper, a feedback in the aircon exhaust, the windowsticking at full transparency—well, I won't go through the whole sorrylist. Suffice it to say that when the elevator didn't come, that putthe roof on the city, as they say. It was just one of those days. Everybody gets them. Days when you'relucky in you make it to nightfall with no bones broken. But of all times for it to happen! For literally months I'd beenbuilding my courage up. And finally, just today, I had made up mymind to do it—to propose to Linda. I'd called her second thing thismorning—right after the egg yolk—and invited myself down to herplace. Ten o'clock, she'd said, smiling sweetly at me out of thephone. She knew why I wanted to talk to her. And when Linda said teno'clock, she meant ten o'clock. Don't get me wrong. I don't mean that Linda's a perfectionist or aharridan or anything like that. Far from it. But she does have afixation on that one subject of punctuality. The result of her job,of course. She was an ore-sled dispatcher. Ore-sleds, being robots,were invariably punctual. If an ore-sled didn't return on time, no onewaited for it. They simply knew that it had been captured by some otherProject and had blown itself up. Well, of course, after working as an ore-sled dispatcher for threeyears, Linda quite naturally was a bit obsessed. I remember one time,shortly after we'd started dating, when I arrived at her place fiveminutes late and found her having hysterics. She thought I'd beenkilled. She couldn't visualize anything less than that keeping me fromarriving at the designated moment. When I told her what actually hadhappened—I'd broken a shoe lace—she refused to speak to me for fourdays. And then the elevator didn't come. <doc-sep>Until then, I'd managed somehow to keep the day's minor disasters fromruining my mood. Even while eating that horrible egg—I couldn't verywell throw it away, broken yolk or no; it was my breakfast allotmentand I was hungry—and while hurriedly jury-rigging drapery across thatgaspingly transparent window—one hundred and fifty-three storiesstraight down to slag—I kept going over and over my prepared proposalspeeches, trying to select the most effective one. I had a Whimsical Approach: Honey, I see there's a nice littleNon-P apartment available up on one seventy-three. And I had aRomantic Approach: Darling, I can't live without you at the moment.Temporarily, I'm madly in love with you. I want to share my lifewith you for a while. Will you be provisionally mine? I even had aStraightforward Approach: Linda, I'm going to be needing a wife for atleast a year or two, and I can't think of anyone I would rather spendthat time with than you. Actually, though I wouldn't even have admitted this to Linda, much lessto anyone else, I loved her in more than a Non-P way. But even if weboth had been genetically desirable (neither of us were) I knew thatLinda relished her freedom and independence too much to ever contractfor any kind of marriage other than Non-P—Non-Permanent, No Progeny. So I rehearsed my various approaches, realizing that when the timecame I would probably be so tongue-tied I'd be capable of no morethan a blurted, Will you marry me? and I struggled with zippers andmalfunctioning air-cons, and I managed somehow to leave the apartmentat five minutes to ten. Linda lived down on the hundred fortieth floor, thirteen stories away.It never took more than two or three minutes to get to her place, so Iwas giving myself plenty of time. But then the elevator didn't come. I pushed the button, waited, and nothing happened. I couldn'tunderstand it. The elevator had always arrived before, within thirty seconds ofthe button being pushed. This was a local stop, with an elevatorthat traveled between the hundred thirty-third floor and the hundredsixty-seventh floor, where it was possible to make connections foreither the next local or for the express. So it couldn't be more thantwenty stories away. And this was a non-rush hour. I pushed the button again, and then I waited some more. I looked at mywatch and it was three minutes to ten. Two minutes, and no elevator! Ifit didn't arrive this instant, this second, I would be late. It didn't arrive. I vacillated, not knowing what to do next. Stay, hoping the elevatorwould come after all? Or hurry back to the apartment and call Linda, togive her advance warning that I would be late? Ten more seconds, and still no elevator. I chose the secondalternative, raced back down the hall, and thumbed my way into myapartment. I dialed Linda's number, and the screen lit up with whiteletters on black: PRIVACY DISCONNECTION. Of course! Linda expected me at any moment. And she knew what I wantedto say to her, so quite naturally she had disconnected the phone, tokeep us from being interrupted. Frantic, I dashed from the apartment again, back down the hall to theelevator, and leaned on that blasted button with all my weight. Even ifthe elevator should arrive right now, I would still be almost a minutelate. No matter. It didn't arrive. I would have been in a howling rage anyway, but this impossibilitypiled on top of all the other annoyances and breakdowns of the daywas just too much. I went into a frenzy, and kicked the elevator doorthree times before I realized I was hurting myself more than I washurting the door. I limped back to the apartment, fuming, slammed thedoor behind me, grabbed the phone book and looked up the number ofthe Transit Staff. I dialed, prepared to register a complaint so loudthey'd be able to hear me in sub-basement three. I got some more letters that spelled: BUSY. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What role does Linda play in THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR?

Linda is the woman to whom Edmund intends to propose. She is the reason Edmund is trying to get on the elevator and why he ultimately decides to take the stairs, leading him to meet the spy. Linda’s job as an ore-sled operator has left her high-strung when it comes to punctuality. She sends robots out with ore-sleds, and when they don’t return on time, they know that the robot has been captured and has blown itself up to prevent other Projects from learning their technology secrets. Once when Edmund was late for a date with her, Linda worked herself into hysterics, and when he did show up, she refused to speak to Edmund for four days. Edmund has spent months building up the courage to propose to Linda, and the day he plans to do it, everything goes awry, making him run late. But he still reaches the elevator in time to reach Linda’s place thirteen stories below his level on time, except the elevator doesn’t come. The longer he waits for the elevator car, the more anxious Edmund grows, knowing that Linda will be so upset if he is late he won’t get to propose. Edmund loves Linda and would like to have a permanent marriage, but he realizes that Linda enjoys her freedom and independence too much to agree to a permanent marriage. Edmund will settle for a Non-P marriage with her: Non-Permanent, No Progeny. Linda anticipates Edmund’s proposal when he calls that morning to invite himself to her apartment. He can tell by her smile on the phone. In preparation for the proposal, Linda has set her phone to PRIVACY DISCONNECTION to prevent their proposal from being interrupted, but this also means that Edmund cannot reach her to let her know he is running late and why. Edmund is convinced that she won’t speak to him again after being late for the proposal and certainly will not accept his proposal. In a last-ditch effort to reach Linda, Edmund decides he can take 208 stairs to reach her, even though he hasn’t taken the stairs since he was 12 years old. This decision, of course, puts him in the path to run into the spy. Finally, Linda’s job helps Edmund believe he can overtake the spy if he can catch him off guard. Edmund knows enough about her job to talk about it with the spy, keeping his knowledge of wrestling, judo, and karate secret until he can make his move.

What are the physical and social environments depicted in THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR? [SEP] <s>But now there was a spy in the elevator. When I thought of how deeply he had penetrated our defenses, and of howmany others there might be, still penetrating, I shuddered. The wallswere our safeguards only so long as all potential enemies were on theother side of them. I sat shaken, digesting this news, until suddenly I remembered Linda. I leaped to my feet, reading from my watch that it was now ten-fifteen.I dashed once more from the apartment and down the hall to theelevator, praying that the spy had been captured by now and that Lindawould agree with me that a spy in the elevator was good and sufficientreason for me to be late. He was still there. At least, the elevator was still out. I sagged against the wall, thinking dismal thoughts. Then I noticed thedoor to the right of the elevator. Through that door was the stairway. I hadn't paid any attention to it before. No one ever uses the stairsexcept adventurous young boys playing cops and robbers, running up anddown from landing to landing. I myself hadn't set foot on a flight ofstairs since I was twelve years old. Actually, the whole idea of stairs was ridiculous. We had elevators,didn't we? Usually, I mean, when they didn't contain spies. So what wasthe use of stairs? Well, according to Dr. Kilbillie (a walking library of unnecessaryinformation), the Project had been built when there still had been suchthings as municipal governments (something to do with cities, whichwere more or less grouped Projects), and the local municipal governmenthad had on its books a fire ordinance, anachronistic even then, whichrequired a complete set of stairs in every building constructed in thecity. Ergo, the Project had stairs, thirty-two hundred of them. And now, after all these years, the stairs might prove useful afterall. It was only thirteen flights to Linda's floor. At sixteen steps aflight, that meant two hundred and eight steps. Could I descend two hundred and eight steps for my true love? I could.If the door would open. It would, though reluctantly. Who knew how many years it had been sincelast this door had been opened? It squeaked and wailed and groaned andfinally opened half way. I stepped through to the musty, dusty landing,took a deep breath, and started down. Eight steps and a landing, eightsteps and a floor. Eight steps and a landing, eight steps and a floor. On the landing between one fifty and one forty-nine, there was asmallish door. I paused, looking curiously at it, and saw that at onetime letters had been painted on it. The letters had long since flakedaway, but they left a lighter residue of dust than that which coveredthe rest of the door. And so the words could still be read, if withdifficulty. I read them. They said: EMERGENCY ENTRANCE ELEVATOR SHAFT AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY KEEP LOCKED I frowned, wondering immediately why this door wasn't being firmlyguarded by at least a platoon of Army men. Half a dozen possibleanswers flashed through my mind. The more recent maps might simplyhave omitted this discarded and unnecessary door. It might be sealedshut on the other side. The Army might have caught the spy already.Somebody in authority might simply have goofed. As I stood there, pondering these possibilities, the door opened andthe spy came out, waving a gun. III He couldn't have been anyone else but the spy. The gun, in the firstplace. The fact that he looked harried and upset and terribly nervous,in the second place. And, of course, the fact that he came from theelevator shaft. Looking back, I think he must have been just as startled as I when wecame face to face like that. We formed a brief tableau, both of usopen-mouthed and wide-eyed. Unfortunately, he recovered first. He closed the emergency door behind him, quickly but quietly. His gunstopped waving around and instead pointed directly at my middle. Don'tmove! he whispered harshly. Don't make a sound! I did exactly as I was told. I didn't move and I didn't make a sound.Which left me quite free to study him. He was rather short, perhaps three inches shorter than me, with a bonyhigh-cheekboned face featuring deepset eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. Hewore gray slacks and shirt, with brown slippers on his feet. He lookedexactly like a spy ... which is to say that he didn't look like aspy, he looked overpoweringly ordinary. More than anything else, hereminded me of a rather taciturn milkman who used to make deliveries tomy parents' apartment. His gaze darted this way and that. Then he motioned with his free handat the descending stairs and whispered, Where do they go? I had to clear my throat before I could speak. All the way down, Isaid. Good, he said—just as we both heard a sudden raucous squealing fromperhaps four flights down, a squealing which could be nothing but theopening of a hall door. It was followed by the heavy thud of ascendingboots. The Army! But if I had any visions of imminent rescue, the spy dashed them. Hesaid, Where do you live? One fifty-three, I said. This was a desperate and dangerous man.I knew my only slim chance of safety lay in answering his questionspromptly, cooperating with him until and unless I saw a chance toeither escape or capture him. All right, he whispered. Go on. He prodded me with the gun. And so we went back up the stairs to one fifty-three, and stopped atthe door. He stood close behind me, the gun pressed against my back,and grated in my ear, I'll have this gun in my pocket. If you make onefalse move I'll kill you. Now, we're going to your apartment. We'refriends, just strolling along together. You got that? I nodded. All right. Let's go. We went. I have never in my life seen that long hall quite so empty asit was right then. No one came out of any of the apartments, no oneemerged from any of the branch halls. We walked to my apartment. Ithumbed the door open and we went inside. Once the door was closed behind us, he visibly relaxed, sagging againstthe door, his gun hand hanging limp at his side, a nervous smileplaying across his lips. I looked at him, judging the distance between us, wondering if I couldleap at him before he could bring the gun up again. But he must haveread my intentions on my face. He straightened, shaking his head. Hesaid, Don't try it. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to killanybody, but I will if I have to. We'll just wait here together untilthe hue and cry passes us. Then I'll tie you up, so you won't be ableto sic your Army on me too soon, and I'll leave. If you don't try anysilly heroics, nothing will happen to you. You'll never get away, I told him. The whole Project is alerted. You let me worry about that, he said. He licked his lips. You gotany chico coffee? Yes. Make me a cup. And don't get any bright ideas about dousing me withboiling water. I only have my day's allotment, I protested. Just enough for twocups, lunch and dinner. Two cups is fine, he said. One for each of us. <doc-sep>It took three tries before I got through to a hurried-looking femalereceptionist My name is Rice! I bellowed. Edmund Rice! I live on thehundred and fifty-third floor! I just rang for the elevator and—— The-elevator-is-disconnected. She said it very rapidly, as though shewere growing very used to saying it. It only stopped me for a second. Disconnected? What do you meandisconnected? Elevators don't get disconnected! I told her. We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible, she rattled. My bellowingwas bouncing off her like radiation off the Project force-screen. I changed tactics. First I inhaled, making a production out of it,giving myself a chance to calm down a bit. And then I asked, asrationally as you could please, Would you mind terribly telling me why the elevator is disconnected? I-am-sorry-sir-but-that—— Stop, I said. I said it quietly, too, but she stopped. I saw herlooking at me. She hadn't done that before, she'd merely gazed blanklyat her screen and parroted her responses. But now she was actually looking at me . I took advantage of the fact. Calmly, rationally, I said to her, Iwould like to tell you something, Miss. I would like to tell you justwhat you people have done to me by disconnecting the elevator. You haveruined my life. She blinked, open-mouthed. Ruined your life? Precisely. I found it necessary to inhale again, even more slowlythan before. I was on my way, I explained, to propose to a girl whomI dearly love. In every way but one, she is the perfect woman. Do youunderstand me? She nodded, wide-eyed. I had stumbled on a romantic, though I was toopreoccupied to notice it at the time. In every way but one, I continued. She has one small imperfection,a fixation about punctuality. And I was supposed to meet her at teno'clock. I'm late! I shook my fist at the screen. Do you realizewhat you've done , disconnecting the elevator? Not only won't shemarry me, she won't even speak to me! Not now! Not after this! Sir, she said tremulously, please don't shout. I'm not shouting! Sir, I'm terribly sorry. I understand your— You understand ? I trembled with speechless fury. She looked all about her, and then leaned closer to the screen,revealing a cleavage that I was too distraught at the moment to payany attention to. We're not supposed to give this information out,sir, she said, her voice low, but I'm going to tell you, so you'llunderstand why we had to do it. I think it's perfectly awful that ithad to ruin things for you this way. But the fact of the matter is—she leaned even closer to the screen—there's a spy in the elevator. II It was my turn to be stunned. I just gaped at her. A—a what? A spy. He was discovered on the hundred forty-seventh floor, andmanaged to get into the elevator before the Army could catch him. Hejammed it between floors. But the Army is doing everything it can thinkof to get him out. Well—but why should there be any problem about getting him out? He plugged in the manual controls. We can't control the elevator fromoutside at all. And when anyone tries to get into the shaft, he aimsthe elevator at them. That sounded impossible. He aims the elevator? He runs it up and down the shaft, she explained, trying to crushanybody who goes after him. Oh, I said. So it might take a while. She leaned so close this time that even I, distracted as I was, couldhardly help but take note of her cleavage. She whispered, They'reafraid they'll have to starve him out. Oh, no! She nodded solemnly. I'm terribly sorry, sir, she said. Then sheglanced to her right, suddenly straightened up again, and said,We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible. Click. Blank screen. For a minute or two, all I could do was sit and absorb what I'd beentold. A spy in the elevator! A spy who had managed to work his way allthe way up to the hundred forty-seventh floor before being unmasked! What in the world was the matter with the Army? If things were gettingthat lax, the Project was doomed, force-screen or no. Who knew how manymore spies there were in the Project, still unsuspected? Until that moment, the state of siege in which we all lived had hadno reality for me. The Project, after all, was self-sufficient andcompletely enclosed. No one ever left, no one ever entered. Under ourroof, we were a nation, two hundred stories high. The ever-presentthreat of other projects had never been more for me—or for most otherpeople either, I suspected—than occasional ore-sleds that didn'treturn, occasional spies shot down as they tried to sneak into thebuilding, occasional spies of our own leaving the Project in tinyradiation-proof cars, hoping to get safely within another project andbring back news of any immediate threats and dangers that project mightbe planning for us. Most spies didn't return; most ore-sleds did. Andwithin the Project life was full, the knowledge of external dangersmerely lurking at the backs of our minds. After all, those externaldangers had been no more than potential for decades, since what Dr.Kilbillie called the Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War. Dr. Kilbillie—Intermediate Project History, when I was fifteen yearsold—had private names for every major war of the twentieth century.There was the Ignoble Nobleman's War, the Racial Non-Racial War, andthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, known to the textbooks of course asWorld Wars One, Two, and Three. The rise of the Projects, according to Dr. Kilbillie, was the result ofmany many factors, but two of the most important were the populationexplosion and the Treaty of Oslo. The population explosion, of course,meant that there was continuously more and more people but never anymore space. So that housing, in the historically short time of onecentury, made a complete transformation from horizontal expansion tovertical. Before 1900, the vast majority of human beings lived intiny huts of from one to five stories. By 2000, everybody lived inProjects. From the very beginning, small attempts were made to makethese Projects more than dwelling places. By mid-century, Projects(also called apartments and co-ops) already included restaurants,shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners and a host ofother adjuncts. By the end of the century, the Projects were completelyself-sufficient, with food grown hydroponically in the sub-basements,separate floors set aside for schools and churches and factories, robotore-sleds capable of seeking out raw materials unavailable within theProjects themselves and so on. And all because of, among other things,the population explosion. And the Treaty of Oslo. It seems there was a power-struggle between two sets of then-existingnations (they were something like Projects, only horizontal instead ofvertical) and both sets were equipped with atomic weapons. The Treatyof Oslo began by stating that atomic war was unthinkable, and addedthat just in case anyone happened to think of it only tactical atomicweapons could be used. No strategic atomic weapons. (A tacticalweapon is something you use on the soldiers, and a strategic weapons issomething you use on the folks at home.) Oddly enough, when somebodydid think of the war, both sides adhered to the Treaty of Oslo, whichmeant that no Projects were bombed. Of course, they made up for this as best they could by using tacticalatomic weapons all over the place. After the war almost the wholeworld was quite dangerously radioactive. Except for the Projects. Orat least those of them which had in time installed the force screenswhich had been invented on the very eve of battle, and which deflectedradioactive particles. However, what with all of the other treaties which were broken duringthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, by the time it was finished nobodywas quite sure any more who was on whose side. That project over thereon the horizon might be an ally. And then again it might not. Sincethey weren't sure either, it was risky to expose yourself in order toask. And so life went on, with little to remind us of the dangers lurkingOutside. The basic policy of Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparednesswas left to the Army. The rest of us simply lived our lives and let itgo at that. <doc-sep> CINDERELLA STORY By ALLEN KIM LANG What a bank! The First Vice-President was a cool cat—the elevator and the money operators all wore earmuffs—was just as phony as a three-dollar bill! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank andTrust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applyingfor a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit ofhound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of hisjacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curiousbank indeed. I gotta say, chick, these references of yours reallyswing, said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Your last boss says youcome on real cool in the secretary-bit. He was a very kind employer, Orison said. She tried to keep fromstaring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair offurry green earmuffs. It was not cold. Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. What colorbread you got eyes for taking down, baby? he asked. Beg pardon? What kinda salary you bucking for? he translated, bouncing up anddown on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots. I was making one-twenty a week in my last position, Miss McCall said. You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor, Mr. Wanji said.What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay? He caughtOrison's look of bewilderment. One each, a Franklin and a Grant, heexplained further. She still looked blank. Sister, you gonna workin a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's ahunnerd-fifty a week, doll. That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji, Orison said. It was indeed. Crazy! Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it withathletic vigor. You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tellyou, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery aroundthis tomb, girlwise. He took her arm and led her toward the bank ofelevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightlyto Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formalthan Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. Lift us to five, Mac,Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floorand floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is IronCurtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby? Yes, sir, Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank. The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough tohold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone anda microphone. Beside them was a double-decked In and Out basket.Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey, Mr. Wanji said. What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji? Orison asked. The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the In basket.Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it, he said. When youget done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new toread. Okay? It seems a rather peculiar job, Orison said. After all, I'm asecretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize mewith the Bank's operation? Don't bug me, kid, Mr. Wanji said. All you gotta do is read thatthere paper into this here microphone. Can do? Yes, sir, Orison said. While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like toask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we takecare of these details now? Or would you— You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seemsbest to you, kid, Mr. Wanji said. Yes, sir, Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank'smight explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department'ssecretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the In basket,unfolded it to discover the day's Wall Street Journal , and began atthe top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,nodding his head as he listened. You blowing real good, kid, he said.The boss is gonna dig you the most. Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read theone into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, thentook off upstairs in the elevator. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are the physical and social environments depicted in THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR?

The story takes place some time after the year 2100, after World Wars I, II, and III have been fought. Due to the population explosion, by 2000, everyone lived in Projects. These Projects are vertically expanded buildings housing people on floors numbering up to two hundred; the Projects are self-contained and self-sufficient. The people in them do not have to go outside where they fear radiation from atomic bombs used in the wars still exists. The Projects provide restaurants, shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners, schools, churches, factories, etc. Food is grown hydroponically. The Projects are protected by force screens that deflect the radiation and all have their own armies that are supposed to protect them from spies from other Projects. The Projects have advanced technology. Telephones have visual capability that allows callers to see each other; this is how Edmund knows that Linda anticipates his proposal. They have robots that mine and collect ore using ore-sleds. The robots are equipped to self-detonate if they are captured. The Projects are suspicious of each other because so many treaties were broken during the Ungentlemanly Gentleman’s War, so Projects aren’t willing to expose themself to the possible dangers of reaching out or allying with other Projects. The Army practices Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparedness in case of danger, allowing the people in the Projects to just live their lives.The Treaty of Oslo provides a sense of safety because it means that Projects will not be bombed in case of war. Socially, not all marriages are intended to be permanent, especially if the couple is not genetically desirable. There is a Non-P marriage option in this case: Non-Permanent and No Progeny. In Non-P marriages, people contract to marry for a short term, such as one or two years. People are also scared of strangers; hence, the man in the elevator is deemed a spy before anyone even speaks with him.

What is the importance of the spy who was in the elevator? [SEP] <s>It took three tries before I got through to a hurried-looking femalereceptionist My name is Rice! I bellowed. Edmund Rice! I live on thehundred and fifty-third floor! I just rang for the elevator and—— The-elevator-is-disconnected. She said it very rapidly, as though shewere growing very used to saying it. It only stopped me for a second. Disconnected? What do you meandisconnected? Elevators don't get disconnected! I told her. We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible, she rattled. My bellowingwas bouncing off her like radiation off the Project force-screen. I changed tactics. First I inhaled, making a production out of it,giving myself a chance to calm down a bit. And then I asked, asrationally as you could please, Would you mind terribly telling me why the elevator is disconnected? I-am-sorry-sir-but-that—— Stop, I said. I said it quietly, too, but she stopped. I saw herlooking at me. She hadn't done that before, she'd merely gazed blanklyat her screen and parroted her responses. But now she was actually looking at me . I took advantage of the fact. Calmly, rationally, I said to her, Iwould like to tell you something, Miss. I would like to tell you justwhat you people have done to me by disconnecting the elevator. You haveruined my life. She blinked, open-mouthed. Ruined your life? Precisely. I found it necessary to inhale again, even more slowlythan before. I was on my way, I explained, to propose to a girl whomI dearly love. In every way but one, she is the perfect woman. Do youunderstand me? She nodded, wide-eyed. I had stumbled on a romantic, though I was toopreoccupied to notice it at the time. In every way but one, I continued. She has one small imperfection,a fixation about punctuality. And I was supposed to meet her at teno'clock. I'm late! I shook my fist at the screen. Do you realizewhat you've done , disconnecting the elevator? Not only won't shemarry me, she won't even speak to me! Not now! Not after this! Sir, she said tremulously, please don't shout. I'm not shouting! Sir, I'm terribly sorry. I understand your— You understand ? I trembled with speechless fury. She looked all about her, and then leaned closer to the screen,revealing a cleavage that I was too distraught at the moment to payany attention to. We're not supposed to give this information out,sir, she said, her voice low, but I'm going to tell you, so you'llunderstand why we had to do it. I think it's perfectly awful that ithad to ruin things for you this way. But the fact of the matter is—she leaned even closer to the screen—there's a spy in the elevator. II It was my turn to be stunned. I just gaped at her. A—a what? A spy. He was discovered on the hundred forty-seventh floor, andmanaged to get into the elevator before the Army could catch him. Hejammed it between floors. But the Army is doing everything it can thinkof to get him out. Well—but why should there be any problem about getting him out? He plugged in the manual controls. We can't control the elevator fromoutside at all. And when anyone tries to get into the shaft, he aimsthe elevator at them. That sounded impossible. He aims the elevator? He runs it up and down the shaft, she explained, trying to crushanybody who goes after him. Oh, I said. So it might take a while. She leaned so close this time that even I, distracted as I was, couldhardly help but take note of her cleavage. She whispered, They'reafraid they'll have to starve him out. Oh, no! She nodded solemnly. I'm terribly sorry, sir, she said. Then sheglanced to her right, suddenly straightened up again, and said,We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible. Click. Blank screen. For a minute or two, all I could do was sit and absorb what I'd beentold. A spy in the elevator! A spy who had managed to work his way allthe way up to the hundred forty-seventh floor before being unmasked! What in the world was the matter with the Army? If things were gettingthat lax, the Project was doomed, force-screen or no. Who knew how manymore spies there were in the Project, still unsuspected? Until that moment, the state of siege in which we all lived had hadno reality for me. The Project, after all, was self-sufficient andcompletely enclosed. No one ever left, no one ever entered. Under ourroof, we were a nation, two hundred stories high. The ever-presentthreat of other projects had never been more for me—or for most otherpeople either, I suspected—than occasional ore-sleds that didn'treturn, occasional spies shot down as they tried to sneak into thebuilding, occasional spies of our own leaving the Project in tinyradiation-proof cars, hoping to get safely within another project andbring back news of any immediate threats and dangers that project mightbe planning for us. Most spies didn't return; most ore-sleds did. Andwithin the Project life was full, the knowledge of external dangersmerely lurking at the backs of our minds. After all, those externaldangers had been no more than potential for decades, since what Dr.Kilbillie called the Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War. Dr. Kilbillie—Intermediate Project History, when I was fifteen yearsold—had private names for every major war of the twentieth century.There was the Ignoble Nobleman's War, the Racial Non-Racial War, andthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, known to the textbooks of course asWorld Wars One, Two, and Three. The rise of the Projects, according to Dr. Kilbillie, was the result ofmany many factors, but two of the most important were the populationexplosion and the Treaty of Oslo. The population explosion, of course,meant that there was continuously more and more people but never anymore space. So that housing, in the historically short time of onecentury, made a complete transformation from horizontal expansion tovertical. Before 1900, the vast majority of human beings lived intiny huts of from one to five stories. By 2000, everybody lived inProjects. From the very beginning, small attempts were made to makethese Projects more than dwelling places. By mid-century, Projects(also called apartments and co-ops) already included restaurants,shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners and a host ofother adjuncts. By the end of the century, the Projects were completelyself-sufficient, with food grown hydroponically in the sub-basements,separate floors set aside for schools and churches and factories, robotore-sleds capable of seeking out raw materials unavailable within theProjects themselves and so on. And all because of, among other things,the population explosion. And the Treaty of Oslo. It seems there was a power-struggle between two sets of then-existingnations (they were something like Projects, only horizontal instead ofvertical) and both sets were equipped with atomic weapons. The Treatyof Oslo began by stating that atomic war was unthinkable, and addedthat just in case anyone happened to think of it only tactical atomicweapons could be used. No strategic atomic weapons. (A tacticalweapon is something you use on the soldiers, and a strategic weapons issomething you use on the folks at home.) Oddly enough, when somebodydid think of the war, both sides adhered to the Treaty of Oslo, whichmeant that no Projects were bombed. Of course, they made up for this as best they could by using tacticalatomic weapons all over the place. After the war almost the wholeworld was quite dangerously radioactive. Except for the Projects. Orat least those of them which had in time installed the force screenswhich had been invented on the very eve of battle, and which deflectedradioactive particles. However, what with all of the other treaties which were broken duringthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, by the time it was finished nobodywas quite sure any more who was on whose side. That project over thereon the horizon might be an ally. And then again it might not. Sincethey weren't sure either, it was risky to expose yourself in order toask. And so life went on, with little to remind us of the dangers lurkingOutside. The basic policy of Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparednesswas left to the Army. The rest of us simply lived our lives and let itgo at that. <doc-sep>But now there was a spy in the elevator. When I thought of how deeply he had penetrated our defenses, and of howmany others there might be, still penetrating, I shuddered. The wallswere our safeguards only so long as all potential enemies were on theother side of them. I sat shaken, digesting this news, until suddenly I remembered Linda. I leaped to my feet, reading from my watch that it was now ten-fifteen.I dashed once more from the apartment and down the hall to theelevator, praying that the spy had been captured by now and that Lindawould agree with me that a spy in the elevator was good and sufficientreason for me to be late. He was still there. At least, the elevator was still out. I sagged against the wall, thinking dismal thoughts. Then I noticed thedoor to the right of the elevator. Through that door was the stairway. I hadn't paid any attention to it before. No one ever uses the stairsexcept adventurous young boys playing cops and robbers, running up anddown from landing to landing. I myself hadn't set foot on a flight ofstairs since I was twelve years old. Actually, the whole idea of stairs was ridiculous. We had elevators,didn't we? Usually, I mean, when they didn't contain spies. So what wasthe use of stairs? Well, according to Dr. Kilbillie (a walking library of unnecessaryinformation), the Project had been built when there still had been suchthings as municipal governments (something to do with cities, whichwere more or less grouped Projects), and the local municipal governmenthad had on its books a fire ordinance, anachronistic even then, whichrequired a complete set of stairs in every building constructed in thecity. Ergo, the Project had stairs, thirty-two hundred of them. And now, after all these years, the stairs might prove useful afterall. It was only thirteen flights to Linda's floor. At sixteen steps aflight, that meant two hundred and eight steps. Could I descend two hundred and eight steps for my true love? I could.If the door would open. It would, though reluctantly. Who knew how many years it had been sincelast this door had been opened? It squeaked and wailed and groaned andfinally opened half way. I stepped through to the musty, dusty landing,took a deep breath, and started down. Eight steps and a landing, eightsteps and a floor. Eight steps and a landing, eight steps and a floor. On the landing between one fifty and one forty-nine, there was asmallish door. I paused, looking curiously at it, and saw that at onetime letters had been painted on it. The letters had long since flakedaway, but they left a lighter residue of dust than that which coveredthe rest of the door. And so the words could still be read, if withdifficulty. I read them. They said: EMERGENCY ENTRANCE ELEVATOR SHAFT AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY KEEP LOCKED I frowned, wondering immediately why this door wasn't being firmlyguarded by at least a platoon of Army men. Half a dozen possibleanswers flashed through my mind. The more recent maps might simplyhave omitted this discarded and unnecessary door. It might be sealedshut on the other side. The Army might have caught the spy already.Somebody in authority might simply have goofed. As I stood there, pondering these possibilities, the door opened andthe spy came out, waving a gun. III He couldn't have been anyone else but the spy. The gun, in the firstplace. The fact that he looked harried and upset and terribly nervous,in the second place. And, of course, the fact that he came from theelevator shaft. Looking back, I think he must have been just as startled as I when wecame face to face like that. We formed a brief tableau, both of usopen-mouthed and wide-eyed. Unfortunately, he recovered first. He closed the emergency door behind him, quickly but quietly. His gunstopped waving around and instead pointed directly at my middle. Don'tmove! he whispered harshly. Don't make a sound! I did exactly as I was told. I didn't move and I didn't make a sound.Which left me quite free to study him. He was rather short, perhaps three inches shorter than me, with a bonyhigh-cheekboned face featuring deepset eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. Hewore gray slacks and shirt, with brown slippers on his feet. He lookedexactly like a spy ... which is to say that he didn't look like aspy, he looked overpoweringly ordinary. More than anything else, hereminded me of a rather taciturn milkman who used to make deliveries tomy parents' apartment. His gaze darted this way and that. Then he motioned with his free handat the descending stairs and whispered, Where do they go? I had to clear my throat before I could speak. All the way down, Isaid. Good, he said—just as we both heard a sudden raucous squealing fromperhaps four flights down, a squealing which could be nothing but theopening of a hall door. It was followed by the heavy thud of ascendingboots. The Army! But if I had any visions of imminent rescue, the spy dashed them. Hesaid, Where do you live? One fifty-three, I said. This was a desperate and dangerous man.I knew my only slim chance of safety lay in answering his questionspromptly, cooperating with him until and unless I saw a chance toeither escape or capture him. All right, he whispered. Go on. He prodded me with the gun. And so we went back up the stairs to one fifty-three, and stopped atthe door. He stood close behind me, the gun pressed against my back,and grated in my ear, I'll have this gun in my pocket. If you make onefalse move I'll kill you. Now, we're going to your apartment. We'refriends, just strolling along together. You got that? I nodded. All right. Let's go. We went. I have never in my life seen that long hall quite so empty asit was right then. No one came out of any of the apartments, no oneemerged from any of the branch halls. We walked to my apartment. Ithumbed the door open and we went inside. Once the door was closed behind us, he visibly relaxed, sagging againstthe door, his gun hand hanging limp at his side, a nervous smileplaying across his lips. I looked at him, judging the distance between us, wondering if I couldleap at him before he could bring the gun up again. But he must haveread my intentions on my face. He straightened, shaking his head. Hesaid, Don't try it. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to killanybody, but I will if I have to. We'll just wait here together untilthe hue and cry passes us. Then I'll tie you up, so you won't be ableto sic your Army on me too soon, and I'll leave. If you don't try anysilly heroics, nothing will happen to you. You'll never get away, I told him. The whole Project is alerted. You let me worry about that, he said. He licked his lips. You gotany chico coffee? Yes. Make me a cup. And don't get any bright ideas about dousing me withboiling water. I only have my day's allotment, I protested. Just enough for twocups, lunch and dinner. Two cups is fine, he said. One for each of us. <doc-sep> THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was dangerously insane. He threatened to destroy everything that was noble and decent—including my date with my girl! When the elevator didn't come, that just made the day perfect. A brokenegg yolk, a stuck zipper, a feedback in the aircon exhaust, the windowsticking at full transparency—well, I won't go through the whole sorrylist. Suffice it to say that when the elevator didn't come, that putthe roof on the city, as they say. It was just one of those days. Everybody gets them. Days when you'relucky in you make it to nightfall with no bones broken. But of all times for it to happen! For literally months I'd beenbuilding my courage up. And finally, just today, I had made up mymind to do it—to propose to Linda. I'd called her second thing thismorning—right after the egg yolk—and invited myself down to herplace. Ten o'clock, she'd said, smiling sweetly at me out of thephone. She knew why I wanted to talk to her. And when Linda said teno'clock, she meant ten o'clock. Don't get me wrong. I don't mean that Linda's a perfectionist or aharridan or anything like that. Far from it. But she does have afixation on that one subject of punctuality. The result of her job,of course. She was an ore-sled dispatcher. Ore-sleds, being robots,were invariably punctual. If an ore-sled didn't return on time, no onewaited for it. They simply knew that it had been captured by some otherProject and had blown itself up. Well, of course, after working as an ore-sled dispatcher for threeyears, Linda quite naturally was a bit obsessed. I remember one time,shortly after we'd started dating, when I arrived at her place fiveminutes late and found her having hysterics. She thought I'd beenkilled. She couldn't visualize anything less than that keeping me fromarriving at the designated moment. When I told her what actually hadhappened—I'd broken a shoe lace—she refused to speak to me for fourdays. And then the elevator didn't come. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the importance of the spy who was in the elevator?

The spy thwarts Edmund’s planned proposal to Linda, but on a larger scale, he threatens the entire way of life in the Projects. The spy in the elevator isn’t really a spy, but the Army claims he is. It is in the interest of the Army and the Commissions of the Projects for people to believe that the radiation level outside the Projects is too high for people to survive because keeping people fearful keeps them in the Projects and needful of the Army and Commission. The people in the Projects are taught to be fearful of other Projects who might come and try to learn their secrets, military, technology, or otherwise. The Army is trying to capture the spy who has holed himself up in the elevator and is planning to starve him out if necessary. The spy uses logic to try to convince Edmund that he isn’t really a spy, that the Projects don’t really need to worry about spies, and that the Projects aren’t really needed at all. The spy is actually an atomic engineer from a Project about 80 miles north of Edmund’s. He suspected that the radiation levels after the atomic war have dropped low enough to be safe for people to go outside the Projects. When he asks his Commission to be allowed to study this, he is refused. The Commission knows that if people can leave the Projects, there would be no need for the Commission. To secretly test his theory, the spy left his Project and walked all the way to Edmund’s project without a radiation shield. He is fine, and he is trying to convince the people in the Projects that it is safe to go outside; he compares the Projects to caves and the people to cavemen. He claims that the Projects are stunting society’s progress by keeping everyone “locked down.”

What is the fate of Edmund Rice in THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR? [SEP] <s>It took three tries before I got through to a hurried-looking femalereceptionist My name is Rice! I bellowed. Edmund Rice! I live on thehundred and fifty-third floor! I just rang for the elevator and—— The-elevator-is-disconnected. She said it very rapidly, as though shewere growing very used to saying it. It only stopped me for a second. Disconnected? What do you meandisconnected? Elevators don't get disconnected! I told her. We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible, she rattled. My bellowingwas bouncing off her like radiation off the Project force-screen. I changed tactics. First I inhaled, making a production out of it,giving myself a chance to calm down a bit. And then I asked, asrationally as you could please, Would you mind terribly telling me why the elevator is disconnected? I-am-sorry-sir-but-that—— Stop, I said. I said it quietly, too, but she stopped. I saw herlooking at me. She hadn't done that before, she'd merely gazed blanklyat her screen and parroted her responses. But now she was actually looking at me . I took advantage of the fact. Calmly, rationally, I said to her, Iwould like to tell you something, Miss. I would like to tell you justwhat you people have done to me by disconnecting the elevator. You haveruined my life. She blinked, open-mouthed. Ruined your life? Precisely. I found it necessary to inhale again, even more slowlythan before. I was on my way, I explained, to propose to a girl whomI dearly love. In every way but one, she is the perfect woman. Do youunderstand me? She nodded, wide-eyed. I had stumbled on a romantic, though I was toopreoccupied to notice it at the time. In every way but one, I continued. She has one small imperfection,a fixation about punctuality. And I was supposed to meet her at teno'clock. I'm late! I shook my fist at the screen. Do you realizewhat you've done , disconnecting the elevator? Not only won't shemarry me, she won't even speak to me! Not now! Not after this! Sir, she said tremulously, please don't shout. I'm not shouting! Sir, I'm terribly sorry. I understand your— You understand ? I trembled with speechless fury. She looked all about her, and then leaned closer to the screen,revealing a cleavage that I was too distraught at the moment to payany attention to. We're not supposed to give this information out,sir, she said, her voice low, but I'm going to tell you, so you'llunderstand why we had to do it. I think it's perfectly awful that ithad to ruin things for you this way. But the fact of the matter is—she leaned even closer to the screen—there's a spy in the elevator. II It was my turn to be stunned. I just gaped at her. A—a what? A spy. He was discovered on the hundred forty-seventh floor, andmanaged to get into the elevator before the Army could catch him. Hejammed it between floors. But the Army is doing everything it can thinkof to get him out. Well—but why should there be any problem about getting him out? He plugged in the manual controls. We can't control the elevator fromoutside at all. And when anyone tries to get into the shaft, he aimsthe elevator at them. That sounded impossible. He aims the elevator? He runs it up and down the shaft, she explained, trying to crushanybody who goes after him. Oh, I said. So it might take a while. She leaned so close this time that even I, distracted as I was, couldhardly help but take note of her cleavage. She whispered, They'reafraid they'll have to starve him out. Oh, no! She nodded solemnly. I'm terribly sorry, sir, she said. Then sheglanced to her right, suddenly straightened up again, and said,We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible. Click. Blank screen. For a minute or two, all I could do was sit and absorb what I'd beentold. A spy in the elevator! A spy who had managed to work his way allthe way up to the hundred forty-seventh floor before being unmasked! What in the world was the matter with the Army? If things were gettingthat lax, the Project was doomed, force-screen or no. Who knew how manymore spies there were in the Project, still unsuspected? Until that moment, the state of siege in which we all lived had hadno reality for me. The Project, after all, was self-sufficient andcompletely enclosed. No one ever left, no one ever entered. Under ourroof, we were a nation, two hundred stories high. The ever-presentthreat of other projects had never been more for me—or for most otherpeople either, I suspected—than occasional ore-sleds that didn'treturn, occasional spies shot down as they tried to sneak into thebuilding, occasional spies of our own leaving the Project in tinyradiation-proof cars, hoping to get safely within another project andbring back news of any immediate threats and dangers that project mightbe planning for us. Most spies didn't return; most ore-sleds did. Andwithin the Project life was full, the knowledge of external dangersmerely lurking at the backs of our minds. After all, those externaldangers had been no more than potential for decades, since what Dr.Kilbillie called the Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War. Dr. Kilbillie—Intermediate Project History, when I was fifteen yearsold—had private names for every major war of the twentieth century.There was the Ignoble Nobleman's War, the Racial Non-Racial War, andthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, known to the textbooks of course asWorld Wars One, Two, and Three. The rise of the Projects, according to Dr. Kilbillie, was the result ofmany many factors, but two of the most important were the populationexplosion and the Treaty of Oslo. The population explosion, of course,meant that there was continuously more and more people but never anymore space. So that housing, in the historically short time of onecentury, made a complete transformation from horizontal expansion tovertical. Before 1900, the vast majority of human beings lived intiny huts of from one to five stories. By 2000, everybody lived inProjects. From the very beginning, small attempts were made to makethese Projects more than dwelling places. By mid-century, Projects(also called apartments and co-ops) already included restaurants,shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners and a host ofother adjuncts. By the end of the century, the Projects were completelyself-sufficient, with food grown hydroponically in the sub-basements,separate floors set aside for schools and churches and factories, robotore-sleds capable of seeking out raw materials unavailable within theProjects themselves and so on. And all because of, among other things,the population explosion. And the Treaty of Oslo. It seems there was a power-struggle between two sets of then-existingnations (they were something like Projects, only horizontal instead ofvertical) and both sets were equipped with atomic weapons. The Treatyof Oslo began by stating that atomic war was unthinkable, and addedthat just in case anyone happened to think of it only tactical atomicweapons could be used. No strategic atomic weapons. (A tacticalweapon is something you use on the soldiers, and a strategic weapons issomething you use on the folks at home.) Oddly enough, when somebodydid think of the war, both sides adhered to the Treaty of Oslo, whichmeant that no Projects were bombed. Of course, they made up for this as best they could by using tacticalatomic weapons all over the place. After the war almost the wholeworld was quite dangerously radioactive. Except for the Projects. Orat least those of them which had in time installed the force screenswhich had been invented on the very eve of battle, and which deflectedradioactive particles. However, what with all of the other treaties which were broken duringthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, by the time it was finished nobodywas quite sure any more who was on whose side. That project over thereon the horizon might be an ally. And then again it might not. Sincethey weren't sure either, it was risky to expose yourself in order toask. And so life went on, with little to remind us of the dangers lurkingOutside. The basic policy of Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparednesswas left to the Army. The rest of us simply lived our lives and let itgo at that. <doc-sep>But now there was a spy in the elevator. When I thought of how deeply he had penetrated our defenses, and of howmany others there might be, still penetrating, I shuddered. The wallswere our safeguards only so long as all potential enemies were on theother side of them. I sat shaken, digesting this news, until suddenly I remembered Linda. I leaped to my feet, reading from my watch that it was now ten-fifteen.I dashed once more from the apartment and down the hall to theelevator, praying that the spy had been captured by now and that Lindawould agree with me that a spy in the elevator was good and sufficientreason for me to be late. He was still there. At least, the elevator was still out. I sagged against the wall, thinking dismal thoughts. Then I noticed thedoor to the right of the elevator. Through that door was the stairway. I hadn't paid any attention to it before. No one ever uses the stairsexcept adventurous young boys playing cops and robbers, running up anddown from landing to landing. I myself hadn't set foot on a flight ofstairs since I was twelve years old. Actually, the whole idea of stairs was ridiculous. We had elevators,didn't we? Usually, I mean, when they didn't contain spies. So what wasthe use of stairs? Well, according to Dr. Kilbillie (a walking library of unnecessaryinformation), the Project had been built when there still had been suchthings as municipal governments (something to do with cities, whichwere more or less grouped Projects), and the local municipal governmenthad had on its books a fire ordinance, anachronistic even then, whichrequired a complete set of stairs in every building constructed in thecity. Ergo, the Project had stairs, thirty-two hundred of them. And now, after all these years, the stairs might prove useful afterall. It was only thirteen flights to Linda's floor. At sixteen steps aflight, that meant two hundred and eight steps. Could I descend two hundred and eight steps for my true love? I could.If the door would open. It would, though reluctantly. Who knew how many years it had been sincelast this door had been opened? It squeaked and wailed and groaned andfinally opened half way. I stepped through to the musty, dusty landing,took a deep breath, and started down. Eight steps and a landing, eightsteps and a floor. Eight steps and a landing, eight steps and a floor. On the landing between one fifty and one forty-nine, there was asmallish door. I paused, looking curiously at it, and saw that at onetime letters had been painted on it. The letters had long since flakedaway, but they left a lighter residue of dust than that which coveredthe rest of the door. And so the words could still be read, if withdifficulty. I read them. They said: EMERGENCY ENTRANCE ELEVATOR SHAFT AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY KEEP LOCKED I frowned, wondering immediately why this door wasn't being firmlyguarded by at least a platoon of Army men. Half a dozen possibleanswers flashed through my mind. The more recent maps might simplyhave omitted this discarded and unnecessary door. It might be sealedshut on the other side. The Army might have caught the spy already.Somebody in authority might simply have goofed. As I stood there, pondering these possibilities, the door opened andthe spy came out, waving a gun. III He couldn't have been anyone else but the spy. The gun, in the firstplace. The fact that he looked harried and upset and terribly nervous,in the second place. And, of course, the fact that he came from theelevator shaft. Looking back, I think he must have been just as startled as I when wecame face to face like that. We formed a brief tableau, both of usopen-mouthed and wide-eyed. Unfortunately, he recovered first. He closed the emergency door behind him, quickly but quietly. His gunstopped waving around and instead pointed directly at my middle. Don'tmove! he whispered harshly. Don't make a sound! I did exactly as I was told. I didn't move and I didn't make a sound.Which left me quite free to study him. He was rather short, perhaps three inches shorter than me, with a bonyhigh-cheekboned face featuring deepset eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. Hewore gray slacks and shirt, with brown slippers on his feet. He lookedexactly like a spy ... which is to say that he didn't look like aspy, he looked overpoweringly ordinary. More than anything else, hereminded me of a rather taciturn milkman who used to make deliveries tomy parents' apartment. His gaze darted this way and that. Then he motioned with his free handat the descending stairs and whispered, Where do they go? I had to clear my throat before I could speak. All the way down, Isaid. Good, he said—just as we both heard a sudden raucous squealing fromperhaps four flights down, a squealing which could be nothing but theopening of a hall door. It was followed by the heavy thud of ascendingboots. The Army! But if I had any visions of imminent rescue, the spy dashed them. Hesaid, Where do you live? One fifty-three, I said. This was a desperate and dangerous man.I knew my only slim chance of safety lay in answering his questionspromptly, cooperating with him until and unless I saw a chance toeither escape or capture him. All right, he whispered. Go on. He prodded me with the gun. And so we went back up the stairs to one fifty-three, and stopped atthe door. He stood close behind me, the gun pressed against my back,and grated in my ear, I'll have this gun in my pocket. If you make onefalse move I'll kill you. Now, we're going to your apartment. We'refriends, just strolling along together. You got that? I nodded. All right. Let's go. We went. I have never in my life seen that long hall quite so empty asit was right then. No one came out of any of the apartments, no oneemerged from any of the branch halls. We walked to my apartment. Ithumbed the door open and we went inside. Once the door was closed behind us, he visibly relaxed, sagging againstthe door, his gun hand hanging limp at his side, a nervous smileplaying across his lips. I looked at him, judging the distance between us, wondering if I couldleap at him before he could bring the gun up again. But he must haveread my intentions on my face. He straightened, shaking his head. Hesaid, Don't try it. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to killanybody, but I will if I have to. We'll just wait here together untilthe hue and cry passes us. Then I'll tie you up, so you won't be ableto sic your Army on me too soon, and I'll leave. If you don't try anysilly heroics, nothing will happen to you. You'll never get away, I told him. The whole Project is alerted. You let me worry about that, he said. He licked his lips. You gotany chico coffee? Yes. Make me a cup. And don't get any bright ideas about dousing me withboiling water. I only have my day's allotment, I protested. Just enough for twocups, lunch and dinner. Two cups is fine, he said. One for each 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></s> [SEP] What is the fate of Edmund Rice in THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR?

Edmund is eager to propose to his girlfriend. He truly loves her and would like a long marriage, but he is willing to settle for a Non-P marriage since he knows she values her freedom and independence. After gathering the courage to propose, he makes a date with her one morning, but multiple minor calamities make him run late. Linda is a stickler for punctuality, so on this morning, it is especially important to be on time. When he makes it to the elevator with five minutes to spare, his proposal is thwarted because a spy is holding it up. When he tries to call Linda to let her know he is running late, he can’t get the call through because she has set her phone not to be disturbed. When he learns that a spy is holding up the elevator and might be in there until the Army can starve him out, he decides to brave the 208 stairs down to Linda’s apartment, only to run into the spy there. The spy forces Edmund back to his apartment, where he explains he is not really a spy and that the radiation levels outside are so low it is safe for everyone to leave the projects. Edmund is sure the man is a lunatic despite the logic of his argument. He realizes that his chance to marry Linda is gone; she will never forgive him for being late.

Can you provide a summary of the storyline in LOST IN TRANSLATION? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City? Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt. Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city? Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things. Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette. Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars. This whole city is a machine! Eric asked. Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality. Eric stared. The idea was staggering. This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it. Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely. Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City? Yes. The time has come. But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building. Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here. Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city. We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come. Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric? For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return. Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now? Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire. My brother, Garve. What about him? He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters? <doc-sep> LOST IN TRANSLATION By LARRY M. HARRIS In language translation, you may get a literally accurateword-for-word translation ... but miss the meaning entirely. And inspace-type translation ... the effect may be the same! Illustrated by Schoenherr The cell had been put together more efficiently than any Korvin hadever been in. But that was only natural, he told himself sadly; theTr'en were an efficient people. All the preliminary reports had agreedon that; their efficiency, as a matter of fact, was what had madeKorvin's arrival a necessity. They were well into the atomic era, andwere on the verge of developing space travel. Before long they'd besettling the other planets of their system, and then the nearer stars.Faster-than-light travel couldn't be far away, for the magnificentlyefficient physical scientists of the Tr'en—and that would mean, inthe ordinary course of events, an invitation to join the Comity ofPlanets. An invitation, the Comity was sure, which the Tr'en would not accept. Korvin stretched out on the cell's single bunk, a rigid affair whichwas hardly meant for comfort, and sighed. He'd had three days ofisolation, with nothing to do but explore the resources of his ownmind. He'd tried some of the ancient Rhine experiments, but that wasno good; he still didn't show any particular psi talents. He couldn'tunlock the cell door with his unaided mind; he couldn't even alter theprobability of a single dust-mote's Brownian path through the somewhatsmelly air. Nor could he disappear from his cell and appear, as if bymagic, several miles away near the slightly-damaged hulk of his ship,to the wonder and amazement of his Tr'en captors. He could do, as a matter of fact, precisely nothing. He wished quietlythat the Tr'en had seen fit to give him a pack of cards, or a book, oreven a folder of tourist pictures. The Wonders of Tr'en, according toall the advance reports, were likely to be pretty boring, but they'dhave been better than nothing. In any decently-run jail, he told himself with indignation, therewould at least have been other prisoners to talk to. But on Tr'enKorvin was all alone. True, every night the guards came in and gave him a concentratedlesson in the local language, but Korvin failed to get much pleasureout of that, being unconscious at the time. But now he was equipped todiscuss almost anything from philosophy to plumbing, but there wasnobody to discuss it with. He changed position on the bunk and staredat the walls. The Tr'en were efficient; there weren't even anyimperfections in the smooth surface to distract him. He wasn't tired and he wasn't hungry; his captors had left him with afull stock of food concentrates. But he was almightily bored, and about ready to tell anything toanyone, just for the chance at a little conversation. As he reached this dismal conclusion, the cell door opened. Korvin gotup off the bunk in a hurry and spun around to face his visitor. The Tr'en was tall, and slightly green. He looked, as all the Tr'en did, vaguely humanoid—that is, if youdon't bother to examine him closely. Life in the universe appeared tobe rigidly limited to humanoid types on oxygen planets; Korvin didn'tknow why, and neither did anybody else. There were a lot of theories,but none that accounted for all the facts satisfactorily. Korvinreally didn't care about it; it was none of his business. The Tr'en regarded him narrowly through catlike pupils. You areKorvin, he said. It was a ritual, Korvin had learned. You are of the Tr'en, hereplied. The green being nodded. I am Didyak of the Tr'en, he said. Amenities over with, he relaxedslightly—but no more than slightly—and came into the cell, closingthe door behind him. Korvin thought of jumping the Tr'en, but decidedquickly against it. He was a captive, and it was unwise to assume thathis captors had no more resources than the ones he saw: a smalltranslucent pistollike affair in a holster at the Tr'en's side, and asmall knife in a sheath at the belt. Those Korvin could deal with; butthere might be almost anything else hidden and ready to fire on him. What do you want with me? Korvin said. The Tr'en speech—apparentlythere was only one language on the planet—was stiff and slightlyawkward, but easily enough learned under drug hypnosis; it was themost rigorously logical construction of its kind Korvin had ever comeacross. It reminded him of some of the mathematical metalanguages he'ddealt with back on Earth, in training; but it was more closely andcarefully constructed than even those marvels. I want nothing with you, Didyak said, leaning against thedoor-frame. You have other questions? Korvin sighed. What are you doing here, then? he asked. Asconversation, it wasn't very choice; but it was, he admitted, betterthan solitude. I am leaning against the door, Didyak said. The Tr'en literalistapproach to the smallest problems of everyday living was a little hardto get the hang of, Korvin told himself bitterly. He thought for asecond. Why did you come to me? he said at last. Didyak beamed at him. The sight was remarkably unpleasant, involvingas it did the disclosure of the Tr'en fifty-eight teeth, mostlypointed. Korvin stared back impassively. I have been ordered to cometo you, Didyak said, by the Ruler. The Ruler wishes to talk withyou. It wasn't quite talk; that was a general word in the Tr'en language,and Didyak had used a specific meaning, roughly: gain informationfrom, by peaceful and vocal means. Korvin filed it away for futurereference. Why did the Ruler not come to me? Korvin asked. The Ruler is the Ruler, Didyak said, slightly discomfited. You areto go to him. Such is his command. Korvin shrugged, sighed and smoothed back his hair. I obey thecommand of the Ruler, he said—another ritual. Everybody obeyed thecommand of the Ruler. If you didn't, you never had a second chance totry. But Korvin meant exactly what he'd said. He was going to obey thecommands of the Ruler of the Tr'en—and remove the Tr'en threat fromthe rest of the galaxy forever. That, after all, was his job. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in LOST IN TRANSLATION?

Korvin sits in a cell after crash-landing on the planet of the Tr'en, which is populated by an extremely logical and intelligent humanoid race. Due to the speed of their scientific and technological advancements, the Comity of Planets will soon extend them an invitation, but Korvin believes they will not accept their offer. As a representative of Earth Central, he has been sent to Tr'en in order to find a way to prevent its people from marauding and settling other planets. In the days since Korvin's crash, the prison guards provide him with food and teach him the local language through drug hypnosis. He describes the language as stiff and slightly awkward but acknowledges its logical, meticulous construction. After several days imprisoned, a Tr'en named Didyak visits Korvin and informs him that he will be brought to The Ruler. When Korvin meets The Ruler--a massive, formidable Tr'en--he answers his questions to the best of his ability with respect to the logical constructions of the language. Korvin describes the physical appearance of adult humans as well as children, and The Ruler appears confused by the variations in height. The Ruler keeps emphasizing the importance of speaking with exactitude when communicating with the Tr'en. When Korvin claims his purpose on the planet was to crash-land his ship, The Ruler scoffs and orders him connected to a lie-detector machine for the duration of the questioning. After adjusting the lie-detector machine to Korvin's physiology, The Ruler continues his interrogation of Korvin, attempting to determine the true purpose of his mission on Tr'en. Adopting the Tr'en mode of providing extremely logical answers, Korvin claims his mission is to stay alive, which frustrates The Ruler; he claims Korvin is trying to confuse him, so he calls upon his experts to help determine if the machine is faulty and analyze Korvin's responses. As the Tr'en broach the subject of Earth, they start to ask questions about its name, location, and finally, governance. Because the Tr'en receive and obey orders from one Ruler, they are completely perplexed by the concept of democracy where conflicting interests may contribute to a system of self-governance. In fact, they are so stumped by Korvin's responses that they continue this line of questioning for three days and are unsatisfied by what they consider to be his illogical, but truthful answers. On the third day, Korvin takes advantage of their lack of mental insight to escape prison and sends a message back to Earth Central informing them that he has accomplished his mission because the Tr'en will never be able to solve the problem of democracy.

What is the role of the Ruler in the story "Lost in Translation"? [SEP] <s> LOST IN TRANSLATION By LARRY M. HARRIS In language translation, you may get a literally accurateword-for-word translation ... but miss the meaning entirely. And inspace-type translation ... the effect may be the same! Illustrated by Schoenherr The cell had been put together more efficiently than any Korvin hadever been in. But that was only natural, he told himself sadly; theTr'en were an efficient people. All the preliminary reports had agreedon that; their efficiency, as a matter of fact, was what had madeKorvin's arrival a necessity. They were well into the atomic era, andwere on the verge of developing space travel. Before long they'd besettling the other planets of their system, and then the nearer stars.Faster-than-light travel couldn't be far away, for the magnificentlyefficient physical scientists of the Tr'en—and that would mean, inthe ordinary course of events, an invitation to join the Comity ofPlanets. An invitation, the Comity was sure, which the Tr'en would not accept. Korvin stretched out on the cell's single bunk, a rigid affair whichwas hardly meant for comfort, and sighed. He'd had three days ofisolation, with nothing to do but explore the resources of his ownmind. He'd tried some of the ancient Rhine experiments, but that wasno good; he still didn't show any particular psi talents. He couldn'tunlock the cell door with his unaided mind; he couldn't even alter theprobability of a single dust-mote's Brownian path through the somewhatsmelly air. Nor could he disappear from his cell and appear, as if bymagic, several miles away near the slightly-damaged hulk of his ship,to the wonder and amazement of his Tr'en captors. He could do, as a matter of fact, precisely nothing. He wished quietlythat the Tr'en had seen fit to give him a pack of cards, or a book, oreven a folder of tourist pictures. The Wonders of Tr'en, according toall the advance reports, were likely to be pretty boring, but they'dhave been better than nothing. In any decently-run jail, he told himself with indignation, therewould at least have been other prisoners to talk to. But on Tr'enKorvin was all alone. True, every night the guards came in and gave him a concentratedlesson in the local language, but Korvin failed to get much pleasureout of that, being unconscious at the time. But now he was equipped todiscuss almost anything from philosophy to plumbing, but there wasnobody to discuss it with. He changed position on the bunk and staredat the walls. The Tr'en were efficient; there weren't even anyimperfections in the smooth surface to distract him. He wasn't tired and he wasn't hungry; his captors had left him with afull stock of food concentrates. But he was almightily bored, and about ready to tell anything toanyone, just for the chance at a little conversation. As he reached this dismal conclusion, the cell door opened. Korvin gotup off the bunk in a hurry and spun around to face his visitor. The Tr'en was tall, and slightly green. He looked, as all the Tr'en did, vaguely humanoid—that is, if youdon't bother to examine him closely. Life in the universe appeared tobe rigidly limited to humanoid types on oxygen planets; Korvin didn'tknow why, and neither did anybody else. There were a lot of theories,but none that accounted for all the facts satisfactorily. Korvinreally didn't care about it; it was none of his business. The Tr'en regarded him narrowly through catlike pupils. You areKorvin, he said. It was a ritual, Korvin had learned. You are of the Tr'en, hereplied. The green being nodded. I am Didyak of the Tr'en, he said. Amenities over with, he relaxedslightly—but no more than slightly—and came into the cell, closingthe door behind him. Korvin thought of jumping the Tr'en, but decidedquickly against it. He was a captive, and it was unwise to assume thathis captors had no more resources than the ones he saw: a smalltranslucent pistollike affair in a holster at the Tr'en's side, and asmall knife in a sheath at the belt. Those Korvin could deal with; butthere might be almost anything else hidden and ready to fire on him. What do you want with me? Korvin said. The Tr'en speech—apparentlythere was only one language on the planet—was stiff and slightlyawkward, but easily enough learned under drug hypnosis; it was themost rigorously logical construction of its kind Korvin had ever comeacross. It reminded him of some of the mathematical metalanguages he'ddealt with back on Earth, in training; but it was more closely andcarefully constructed than even those marvels. I want nothing with you, Didyak said, leaning against thedoor-frame. You have other questions? Korvin sighed. What are you doing here, then? he asked. Asconversation, it wasn't very choice; but it was, he admitted, betterthan solitude. I am leaning against the door, Didyak said. The Tr'en literalistapproach to the smallest problems of everyday living was a little hardto get the hang of, Korvin told himself bitterly. He thought for asecond. Why did you come to me? he said at last. Didyak beamed at him. The sight was remarkably unpleasant, involvingas it did the disclosure of the Tr'en fifty-eight teeth, mostlypointed. Korvin stared back impassively. I have been ordered to cometo you, Didyak said, by the Ruler. The Ruler wishes to talk withyou. It wasn't quite talk; that was a general word in the Tr'en language,and Didyak had used a specific meaning, roughly: gain informationfrom, by peaceful and vocal means. Korvin filed it away for futurereference. Why did the Ruler not come to me? Korvin asked. The Ruler is the Ruler, Didyak said, slightly discomfited. You areto go to him. Such is his command. Korvin shrugged, sighed and smoothed back his hair. I obey thecommand of the Ruler, he said—another ritual. Everybody obeyed thecommand of the Ruler. If you didn't, you never had a second chance totry. But Korvin meant exactly what he'd said. He was going to obey thecommands of the Ruler of the Tr'en—and remove the Tr'en threat fromthe rest of the galaxy forever. That, after all, was his job. <doc-sep>The name of your planet is Earth? the Ruler asked. A few minutes hadpassed; the experts were clustered around the single chair. Korvin wasstill strapped to the machine; a logical race makes use of a traitor,but a logical race does not trust him. Sometimes, Korvin said. It has other names? the Ruler said. It has no name, Korvin said truthfully. The Tr'en idiom was like theEarthly one; and certainly a planet had no name. People attached namesto it, that was all. It had none of its own. Yet you call it Earth? the Ruler said. I do, Korvin said, for convenience. Do you know its location? the Ruler said. Not with exactitude, Korvin said. There was a stir. But you can find it again, the Ruler said. I can, Korvin said. And you will tell us about it? the Ruler went on. I will, Korvin said, so far as I am able. We will wish to know about weapons, the Ruler said, and about plansand fortifications. But we must first know of the manner of decisionon this planet. Is your planet joined with others in a government ordoes it exist alone? Korvin nearly smiled. Both, he said. A short silence was broken by one of the attendant experts. We havetheorized that an underling may be permitted to make some of his owndecisions, leaving only the more extensive ones for the master. Thisseems to us inefficient and liable to error, yet it is a possiblesystem. Is it the system you mean? Very sharp, Korvin told himself grimly. It is, he said. Then the government which reigns over several planets is supreme,the Ruler said. It is, Korvin said. Who is it that governs? the Ruler said. The key question had, at last, been asked. Korvin felt grateful thatthe logical Tr'en had determined to begin from the beginning, insteadof going off after details of armament first; it saved a lot of time. The answer to that question, Korvin said, cannot be given to you. Any question of fact has an answer, the Ruler snapped. A paradox isnot involved here; a government exists, and some being is thegovernor. Perhaps several beings share this task; perhaps machines dothe work. But where there is a government, there is a governor. Isthis agreed? Certainly, Korvin said. It is completely obvious and true. The planet from which you come is part of a system of planets whichare governed, you have said, the Ruler went on. True, Korvin said. Then there is a governor for this system, the Ruler said. True, Korvin said again. The ruler sighed gently. Explain this governor to us, he said. Korvin shrugged. The explanation cannot be given to you. The Ruler turned to a group of his experts and a short mutteredconversation took place. At its end the Ruler turned his gaze back toKorvin. Is the deficiency in you? he said. Are you in some wayunable to describe this government? It can be described, Korvin said. Then you will suffer unpleasant consequences if you describe it tous? the Ruler went on. I will not, Korvin said. It was the signal for another conference. With some satisfaction,Korvin noticed that the Tr'en were becoming slightly puzzled; theywere no longer moving and speaking with calm assurance. The plan was taking hold. The Ruler had finished his conference. You are attempting again toconfuse us, he said. Korvin shook his head earnestly. I am attempting, he said, not toconfuse you. Then I ask for an answer, the Ruler said. I request that I be allowed to ask a question, Korvin said. The Ruler hesitated, then nodded. Ask it, he said. We shall answerit if we see fit to do so. Korvin tried to look grateful. Well, then, he said, what is yourgovernment? The Ruler beckoned to a heavy-set green being, who stepped forwardfrom a knot of Tr'en, inclined his head in Korvin's direction, andbegan. Our government is the only logical form of government, hesaid in a high, sweet tenor. The Ruler orders all, and his subjectsobey. In this way uniformity is gained, and this uniformity aids inthe speed of possible action and in the weight of action. All Tr'enact instantly in the same manner. The Ruler is adopted by the previousRuler; in this way we are assured of a common wisdom and a steadyjudgment. You have heard our government defined, the Ruler said. Now, youwill define yours for us. Korvin shook his head. If you insist, he said, I'll try it. But youwon't understand it. The Ruler frowned. We shall understand, he said. Begin. Who governsyou? None, Korvin said. But you are governed? Korvin nodded. Yes. Then there is a governor, the Ruler insisted. True, Korvin said. But everyone is the governor. Then there is no government, the Ruler said. There is no singledecision. No, Korvin said equably, there are many decisions binding on all. Who makes them binding? the Ruler asked. Who forces you to acceptthese decisions? Some of them must be unfavorable to some beings? Many of them are unfavorable, Korvin said. But we are not forced toaccept them. Do you act against your own interests? Korvin shrugged. Not knowingly, he said. The Ruler flashed a look atthe technicians handling the lie-detector. Korvin turned to see theirexpression. They needed no words; the lie-detector was telling them,perfectly obviously, that he was speaking the truth. But the truthwasn't making any sense. I told you you wouldn't understand it, hesaid. It is a defect in your explanation, the Ruler almost snarled. My explanation is as exact as it can be, he said. The Ruler breathed gustily. Let us try something else, he said.Everyone is the governor. Do you share a single mind? A racial mindhas been theorized, though we have met with no examples— Neither have we, Korvin said. We are all individuals, likeyourselves. But with no single ruler to form policy, to make decisions— We have no need of one, Korvin said calmly. Ah, the Ruler said suddenly, as if he saw daylight ahead. And whynot? We call our form of government democracy , Korvin said. It meansthe rule of the people. There is no need for another ruler. One of the experts piped up suddenly. The beings themselves rule eachother? he said. This is clearly impossible; for, no one being canhave the force to compel acceptance of his commands. Without hisforce, there can be no effective rule. That is our form of government, Korvin said. You are lying, the expert said. One of the technicians chimed in: The machine tells us— Then the machine is faulty, the expert said. It will be corrected. Korvin wondered, as the technicians argued, how long they'd takestudying the machine, before they realized it didn't have any defectsto correct. He hoped it wasn't going to be too long; he could foreseeanother stretch of boredom coming. And, besides, he was gettinghomesick. It took three days—but boredom never really had a chance to set in.Korvin found himself the object of more attention than he had hopedfor; one by one, the experts came to his cell, each with a differentmethod of resolving the obvious contradictions in his statements. Some of them went away fuming. Others simply went away, puzzled. On the third day Korvin escaped. It wasn't very difficult; he hadn't thought it would be. Even the mostlogical of thinking beings has a subconscious as well as a consciousmind, and one of the ways of dealing with an insoluble problem is tomake the problem disappear. There were only two ways of doing that,and killing the problem's main focus was a little more complicated.That couldn't be done by the subconscious mind; the conscious had tointervene somewhere. And it couldn't. Because that would mean recognizing, fully and consciously, that theproblem was insoluble. And the Tr'en weren't capable of that sort ofthinking. Korvin thanked his lucky stars that their genius had been restrictedto the physical and mathematical. Any insight at all into the mentalsciences would have given them the key to his existence, and hisentire plan, within seconds. But, then, it was lack of that insight that had called for thisparticular plan. That, and the political structure of the Tr'en. The same lack of insight let the Tr'en subconscious work on hisescape without any annoying distractions in the way of deepreflection. Someone left a door unlocked and a weapon nearby—allquite intent, Korvin was sure. Getting to the ship was a little morecomplicated, but presented no new problems; he was airborne, and thenspace-borne, inside of a few hours after leaving the cell. He set his course, relaxed, and cleared his mind. He had no psionictalents, but the men at Earth Central did; he couldn't receivemessages, but he could send them. He sent one now. Mission accomplished; the Tr'en aren't about to comemarauding out into space too soon. They've been given foodfor thought—nice indigestible food that's going to stick intheir craws until they finally manage to digest it. But theycan't digest it and stay what they are; you've got to bedemocratic, to some extent, to understand the idea. Whatkeeps us obeying laws we ourselves make? What keeps usobeying laws that make things inconvenient for us? Sheerself-interest, of course—but try to make a Tr'en see it! With one government and one language, they just weren'tequipped for translation. They were too efficient physicallyto try for the mental sciences at all. No mental sciences,no insight into my mind or their own—and that means notranslation. But—damn it—I wish I were home already. I'm bored absolutely stiff! THE END <doc-sep>The Ruler looked to his technicians for a signal, and nodded onreceiving it. You will tell an untruth now, he said. Are youstanding or sitting? I am standing, Korvin said. The technicians gave another signal. The Ruler looked, in his frowningmanner, reasonably satisfied. The machine, he announced, has beenadjusted satisfactorily to your physiology. The questioning will nowcontinue. Korvin swallowed again. The test hadn't really seemed extensive enoughto him. But, after all, the Tr'en knew their business, better thananyone else could know it. They had the technique and the logic andthe training. He hoped they were right. The Ruler was frowning at him. Korvin did his best to look receptive.Why did you land your ship on this planet? the Ruler said. My job required it, Korvin said. The Ruler nodded. Your job is to crash your ship, he said. It iswasteful but the machines tell me it is true. Very well, then; weshall find out more about your job. Was the crash intentional? Korvin looked sober. Yes, he said. The Ruler blinked. Very well, he said. Was your job ended when theship crashed? The Tr'en word, of course, wasn't ended , nor did itmean exactly that. As nearly as Korvin could make out, it meantdisposed of for all time. No, he said. What else does your job entail? the Ruler said. Korvin decided to throw his first spoke into the wheel. Stayingalive. The Ruler roared. Do not waste time with the obvious! he shouted.Do not try to trick us; we are a logical and scientific race! Answercorrectly. I have told the truth, Korvin said. But it is not—not the truth we want, the Ruler said. Korvin shrugged. I replied to your question, he said. I did notknow that there was more than one kind of truth. Surely the truth isthe truth, just as the Ruler is the Ruler? I— The Ruler stopped himself in mid-roar. You try to confuse theRuler, he said at last, in an approximation of his usual one. Butthe Ruler will not be confused. We have experts in matters oflogic—the Tr'en word seemed to mean right-saying —who will advisethe Ruler. They will be called. Korvin's guards were standing around doing nothing of importance nowthat their captor was strapped down in the lie-detector. The Rulergestured and they went out the door in a hurry. The Ruler looked down at Korvin. You will find that you cannot trickus, he said. You will find that such fiddling— chulad-like Korvintranslated—attempts will get you nowhere. Korvin devoutly hoped so. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the role of the Ruler in the story "Lost in Translation"?

The Ruler is the sole governor of the Tr'en race. Characterized by their humanoid appearance, Tr'en are tall, greenish, and have four fingers. The Ruler himself is taller than most at seven-feet tall and is quite broad. The Tr'en are very logical and speak in a language almost mathematical in its clarity and precision. The Ruler epitomizes Tr'en commitment to logical inquiry. At first, The Ruler grills Korvin on his name, his race, his sex, and whether or not his appearance is normal for humanity. When Korvin's response regarding the variations in height amongst human adults and children, The Ruler is confounded. He also disbelieves Korvin's response regarding his purpose on Tr'en. Because of this, The Ruler orders Korvin to be hooked up to a lie detector. After adjusting the detector to Korvin's physiology, Korvin launches into a line of questioning regarding planet Earth, specifically the governance of it. When the experts monitoring the lie detector's reactions to Korvin's answers become baffled by his truth-telling in the face of seemingly illogical answers, The Ruler seemingly throws in the towel and lets the experts investigate the idea that Korvin is either lying or the machine is broken. In reality, Korvin has exploited a flaw in their logic--although they are masters of science, they have not mastered mental science. Only a grasp of mental science would allow the Tr'en to fathom humankind's embrace of democracy.

What role does translation play in the narrative of LOST IN TRANSLATION? [SEP] <s> LOST IN TRANSLATION By LARRY M. HARRIS In language translation, you may get a literally accurateword-for-word translation ... but miss the meaning entirely. And inspace-type translation ... the effect may be the same! Illustrated by Schoenherr The cell had been put together more efficiently than any Korvin hadever been in. But that was only natural, he told himself sadly; theTr'en were an efficient people. All the preliminary reports had agreedon that; their efficiency, as a matter of fact, was what had madeKorvin's arrival a necessity. They were well into the atomic era, andwere on the verge of developing space travel. Before long they'd besettling the other planets of their system, and then the nearer stars.Faster-than-light travel couldn't be far away, for the magnificentlyefficient physical scientists of the Tr'en—and that would mean, inthe ordinary course of events, an invitation to join the Comity ofPlanets. An invitation, the Comity was sure, which the Tr'en would not accept. Korvin stretched out on the cell's single bunk, a rigid affair whichwas hardly meant for comfort, and sighed. He'd had three days ofisolation, with nothing to do but explore the resources of his ownmind. He'd tried some of the ancient Rhine experiments, but that wasno good; he still didn't show any particular psi talents. He couldn'tunlock the cell door with his unaided mind; he couldn't even alter theprobability of a single dust-mote's Brownian path through the somewhatsmelly air. Nor could he disappear from his cell and appear, as if bymagic, several miles away near the slightly-damaged hulk of his ship,to the wonder and amazement of his Tr'en captors. He could do, as a matter of fact, precisely nothing. He wished quietlythat the Tr'en had seen fit to give him a pack of cards, or a book, oreven a folder of tourist pictures. The Wonders of Tr'en, according toall the advance reports, were likely to be pretty boring, but they'dhave been better than nothing. In any decently-run jail, he told himself with indignation, therewould at least have been other prisoners to talk to. But on Tr'enKorvin was all alone. True, every night the guards came in and gave him a concentratedlesson in the local language, but Korvin failed to get much pleasureout of that, being unconscious at the time. But now he was equipped todiscuss almost anything from philosophy to plumbing, but there wasnobody to discuss it with. He changed position on the bunk and staredat the walls. The Tr'en were efficient; there weren't even anyimperfections in the smooth surface to distract him. He wasn't tired and he wasn't hungry; his captors had left him with afull stock of food concentrates. But he was almightily bored, and about ready to tell anything toanyone, just for the chance at a little conversation. As he reached this dismal conclusion, the cell door opened. Korvin gotup off the bunk in a hurry and spun around to face his visitor. The Tr'en was tall, and slightly green. He looked, as all the Tr'en did, vaguely humanoid—that is, if youdon't bother to examine him closely. Life in the universe appeared tobe rigidly limited to humanoid types on oxygen planets; Korvin didn'tknow why, and neither did anybody else. There were a lot of theories,but none that accounted for all the facts satisfactorily. Korvinreally didn't care about it; it was none of his business. The Tr'en regarded him narrowly through catlike pupils. You areKorvin, he said. It was a ritual, Korvin had learned. You are of the Tr'en, hereplied. The green being nodded. I am Didyak of the Tr'en, he said. Amenities over with, he relaxedslightly—but no more than slightly—and came into the cell, closingthe door behind him. Korvin thought of jumping the Tr'en, but decidedquickly against it. He was a captive, and it was unwise to assume thathis captors had no more resources than the ones he saw: a smalltranslucent pistollike affair in a holster at the Tr'en's side, and asmall knife in a sheath at the belt. Those Korvin could deal with; butthere might be almost anything else hidden and ready to fire on him. What do you want with me? Korvin said. The Tr'en speech—apparentlythere was only one language on the planet—was stiff and slightlyawkward, but easily enough learned under drug hypnosis; it was themost rigorously logical construction of its kind Korvin had ever comeacross. It reminded him of some of the mathematical metalanguages he'ddealt with back on Earth, in training; but it was more closely andcarefully constructed than even those marvels. I want nothing with you, Didyak said, leaning against thedoor-frame. You have other questions? Korvin sighed. What are you doing here, then? he asked. Asconversation, it wasn't very choice; but it was, he admitted, betterthan solitude. I am leaning against the door, Didyak said. The Tr'en literalistapproach to the smallest problems of everyday living was a little hardto get the hang of, Korvin told himself bitterly. He thought for asecond. Why did you come to me? he said at last. Didyak beamed at him. The sight was remarkably unpleasant, involvingas it did the disclosure of the Tr'en fifty-eight teeth, mostlypointed. Korvin stared back impassively. I have been ordered to cometo you, Didyak said, by the Ruler. The Ruler wishes to talk withyou. It wasn't quite talk; that was a general word in the Tr'en language,and Didyak had used a specific meaning, roughly: gain informationfrom, by peaceful and vocal means. Korvin filed it away for futurereference. Why did the Ruler not come to me? Korvin asked. The Ruler is the Ruler, Didyak said, slightly discomfited. You areto go to him. Such is his command. Korvin shrugged, sighed and smoothed back his hair. I obey thecommand of the Ruler, he said—another ritual. Everybody obeyed thecommand of the Ruler. If you didn't, you never had a second chance totry. But Korvin meant exactly what he'd said. He was going to obey thecommands of the Ruler of the Tr'en—and remove the Tr'en threat fromthe rest of the galaxy forever. That, after all, was his job. <doc-sep>Commander Eagan said, You'd better find some new way of amusingyourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17? Isobar said, I seen it. But if you think— It says, stated Eagan deliberately, ' In order that work or restperiods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby orderedthat the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments mustbe discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander ,' Thatmeans you, Jones! But, dingbust it! keened Isobar, it don't disturb nobody for me toplay my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate goodmusic, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me— But the Dome, pointed out Commander Eagan, has an air-conditioningsystem which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans ofyour—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entirestructure. He suddenly seemed to gain stature. No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entireorganization for your own—er—amusement. But— said Isobar. No! Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already.If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the lastamusement which lightened his moments of freedom— Look, Commander! he pleaded, I tell you what I'll do. I won't bothernobody. I'll go Outside and play it— Outside! Eagan stared at him incredulously. Are you mad? How aboutthe Grannies? Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of lifefound by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was anabbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunarexployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it wasan understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain lowintelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding andimplacable foe. Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had everyet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; sciencewas completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition ofGraniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, thatthe carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of somethingharder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could bepenetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame,by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discoveredatomo-needle dispenser. All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet: They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome, he said, fora 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right backinside— No! said Commander Eagan flatly. Absolutely, no ! I have no timefor such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen,good afternoon! He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning. Well, he said, one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't playyour doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all theawful screeching wails— But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfectfury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and fromhis lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley lookedstartled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violentprofanity. Oh, dagnab it! fumed Isobar Jones. Oh, tarnation and dingbust!Oh— fiddlesticks ! II And so, chuckled Riley, he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hotoven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was. Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr.Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older mannodded commiseratingly. It is funny, yes, he agreed, but at the same time it is notaltogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, ourpoor Isobar. Yeah, I know, said Riley, but, hell, we all get a little bithomesick now and then. He ought to learn to— Excuse me, my boy, interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is somethingdeeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call: weltschmertz . There is no accurate translation in English. It means'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that butintensified a thousandfold. It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frameof mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on whichthey find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad actsof valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery.... You mean, demanded Sparks anxiously, Isobar ain't got all hisbuttons? Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morassof despair. He may try anything to retrieve his lost happiness, ridhis soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a cryinghunger—By the way, where is he now? Below, I guess. In his quarters. Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he willfind peace and forgetfulness. But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power thegiftie gi'en him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment. Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, hewas acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtiveculprit. Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with DomeCommander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein wasencased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from theirpegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection. So I can't play you, huh? he muttered darkly. It disturbs the peaceo' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll see about that! And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from theroom, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge impervite gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorwayto Outside. On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradleadjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. Buttoday they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might ventureout. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might haveto get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian ofthe entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman. Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exudingan aura of propriety. Very well, Wilkins, he said. I'll take over now. You may go to themeeting. Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly. Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones? Isobar's eyebrows arched. You mean you haven't been notified? Notified of what ? Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that Iwould take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.? I ain't, puzzled Wilkins, heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought tocall the office, maybe? And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. That—er—won'tbe necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just runalong. I'll watch this entrance for you. We-e-ell, said Wilkins, if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep asharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come backsudden-like. I will, promised Isobar, don't worry. <doc-sep>Looks okay to me, I said. Quade passed a gauntlet over his faceplate.It's real. I can blur it with a smudged visor. When it blurs, it'ssolid. The landscape beyond the black corona left by our landing rockets wasunimpressive. The rocky desert was made up of silicon and iron oxide,so it looked much the same as a terrestrial location. Yellowish-whitesand ran up to and around reddish brown rock clawing into the pinksunlight. I don't understand it, Quade admitted. Transphasia hits you a foulas soon as you let it into the airlock. Apparently, Quade, this thing is going to creep up on us. Don't sound smug, Captain. It's pitty-pattying behind you too. The keening call across the surface of consciousness postponed my reply. The wail was ominously forlorn, defiant of description. I turned myhead around slowly inside my helmet, not even sure that I had heard it. But what else can you do with a wail but hear it? Quade nodded. I've felt this before. It usually hits sooner. Let'strace it. I don't like this, I admitted. It's not at all what I expected fromwhat you said about transphasia. It must be something else. It couldn't be anything else. I know what to expect. You don't. Youmay begin smelling sensations, tasting sounds, hearing sights, seeingtastes, touching odors—or any other combination. Don't let it botheryou. Of course not. I'll soothe my nerves by counting little shocks oflanolin jumping over a loud fence. Quade grinned behind his faceplate. Good idea. Then you can have it. I'm going to try keeping my eyes open andstaying alive. There was no reply. His expression was tart and greasy despite all his light talk, andI knew mine was the same. I tested the security rope between ourpressure suits. It was a taut and virile bass. We scaled a staccato of rocks, our suits grinding pepper against ourhides. The musk summit rose before us, a minor-key horizon with a shiftingtreble for as far as I could smell. It was primitive beauty that madeyou feel shocking pink inside. The most beautiful vista I had evertasted, it couldn't be dulled even by the sensation of beef broth undermy skin. Is this transphasia? I asked in awe. It always has been before, Quade remarked. Ready to swallow yourwords about this being something an old hand wouldn't recognize,Captain? I'm swallowing no words until I find out precisely how they tastehere. Not a bad taste. They're pretty. Or haven't you noticed? Quade, you're right! About the colors anyway. This reminds me of anilliscope recording from a cybernetic translator. It should. I don't suppose we could understand each other if it wasn'tfor our morphistudy courses in reading cross-sense translations ofCentauri blushtalk and the like. It became difficult to understand him, difficult to try talking in theface of such splendor. You never really appreciate colors until yousmell them for the first time. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What role does translation play in the narrative of LOST IN TRANSLATION?

After Korvin crash-lands on Tr’en, he is captured and imprisoned for several days before he wakes up. During that time, the prison guards teach him the Tr’en language via hypnopædic language instruction. He learns the language is closer to mathematical metalanguage and is centered in logic and clarity. As a result, Korvin has to adjust the way he speaks in order to make sure to convey what he really means in his conversations with Didyak and when he responds to The Ruler's line of questioning. Because the Tr'en language requires perfect logic, Korvin's answers to The Ruler's questions confuse The Ruler and his group of experts that examine the lie detector and confer to determine if Korvin is telling the truth or beating the system somehow. Translation ultimately saves Korvin since the Tr'en are unable to logically process the concept of democracy, and they will spend an endless amount of time trying to solve that problem instead of advancing to the point where they will maraud and settle others in the Comity of Planets.

What is the role of Didyak in the story "Lost in Translation"? [SEP] <s> LOST IN TRANSLATION By LARRY M. HARRIS In language translation, you may get a literally accurateword-for-word translation ... but miss the meaning entirely. And inspace-type translation ... the effect may be the same! Illustrated by Schoenherr The cell had been put together more efficiently than any Korvin hadever been in. But that was only natural, he told himself sadly; theTr'en were an efficient people. All the preliminary reports had agreedon that; their efficiency, as a matter of fact, was what had madeKorvin's arrival a necessity. They were well into the atomic era, andwere on the verge of developing space travel. Before long they'd besettling the other planets of their system, and then the nearer stars.Faster-than-light travel couldn't be far away, for the magnificentlyefficient physical scientists of the Tr'en—and that would mean, inthe ordinary course of events, an invitation to join the Comity ofPlanets. An invitation, the Comity was sure, which the Tr'en would not accept. Korvin stretched out on the cell's single bunk, a rigid affair whichwas hardly meant for comfort, and sighed. He'd had three days ofisolation, with nothing to do but explore the resources of his ownmind. He'd tried some of the ancient Rhine experiments, but that wasno good; he still didn't show any particular psi talents. He couldn'tunlock the cell door with his unaided mind; he couldn't even alter theprobability of a single dust-mote's Brownian path through the somewhatsmelly air. Nor could he disappear from his cell and appear, as if bymagic, several miles away near the slightly-damaged hulk of his ship,to the wonder and amazement of his Tr'en captors. He could do, as a matter of fact, precisely nothing. He wished quietlythat the Tr'en had seen fit to give him a pack of cards, or a book, oreven a folder of tourist pictures. The Wonders of Tr'en, according toall the advance reports, were likely to be pretty boring, but they'dhave been better than nothing. In any decently-run jail, he told himself with indignation, therewould at least have been other prisoners to talk to. But on Tr'enKorvin was all alone. True, every night the guards came in and gave him a concentratedlesson in the local language, but Korvin failed to get much pleasureout of that, being unconscious at the time. But now he was equipped todiscuss almost anything from philosophy to plumbing, but there wasnobody to discuss it with. He changed position on the bunk and staredat the walls. The Tr'en were efficient; there weren't even anyimperfections in the smooth surface to distract him. He wasn't tired and he wasn't hungry; his captors had left him with afull stock of food concentrates. But he was almightily bored, and about ready to tell anything toanyone, just for the chance at a little conversation. As he reached this dismal conclusion, the cell door opened. Korvin gotup off the bunk in a hurry and spun around to face his visitor. The Tr'en was tall, and slightly green. He looked, as all the Tr'en did, vaguely humanoid—that is, if youdon't bother to examine him closely. Life in the universe appeared tobe rigidly limited to humanoid types on oxygen planets; Korvin didn'tknow why, and neither did anybody else. There were a lot of theories,but none that accounted for all the facts satisfactorily. Korvinreally didn't care about it; it was none of his business. The Tr'en regarded him narrowly through catlike pupils. You areKorvin, he said. It was a ritual, Korvin had learned. You are of the Tr'en, hereplied. The green being nodded. I am Didyak of the Tr'en, he said. Amenities over with, he relaxedslightly—but no more than slightly—and came into the cell, closingthe door behind him. Korvin thought of jumping the Tr'en, but decidedquickly against it. He was a captive, and it was unwise to assume thathis captors had no more resources than the ones he saw: a smalltranslucent pistollike affair in a holster at the Tr'en's side, and asmall knife in a sheath at the belt. Those Korvin could deal with; butthere might be almost anything else hidden and ready to fire on him. What do you want with me? Korvin said. The Tr'en speech—apparentlythere was only one language on the planet—was stiff and slightlyawkward, but easily enough learned under drug hypnosis; it was themost rigorously logical construction of its kind Korvin had ever comeacross. It reminded him of some of the mathematical metalanguages he'ddealt with back on Earth, in training; but it was more closely andcarefully constructed than even those marvels. I want nothing with you, Didyak said, leaning against thedoor-frame. You have other questions? Korvin sighed. What are you doing here, then? he asked. Asconversation, it wasn't very choice; but it was, he admitted, betterthan solitude. I am leaning against the door, Didyak said. The Tr'en literalistapproach to the smallest problems of everyday living was a little hardto get the hang of, Korvin told himself bitterly. He thought for asecond. Why did you come to me? he said at last. Didyak beamed at him. The sight was remarkably unpleasant, involvingas it did the disclosure of the Tr'en fifty-eight teeth, mostlypointed. Korvin stared back impassively. I have been ordered to cometo you, Didyak said, by the Ruler. The Ruler wishes to talk withyou. It wasn't quite talk; that was a general word in the Tr'en language,and Didyak had used a specific meaning, roughly: gain informationfrom, by peaceful and vocal means. Korvin filed it away for futurereference. Why did the Ruler not come to me? Korvin asked. The Ruler is the Ruler, Didyak said, slightly discomfited. You areto go to him. Such is his command. Korvin shrugged, sighed and smoothed back his hair. I obey thecommand of the Ruler, he said—another ritual. Everybody obeyed thecommand of the Ruler. If you didn't, you never had a second chance totry. But Korvin meant exactly what he'd said. He was going to obey thecommands of the Ruler of the Tr'en—and remove the Tr'en threat fromthe rest of the galaxy forever. That, after all, was his job. <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through. I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves. I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What— Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised. The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago. At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay. You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that? Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully. What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of any kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience? Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing! But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this. He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy. I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity. One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow. Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent. No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what we did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right. <doc-sep>She had finished. And now Cyril cleared his throat. Dear friends, wewere honored by your gracious invitation to visit this fair planet, andwe are honored now by the cordial reception you have given to us. The crowd yoomped politely. After a slight start, Cyril went on,apparently deciding that applause was all that had been intended. We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure andprofit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensiveanalysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to studyyour society, not to tamper with it in any way. Ha, ha , Skkiru said to himself. Ha, ha, ha! But why is it, Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out ofthe corners of his eyes, that only the beggar wears mudshoes? Shhh, Cyril hissed back. We'll find out later, when we'veestablished rapport. Don't be so impatient! Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his heartsto feel sorry for the man. We have prepared our best hut for you, noble sirs, Bbulas said withgreat self-control, and, by happy chance, this very evening a smallbut unusually interesting ceremony will be held outside the temple. Wehope you will be able to attend. It is to be a rain dance. Rain dance! Raoul pulled his macintosh together more tightly at thethroat. But why do you want rain? My faith, not only does it rain now,but the planet seems to be a veritable sea of mud. Not, of course, headded hurriedly as Cyril's reproachful eye caught his, that it is notattractive mud. Finest mud I have ever seen. Such texture, such color,such aroma! Cyril nodded three times and gave an appreciative sniff. But, Raoul went on, one can have too much of even such a good thingas mud.... The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. Yes, of course, honorableTerrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not adance to bring on rain. It is a dance to stop rain. He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme forthe improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better thanthis high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportionedthe various roles so that each person would be making a definitecontribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship. What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standingaround begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threwthemselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carriedaway that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had beenaccustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the role of Didyak in the story "Lost in Translation"?

Didyak is a Tr'en from the planet Tr'en, and he is tall, slightly green, vaguely humanoid, and has cat-like pupils. Didyak is the first Tr'en that Korvin encounters after waking up in the days following his crash. Having been educated in the Tr'en language through hypnosis, Korvin is able to communicate with Didyak, and he does so, making sure to address with the utmost respect according to Tr'en customs. Didyak carries a small weapon that is translucent and looks like a pistol; he also carries a small knife attached to his belt. Didyak's speech is stiff and slightly awkward, much like the rest of the Tr'en, and he speaks with very careful attention paid to the construction of each sentence in order to express perfect logic. Like the other Tr'en, Didyak also has fifty-eight pointy teeth, at which Korvin tries not to stare. The Ruler has sent Didyak to bring Korvin for an audience with him so that he may learn more about Earth.

What is the backdrop of the story LOST IN TRANSLATION? [SEP] <s> LOST IN TRANSLATION By LARRY M. HARRIS In language translation, you may get a literally accurateword-for-word translation ... but miss the meaning entirely. And inspace-type translation ... the effect may be the same! Illustrated by Schoenherr The cell had been put together more efficiently than any Korvin hadever been in. But that was only natural, he told himself sadly; theTr'en were an efficient people. All the preliminary reports had agreedon that; their efficiency, as a matter of fact, was what had madeKorvin's arrival a necessity. They were well into the atomic era, andwere on the verge of developing space travel. Before long they'd besettling the other planets of their system, and then the nearer stars.Faster-than-light travel couldn't be far away, for the magnificentlyefficient physical scientists of the Tr'en—and that would mean, inthe ordinary course of events, an invitation to join the Comity ofPlanets. An invitation, the Comity was sure, which the Tr'en would not accept. Korvin stretched out on the cell's single bunk, a rigid affair whichwas hardly meant for comfort, and sighed. He'd had three days ofisolation, with nothing to do but explore the resources of his ownmind. He'd tried some of the ancient Rhine experiments, but that wasno good; he still didn't show any particular psi talents. He couldn'tunlock the cell door with his unaided mind; he couldn't even alter theprobability of a single dust-mote's Brownian path through the somewhatsmelly air. Nor could he disappear from his cell and appear, as if bymagic, several miles away near the slightly-damaged hulk of his ship,to the wonder and amazement of his Tr'en captors. He could do, as a matter of fact, precisely nothing. He wished quietlythat the Tr'en had seen fit to give him a pack of cards, or a book, oreven a folder of tourist pictures. The Wonders of Tr'en, according toall the advance reports, were likely to be pretty boring, but they'dhave been better than nothing. In any decently-run jail, he told himself with indignation, therewould at least have been other prisoners to talk to. But on Tr'enKorvin was all alone. True, every night the guards came in and gave him a concentratedlesson in the local language, but Korvin failed to get much pleasureout of that, being unconscious at the time. But now he was equipped todiscuss almost anything from philosophy to plumbing, but there wasnobody to discuss it with. He changed position on the bunk and staredat the walls. The Tr'en were efficient; there weren't even anyimperfections in the smooth surface to distract him. He wasn't tired and he wasn't hungry; his captors had left him with afull stock of food concentrates. But he was almightily bored, and about ready to tell anything toanyone, just for the chance at a little conversation. As he reached this dismal conclusion, the cell door opened. Korvin gotup off the bunk in a hurry and spun around to face his visitor. The Tr'en was tall, and slightly green. He looked, as all the Tr'en did, vaguely humanoid—that is, if youdon't bother to examine him closely. Life in the universe appeared tobe rigidly limited to humanoid types on oxygen planets; Korvin didn'tknow why, and neither did anybody else. There were a lot of theories,but none that accounted for all the facts satisfactorily. Korvinreally didn't care about it; it was none of his business. The Tr'en regarded him narrowly through catlike pupils. You areKorvin, he said. It was a ritual, Korvin had learned. You are of the Tr'en, hereplied. The green being nodded. I am Didyak of the Tr'en, he said. Amenities over with, he relaxedslightly—but no more than slightly—and came into the cell, closingthe door behind him. Korvin thought of jumping the Tr'en, but decidedquickly against it. He was a captive, and it was unwise to assume thathis captors had no more resources than the ones he saw: a smalltranslucent pistollike affair in a holster at the Tr'en's side, and asmall knife in a sheath at the belt. Those Korvin could deal with; butthere might be almost anything else hidden and ready to fire on him. What do you want with me? Korvin said. The Tr'en speech—apparentlythere was only one language on the planet—was stiff and slightlyawkward, but easily enough learned under drug hypnosis; it was themost rigorously logical construction of its kind Korvin had ever comeacross. It reminded him of some of the mathematical metalanguages he'ddealt with back on Earth, in training; but it was more closely andcarefully constructed than even those marvels. I want nothing with you, Didyak said, leaning against thedoor-frame. You have other questions? Korvin sighed. What are you doing here, then? he asked. Asconversation, it wasn't very choice; but it was, he admitted, betterthan solitude. I am leaning against the door, Didyak said. The Tr'en literalistapproach to the smallest problems of everyday living was a little hardto get the hang of, Korvin told himself bitterly. He thought for asecond. Why did you come to me? he said at last. Didyak beamed at him. The sight was remarkably unpleasant, involvingas it did the disclosure of the Tr'en fifty-eight teeth, mostlypointed. Korvin stared back impassively. I have been ordered to cometo you, Didyak said, by the Ruler. The Ruler wishes to talk withyou. It wasn't quite talk; that was a general word in the Tr'en language,and Didyak had used a specific meaning, roughly: gain informationfrom, by peaceful and vocal means. Korvin filed it away for futurereference. Why did the Ruler not come to me? Korvin asked. The Ruler is the Ruler, Didyak said, slightly discomfited. You areto go to him. Such is his command. Korvin shrugged, sighed and smoothed back his hair. I obey thecommand of the Ruler, he said—another ritual. Everybody obeyed thecommand of the Ruler. If you didn't, you never had a second chance totry. But Korvin meant exactly what he'd said. He was going to obey thecommands of the Ruler of the Tr'en—and remove the Tr'en threat fromthe rest of the galaxy forever. That, after all, was his job. <doc-sep> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep>On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiositywould probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting withquestions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. Forhis part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoebauntil Joe came in, lugging a radio. Is that what you were talking about? the mayor snorted. What makesyou think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers andpolitical speech-makers. Do not jump to hasty conclusions, Harvey cautioned. Another word,and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventorof this absolutely awe-inspiring device. I ain't in the market for a radio, Johnson said stubbornly. Harvey nodded in relief. We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue ourstudy, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to anenormous fortune. Well, that's no plating off our bow, Joe grunted. I'm glad he didturn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three wholeyears. He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door. Now, hold on! the mayor cried. I ain't saying I'll buy, but whatis it I'm turning down? Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His facesorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet. To make a long story, Mr. Johnson, he said, Joseph and I were amongthe chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just beforehis tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane. Hebanged his fist on the bar. I have said it before, and I repeat again,that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredithis greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio! This what? Johnson blurted out. In simple terms, clarified Harvey, the ingenious doctor discoveredthat the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged byenergy of all quanta. There has never been any question that theinhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized thanourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge wouldfind himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science! The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar. And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension? It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied DoctorDean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact. The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and staredthoughtfully at the battered cabinet. Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts, heconceded. But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks upthere wouldn't talk our language. Again Harvey smashed his fist down. Do you dare to repeat the scurvylie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide? Johnson recoiled. No—no, of course not . I mean, being up here, Inaturally couldn't get all the details. Naturally, Harvey agreed, mollified. I'm sorry I lost my temper.But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcastsemanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that beso difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there wascommunication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admiredour language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their ownhyper-scientific trimmings? Why, I don't know, Johnson said in confusion. For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detectthe simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosedbroadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctorfailed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his couldstand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure tosolve the mystery caused him to take his own life. Johnson winced. Is that what you want to unload on me? For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will berewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man whocould devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously aperson with unusual patience. Yeah, the mayor said grudgingly, I ain't exactly flighty. Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem! Johnson asked skeptically: How about a sample first? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the backdrop of the story LOST IN TRANSLATION?

Korvin works for Earth Central and flies to the planet Tr'en on its behalf. Tr'en is a planet populated by the Tr'en race, a tall humanoid people with greenish skin, fifty-eight pointy teeth, and a unique language centered on the idea of logic. They are an extremely advanced race in terms of science and technology and others in the Comity of Planets consider them a possible threat seeing as they are in the atomic era and are on the brink of developing space travel. After Korvin crash-lands on Tr'en he sits in a prison cell noted for its smelly air, and, more importantly, its efficiency of design. Besides the Tr'en, the only known living creature on Tr'en is the chulad, a small creature that looks like a large deathwatch beetle. The Room of the Ruler is large and square, and everything inside the room is brown including the walls, furniture, and drapes. In terms of furniture, Korvin observes a large chair where The Ruler sits, many kneeling benches, and a small table near the chair. When two technicians bring in a lie detector test for Korvin, he notices that it is large, squat, and metallic and has wheels, dials, blinking lights, tubes, wires, and a seat with armrests and straps. The technicians use these straps to tie Korvin into the machine.

Can you provide a summary of The Happy Castaway's storyline? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffensremained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked drylyat the walls. Well, he said, whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since. No? How can you be sure? Steffens grunted. A space-borne race wasroaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spearsat each other, that long ago. And this planet is only a parsec fromVarius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built theseget to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know? He kicked at the sand distractedly. And most important, where are theynow? A race with several thousand years.... Fifteen thousand, Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least. Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realizednow how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him. But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last?There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a needto build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left something behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be— If the ship left and some of them stayed. Steffens nodded. But then the ship must have come back. Where did itgo? He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-blackmidday sky. We'll never know. How about the other planets? Ball asked. The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. Thethird planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but it has a CO 2 atmosphere. How about moons? Steffens shrugged. We could try them and find 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></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of The Happy Castaway's storyline?

Jonathan Fawkes dropped off the only member of his crew on Mars after he got space sickness, so he was alone on the journey to Jupiter. He had been charged with dropping off tobacco seed to see if they could cultivate it on the colonies in Jupiter. However, along the way, he got tired at the wheel of the ship, and, during his nap, crashed into an asteroid. When he awoke, a beautiful blonde woman named Ann was standing over him. They introduce themselves, and she explains that she’s one of the 27 female survivors of their crash over three years ago. Ann sees a horde of centaurs coming over the plains, so she and Jonathan crawl to the foothills, where they can’t be followed. She spears a creature along the way and hooks it on her belt. Jonathan attempts to escape, as he’s uncomfortable around women and wants a cigarette, but she takes him down. They run into nine more women who pin him to the ground. They start to carry him the four miles back to their base, but he asks to walk instead as he’s humiliated. They trudge through the foothills, only stopping once to throw stones at the pestering centaurs, before finally reaching home. They treat Jonathan like a king, pulling out a chair for him at the table, and endlessly complimenting him. They eat inside the dining room of their wrecked ship, and Jonathan watches the wild, Amazonian-like women in horror. Their leader, a big woman named Billy, halts all the flirting and tells Jonathan that he needs to rest in order to feel better. After his belly’s full, he quickly falls asleep, and they carry him upstairs to bed, attempting to take off his shoes which he refuses. The next morning, he wakes up and walks outside with a cane, exaggerating his injuries so as to be treated better. He sits beneath a tree and is soon greeted by Ann. She grabs him and they make to embrace but are caught by the rest of the girls. Billy splits them up and says it’s time to figure out who gets him. The women fight and argue their cases, and Jonathan slips away, running back to his ship. Another cruiser is sat down next to his own, the Interstellar Cosmography Society scrawled on its side. He meets Dr. Boynton and another man who offer to rescue him. Jonathan refuses them, tells them there’s nothing to worry about, then grabs his tobacco seeds, cigarettes, and tools, and makes his way back to the women.

What is the backdrop of The Happy Castaway? [SEP] <s>While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffensremained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked drylyat the walls. Well, he said, whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since. No? How can you be sure? Steffens grunted. A space-borne race wasroaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spearsat each other, that long ago. And this planet is only a parsec fromVarius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built theseget to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know? He kicked at the sand distractedly. And most important, where are theynow? A race with several thousand years.... Fifteen thousand, Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least. Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realizednow how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him. But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last?There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a needto build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left something behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be— If the ship left and some of them stayed. Steffens nodded. But then the ship must have come back. Where did itgo? He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-blackmidday sky. We'll never know. How about the other planets? Ball asked. The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. Thethird planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but it has a CO 2 atmosphere. How about moons? Steffens shrugged. We could try them and find 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> The Happy Castaway BY ROBERT E. McDOWELL Being space-wrecked and marooned is tough enough. But to face the horrors of such a planet as this was too much. Imagine Fawkes' terrible predicament; plenty of food—and twenty seven beautiful girls for companions. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jonathan Fawkes opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, and a girlwas bending over him. He detected a frightened expression on thegirl's face. His pale blue eyes traveled upward beyond the girl. Thesky was his roof, yet he distinctly remembered going to sleep on hisbunk aboard the space ship. You're not dead? I've some doubt about that, he replied dryly. He levered himself tohis elbows. The girl, he saw, had bright yellow hair. Her nose waspert, tip-tilted. She had on a ragged blue frock and sandals. Is—is anything broken? she asked. Don't know. Help me up. Between them he managed to struggle to hisfeet. He winced. He said, My name's Jonathan Fawkes. I'm a space pilotwith Universal. What happened? I feel like I'd been poured out of aconcrete mixer. She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. Ithad burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he hadsurvived at all. He scratched his head. I was running from Mars toJupiter with a load of seed for the colonists. Oh! said the girl, biting her lips. Your co-pilot must be in thewreckage. He shook his head. No, he reassured her. I left him on Mars. Hehad an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was thetrouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her onher course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawlinginto my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me. Hepaused. I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would havebeen a cinder by this time, he said. The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmaticsmile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wishedthat pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, Where am I?I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter. The girl shrugged her shoulders. I don't know. You don't know! He almost forgot his self-consciousness in hissurprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile acrossthe plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upwardhigher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chainof mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncatedcone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: justhe and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vastrolling prairie. I was going to explain, he heard her say. We think that we are on anasteroid. We? he looked back at her. Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,only we were going to be wives for the colonists. I remember, he exclaimed. Didn't the Jupiter Food-growersAssociation enlist you girls to go to the colonies? She nodded her head. Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash. Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor, he said. We hit this asteroid. But that was three years ago. Has it been that long? We lost track of time. She didn't take hereyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely selfconscious. She said, I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I sawyour space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in aheap. I thought you were dead. She stooped, picked up a spear. Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only aboutfour miles, she said. I think so, he said. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the backdrop of The Happy Castaway?

The Happy Castaway by Robert E. McDowell takes place during the year 3372 on an asteroid between Mars and Jupiter. The asteroid is mostly prairie and sprawling plains, but there are also foothills and steep mountains. In the mountains, there is also a mountain emitting white smoke. The centaurs, the Natives on the asteroid, live in the prairie and plains, as they are unable to successfully travel through the hills and mountains. The stranded women live beyond the mountains, where the centaurs can’t reach them, and have transformed the wreckage of their ship into a livable base. There is a grand table and weighted chairs to serve food at, a kitchen supposedly where they can cook the food they’ve hunted and foraged, as well as areas to sleep. There are rivers that run through the asteroid teeming with fish. Ann caught a rabbit-like creature, so there are other creatures to be hunted.

What is the story of Ann Clotilde in The Happy Castaway? [SEP] <s>Jonathan leaped to his feet, dumping Ann to the ground. He jerkedaround. All twenty-six of the girls were lined up on the path. Theirfeatures were grim. He said: I don't feel so well after all. It don't wash, said Billy. It's time for a showdown. Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde takeher stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at amenacing angle. She said in an angry voice: He's mine. I found him.Leave him alone. Where do you get that stuff? cried Olga. Share and share alike, sayI. We could draw straws for him, suggested the green-eyed blonde. Look here, Jonathan broke in. I've got some say in the matter. You have not, snapped Billy. You'll do just as we say. She took astep toward him. Jonathan edged away in consternation. He's going to run! Olga shouted. Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to theplain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothingrelaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettesat the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace. At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his spaceship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted andtore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside thewreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscriptionin silver letters: INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY. Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced insurprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon RayRifle in his hand. I'm Jonathan Fawkes, said the castaway as he panted up, pilot forUniversal. I was wrecked. A tall elderly man held out his hand. He had a small black waxedmustache and Van Dyke. He was smoking a venusian cigarette in ayellow composition holder. He said, I'm Doctor Boynton. He had arich cultivated voice, and a nose like a hawk. We are members of theInterstellar Cosmography Society. We've been commissioned to make acursory examination of this asteroid. You had a nasty crack up, Mr.Fawkes. But you are in luck, sir. We were on the point of returningwhen we sighted the wreck. I say, said the man who had run out of the cruiser. He was a prim,energetic young man. Jonathan noted that he carried the ray gungingerly, respectfully. We're a week overdue now, he said. If youhave any personal belongings that you'd like to take with you, you'dbest be getting them aboard. <doc-sep> The Happy Castaway BY ROBERT E. McDOWELL Being space-wrecked and marooned is tough enough. But to face the horrors of such a planet as this was too much. Imagine Fawkes' terrible predicament; plenty of food—and twenty seven beautiful girls for companions. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jonathan Fawkes opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, and a girlwas bending over him. He detected a frightened expression on thegirl's face. His pale blue eyes traveled upward beyond the girl. Thesky was his roof, yet he distinctly remembered going to sleep on hisbunk aboard the space ship. You're not dead? I've some doubt about that, he replied dryly. He levered himself tohis elbows. The girl, he saw, had bright yellow hair. Her nose waspert, tip-tilted. She had on a ragged blue frock and sandals. Is—is anything broken? she asked. Don't know. Help me up. Between them he managed to struggle to hisfeet. He winced. He said, My name's Jonathan Fawkes. I'm a space pilotwith Universal. What happened? I feel like I'd been poured out of aconcrete mixer. She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. Ithad burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he hadsurvived at all. He scratched his head. I was running from Mars toJupiter with a load of seed for the colonists. Oh! said the girl, biting her lips. Your co-pilot must be in thewreckage. He shook his head. No, he reassured her. I left him on Mars. Hehad an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was thetrouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her onher course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawlinginto my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me. Hepaused. I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would havebeen a cinder by this time, he said. The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmaticsmile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wishedthat pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, Where am I?I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter. The girl shrugged her shoulders. I don't know. You don't know! He almost forgot his self-consciousness in hissurprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile acrossthe plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upwardhigher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chainof mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncatedcone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: justhe and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vastrolling prairie. I was going to explain, he heard her say. We think that we are on anasteroid. We? he looked back at her. Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,only we were going to be wives for the colonists. I remember, he exclaimed. Didn't the Jupiter Food-growersAssociation enlist you girls to go to the colonies? She nodded her head. Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash. Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor, he said. We hit this asteroid. But that was three years ago. Has it been that long? We lost track of time. She didn't take hereyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely selfconscious. She said, I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I sawyour space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in aheap. I thought you were dead. She stooped, picked up a spear. Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only aboutfour miles, she said. I think so, he said. <doc-sep>Jonathan was slumped forward across the table, his head buried in hisarms. Catch a hold, said Billy, pushing back from the table. A dozen girlsvolunteered with a rush. Hoist! said Billy. They lifted him like asleepy child, bore him tenderly up an incline and into a stateroom,where they deposited him on the bed. Ann said to Olga; Help me with these boots. But they resisted everytug. It's no use, groaned Ann, straightening up and wiping her brightyellow hair back from her eyes. His feet have swollen. We'll have tocut them off. At these words, Jonathan raised upright as if someone had pulled a rope. Cut off whose feet? he cried in alarm. Not your feet, silly, said Ann. Your boots. Lay a hand on those boots, he scowled; and I'll make me another pairout of your hides. They set me back a week's salary. Having deliveredhimself of this ultimatum, he went back to sleep. Olga clapped her hand to her forehead. And this, she cried is whatwe've been praying for during the last three years. The next day found Jonathan Fawkes hobbling around by the aid of acane. At the portal of the space ship, he stuck out his head, glancedall around warily. None of the girls were in sight. They had, hepresumed, gone about their chores: hunting, fishing, gathering fruitsand berries. He emerged all the way and set out for the creek. Hewalked with an exaggerated limp just in case any of them should behanging around. As long as he was an invalid he was safe, he hoped. He sighed. Not every man could be waited on so solicitously bytwenty-seven handsome strapping amazons. He wished he could carry itoff in cavalier fashion. He hobbled to the creek, sat down beneath theshade of a tree. He just wasn't the type, he supposed. And it might beyears before they were rescued. As a last resort, he supposed, he could hide out in the hills or jointhe centaurs. He rather fancied himself galloping across the plainson the back of a centaur. He looked up with a start. Ann Clotilde wasambling toward him. How's the invalid? she said, seating herself beside him. Hot, isn't it? he said. He started to rise. Ann Clotilde placed theflat of her hand on his chest and shoved. Ooof! he grunted. He satdown rather more forcibly than he had risen. Don't get up because of me, she informed him. It's my turn to cook,but I saw you out here beneath the trees. Dinner can wait. Jonathan doyou know that you are irresistible? She seized his shoulders, staredinto his eyes. He couldn't have felt any more uncomfortable had ahungry boa constrictor draped itself in his arms. He mopped his browwith his sleeve. Suppose the rest should come, he said in an embarrassed voice. They're busy. They won't be here until I call them to lunch. Youreyes, she said, are like deep mysterious pools. Sure enough? said Jonathan with involuntary interest. He began torecover his nerve. She said, You're the best looking thing. She rumpled his hair. Ican't keep my eyes off you. Jonathan put his arm around her gingerly. Ouch! He winced. He hadforgotten his sore muscles. I forgot, said Ann Clotilde in a contrite voice. She tried to rise.You're hurt. He pulled her back down. Not so you could notice it, he grinned. Well! came the strident voice of Billy from behind them. We're all glad to hear that! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the story of Ann Clotilde in The Happy Castaway?

Ann Clotilde is one of the 27 women who crashed into the asteroid on their way to Jupiter and survived. She has blonde hair and a cute, button nose. She wears sandals and a frayed blue frock. She finds Jonathan Fawkes after he crashes during one of her hunting expeditions. She walked to him to see if he was dead or not but soon rescues him from the oncoming horde of centaurs. She quickly spears a rabbit-like creature and attaches it to her belt. She takes him down when he attempts to escape, proving her Amazonian strength. The other girls come when they see her and fawn over Jonathan as well. Together, they half-carry, half-drag him back to their ship, where they feed him. The next day, Ann meets him beneath a tree and essentially throws herself at him. He receives her gladly, but they soon stop when they are caught by the others. Jonathan runs off, leaving Ann behind.

What was the fate of the 27 women stranded on the asteroid in The Happy Castaway? [SEP] <s>Jonathan's face broke into a grin. He said, Do any of you know how togrow tobacco? They glanced at each other in perplexity. I like it here, continued Jonathan. I'm not going back. What? cried the three explorers in one breath. I'm going to stay, he repeated. I only came back here after thecigarettes. But it will be three years before the asteroid's orbit brings it backin the space lanes, said Doctor Boynton. You don't possibly expect tobe picked up before then! Jonathan shook his head, began to load himself with tools, tobaccoseed, and cigarettes. Odd. Doctor Boynton shook his head, turned to the others. Though ifI remember correctly, there was quite an epidemic of hermits duringthe medieval period. It was an esthetic movement. They fled to thewilderness to escape the temptation of women . Jonathan laughed outright. You are sure you won't return, young man? He shook his head. They argued, they cajoled, but Jonathan was adamant.He said, You might report my accident to Universal. Tell them to stopone of their Jupiter-bound freighters here when the asteroid swingsback in the space ways. I'll have a load for them. Inside the ship, Doctor Boynton moved over to a round transparent porthole. What a strange fellow, he murmured. He was just in time to seethe castaway, loaded like a pack mule, disappear in the direction fromwhich he had come. Robinson Crusoe was going back to his man (?) Friday—all twenty-sevenof them. <doc-sep> The Happy Castaway BY ROBERT E. McDOWELL Being space-wrecked and marooned is tough enough. But to face the horrors of such a planet as this was too much. Imagine Fawkes' terrible predicament; plenty of food—and twenty seven beautiful girls for companions. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jonathan Fawkes opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, and a girlwas bending over him. He detected a frightened expression on thegirl's face. His pale blue eyes traveled upward beyond the girl. Thesky was his roof, yet he distinctly remembered going to sleep on hisbunk aboard the space ship. You're not dead? I've some doubt about that, he replied dryly. He levered himself tohis elbows. The girl, he saw, had bright yellow hair. Her nose waspert, tip-tilted. She had on a ragged blue frock and sandals. Is—is anything broken? she asked. Don't know. Help me up. Between them he managed to struggle to hisfeet. He winced. He said, My name's Jonathan Fawkes. I'm a space pilotwith Universal. What happened? I feel like I'd been poured out of aconcrete mixer. She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. Ithad burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he hadsurvived at all. He scratched his head. I was running from Mars toJupiter with a load of seed for the colonists. Oh! said the girl, biting her lips. Your co-pilot must be in thewreckage. He shook his head. No, he reassured her. I left him on Mars. Hehad an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was thetrouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her onher course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawlinginto my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me. Hepaused. I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would havebeen a cinder by this time, he said. The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmaticsmile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wishedthat pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, Where am I?I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter. The girl shrugged her shoulders. I don't know. You don't know! He almost forgot his self-consciousness in hissurprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile acrossthe plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upwardhigher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chainof mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncatedcone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: justhe and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vastrolling prairie. I was going to explain, he heard her say. We think that we are on anasteroid. We? he looked back at her. Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,only we were going to be wives for the colonists. I remember, he exclaimed. Didn't the Jupiter Food-growersAssociation enlist you girls to go to the colonies? She nodded her head. Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash. Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor, he said. We hit this asteroid. But that was three years ago. Has it been that long? We lost track of time. She didn't take hereyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely selfconscious. She said, I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I sawyour space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in aheap. I thought you were dead. She stooped, picked up a spear. Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only aboutfour miles, she said. I think so, he said. <doc-sep>The girls set up a shout and threw stones down at the centaurs, whoreared, pawed the air, and galloped to a safe distance, from which theyhurled back insults in a strange tongue. Their voices sounded faintlylike the neighing of horses. Amazons and centaurs, he thought again. He couldn't get the problemof the girls' phenomenal strength out of his mind. Then it occurredto him that the asteroid, most likely, was smaller even than Earth'smoon. He must weigh about a thirtieth of what he usually did, due tothe lessened gravity. It also occurred to him that they would be thirtytimes as strong. He was staggered. He wished he had a smoke. At length, the amazons and the centaurs tired of bandying insultsback and forth. The centaurs galloped off into the prairie, the girlsresumed their march. Jonathan scrambled up hills, skidded down slopes.The brunette was beside him helping him over the rough spots. I'm Olga, she confided. Has anybody ever told you what a handsomefellow you are? She pinched his cheek. Jonathan blushed. They climbed a ridge, paused at the crest. Below them, he saw a deepvalley. A stream tumbled through the center of it. There were treesalong its banks, the first he had seen on the asteroid. At the head ofthe valley, he made out the massive pile of a space liner. They started down a winding path. The space liner disappeared behinda promontory of the mountain. Jonathan steeled himself for the comingordeal. He would have sat down and refused to budge except that he knewthe girls would hoist him on their shoulders and bear him into the camplike a bag of meal. The trail debouched into the valley. Just ahead the space linerreappeared. He imagined that it had crashed into the mountain, skiddedand rolled down its side until it lodged beside the stream. It remindedhim of a wounded dinosaur. Three girls were bathing in the stream. Helooked away hastily. Someone hailed them from the space ship. We've caught a man, shrieked one of his captors. A flock of girls streamed out of the wrecked space ship. A man! screamed a husky blonde. She was wearing a grass skirt. Shehad green eyes. We're rescued! No. No, Ann Clotilde hastened to explain. He was wrecked like us. Oh, came a disappointed chorus. He's a man, said the green-eyed blonde. That's the next best thing. Oh, Olga, said a strapping brunette. Who'd ever thought a man couldlook so good? I did, said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shiveredlike an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He feltlike a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats. A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,Dinner's ready. Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him ofthe voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at himappraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. Bring himinto the ship, she said. The man must be starved. He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of thewrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center ofthe floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. Hisfeet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into theThirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past. With a sigh of relief, he started to sit down. A lithe red-head sprangforward and held his chair. They all waited politely for him to beseated before they took their places. He felt silly. He felt likea captive princess. All the confidence engendered by the familiarsettings of the space ship went out of him like wind. He, JonathanFawkes, was a castaway on an asteroid inhabited by twenty-seven wildwomen. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What was the fate of the 27 women stranded on the asteroid in The Happy Castaway?

The Jupiter Food-growers Association enlisted many women to travel out to the colonies to serve as wives and promote happiness as well as breed a new generation. However, on their way to Jupiter, their spaceship crashed into an asteroid, and only 27 of the women survived. In the three years since the crash, these women have learned to hunt, forage, and defend themselves against the native species there, Centaurs. They developed a society based on sharing and generosity, shown through their individual chores that all serve the greater good. However, the two things they wished for were a rescue mission or a man. When Jonathan Fawkes arrived, their second wish came true. After they all met him, they each complimented him incessantly and offered him more food, drinks, and other sweet amenities. Being the first man they’d seen in over three years, he was quite the rarity.

How does Jonathan Fawkes change over the course of The Happy Castaway? [SEP] <s> The Happy Castaway BY ROBERT E. McDOWELL Being space-wrecked and marooned is tough enough. But to face the horrors of such a planet as this was too much. Imagine Fawkes' terrible predicament; plenty of food—and twenty seven beautiful girls for companions. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jonathan Fawkes opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, and a girlwas bending over him. He detected a frightened expression on thegirl's face. His pale blue eyes traveled upward beyond the girl. Thesky was his roof, yet he distinctly remembered going to sleep on hisbunk aboard the space ship. You're not dead? I've some doubt about that, he replied dryly. He levered himself tohis elbows. The girl, he saw, had bright yellow hair. Her nose waspert, tip-tilted. She had on a ragged blue frock and sandals. Is—is anything broken? she asked. Don't know. Help me up. Between them he managed to struggle to hisfeet. He winced. He said, My name's Jonathan Fawkes. I'm a space pilotwith Universal. What happened? I feel like I'd been poured out of aconcrete mixer. She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. Ithad burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he hadsurvived at all. He scratched his head. I was running from Mars toJupiter with a load of seed for the colonists. Oh! said the girl, biting her lips. Your co-pilot must be in thewreckage. He shook his head. No, he reassured her. I left him on Mars. Hehad an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was thetrouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her onher course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawlinginto my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me. Hepaused. I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would havebeen a cinder by this time, he said. The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmaticsmile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wishedthat pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, Where am I?I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter. The girl shrugged her shoulders. I don't know. You don't know! He almost forgot his self-consciousness in hissurprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile acrossthe plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upwardhigher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chainof mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncatedcone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: justhe and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vastrolling prairie. I was going to explain, he heard her say. We think that we are on anasteroid. We? he looked back at her. Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,only we were going to be wives for the colonists. I remember, he exclaimed. Didn't the Jupiter Food-growersAssociation enlist you girls to go to the colonies? She nodded her head. Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash. Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor, he said. We hit this asteroid. But that was three years ago. Has it been that long? We lost track of time. She didn't take hereyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely selfconscious. She said, I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I sawyour space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in aheap. I thought you were dead. She stooped, picked up a spear. Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only aboutfour miles, she said. I think so, he said. <doc-sep>Jonathan leaped to his feet, dumping Ann to the ground. He jerkedaround. All twenty-six of the girls were lined up on the path. Theirfeatures were grim. He said: I don't feel so well after all. It don't wash, said Billy. It's time for a showdown. Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde takeher stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at amenacing angle. She said in an angry voice: He's mine. I found him.Leave him alone. Where do you get that stuff? cried Olga. Share and share alike, sayI. We could draw straws for him, suggested the green-eyed blonde. Look here, Jonathan broke in. I've got some say in the matter. You have not, snapped Billy. You'll do just as we say. She took astep toward him. Jonathan edged away in consternation. He's going to run! Olga shouted. Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to theplain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothingrelaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettesat the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace. At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his spaceship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted andtore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside thewreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscriptionin silver letters: INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY. Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced insurprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon RayRifle in his hand. I'm Jonathan Fawkes, said the castaway as he panted up, pilot forUniversal. I was wrecked. A tall elderly man held out his hand. He had a small black waxedmustache and Van Dyke. He was smoking a venusian cigarette in ayellow composition holder. He said, I'm Doctor Boynton. He had arich cultivated voice, and a nose like a hawk. We are members of theInterstellar Cosmography Society. We've been commissioned to make acursory examination of this asteroid. You had a nasty crack up, Mr.Fawkes. But you are in luck, sir. We were on the point of returningwhen we sighted the wreck. I say, said the man who had run out of the cruiser. He was a prim,energetic young man. Jonathan noted that he carried the ray gungingerly, respectfully. We're a week overdue now, he said. If youhave any personal belongings that you'd like to take with you, you'dbest be getting them aboard. <doc-sep>The girls set up a shout and threw stones down at the centaurs, whoreared, pawed the air, and galloped to a safe distance, from which theyhurled back insults in a strange tongue. Their voices sounded faintlylike the neighing of horses. Amazons and centaurs, he thought again. He couldn't get the problemof the girls' phenomenal strength out of his mind. Then it occurredto him that the asteroid, most likely, was smaller even than Earth'smoon. He must weigh about a thirtieth of what he usually did, due tothe lessened gravity. It also occurred to him that they would be thirtytimes as strong. He was staggered. He wished he had a smoke. At length, the amazons and the centaurs tired of bandying insultsback and forth. The centaurs galloped off into the prairie, the girlsresumed their march. Jonathan scrambled up hills, skidded down slopes.The brunette was beside him helping him over the rough spots. I'm Olga, she confided. Has anybody ever told you what a handsomefellow you are? She pinched his cheek. Jonathan blushed. They climbed a ridge, paused at the crest. Below them, he saw a deepvalley. A stream tumbled through the center of it. There were treesalong its banks, the first he had seen on the asteroid. At the head ofthe valley, he made out the massive pile of a space liner. They started down a winding path. The space liner disappeared behinda promontory of the mountain. Jonathan steeled himself for the comingordeal. He would have sat down and refused to budge except that he knewthe girls would hoist him on their shoulders and bear him into the camplike a bag of meal. The trail debouched into the valley. Just ahead the space linerreappeared. He imagined that it had crashed into the mountain, skiddedand rolled down its side until it lodged beside the stream. It remindedhim of a wounded dinosaur. Three girls were bathing in the stream. Helooked away hastily. Someone hailed them from the space ship. We've caught a man, shrieked one of his captors. A flock of girls streamed out of the wrecked space ship. A man! screamed a husky blonde. She was wearing a grass skirt. Shehad green eyes. We're rescued! No. No, Ann Clotilde hastened to explain. He was wrecked like us. Oh, came a disappointed chorus. He's a man, said the green-eyed blonde. That's the next best thing. Oh, Olga, said a strapping brunette. Who'd ever thought a man couldlook so good? I did, said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shiveredlike an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He feltlike a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats. A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,Dinner's ready. Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him ofthe voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at himappraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. Bring himinto the ship, she said. The man must be starved. He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of thewrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center ofthe floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. Hisfeet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into theThirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past. With a sigh of relief, he started to sit down. A lithe red-head sprangforward and held his chair. They all waited politely for him to beseated before they took their places. He felt silly. He felt likea captive princess. All the confidence engendered by the familiarsettings of the space ship went out of him like wind. He, JonathanFawkes, was a castaway on an asteroid inhabited by twenty-seven wildwomen. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does Jonathan Fawkes change over the course of The Happy Castaway?

At first, Jonathan Fawkes claims that he is most uncomfortable around women. Despite being a galavanting spaceman known around the universe for his strength and bravery, he is in awe and possibly fearful only of women. When he first arrives on the asteroid and encounters Ann, he is immensely uncomfortable with her gaze on him, and that continues as he discovers that she can overpower him in his weakened state quite easily. As the rest of the stranded women arrive, they all ogle at him and tell him how incredibly handsome he is. This only makes him even more uncomfortable. However, by the end of the story, he wraps his arms around Ann and would have embraced her had they not been caught by the others. The rest of the women vie for his attention, and he runs off back to his spaceship. At first, the reader might think it’s because he needs to get away from the girls or that he can’t handle the pressure. However, his encounter with the potential rescuers proves that he is now far more comfortable around the women. He ran back to his spaceship to grab his cigarettes and tobacco seeds. He always planned to return to the women and does not tell the rescuers about them. Although at first, he was terrified of the girls, by the end he too is infatuated and loves the situation at hand.

Can you provide a summary of the storyline in THE STAR-SENT KNAVES? [SEP] <s> THE STAR-SENT KNAVES BY KEITH LAUMER Illustrated by Gaughan [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When the Great Galactic Union first encounters Earth ... is this what is going to happen? I Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shoulderedin a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane'stravel-stained six foot one. Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me. He nodded towardthe florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like somethingthat needed oiling. Something about important information regardingsafeguarding my paintings. That's right, Mr. Snithian, Dan said. I believe I can be of greathelp to you. Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me.... The red eyes boredinto Dan like hot pokers. Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guardshere—the papers are full of it— Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,I'd have no concern for my paintings today! Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been leftunguarded. Now, wait a minute— Kelly started. What's that? Snithian cut in. You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds dayand night— Two hundred and twenty-five, Kelly snapped. —but no one at all in the vault with the paintings, Slane finished. Of course not, Snithian shrilled. Why should I post a man in thevault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside. The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault, Dan said.There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken. By the saints, he's right, Kelly exclaimed. Maybe we ought to have aman in that vault. Another idiotic scheme to waste my money, Snithian snapped. I'vemade you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no morenonsense. And throw this nincompoop out! Snithian turned and stalkedaway, his cloak flapping at his knees. I'll work cheap, Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. I'm anart lover. Never mind that, Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. Heturned in at an office and closed the door. Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. Ifthose pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.Just how cheap would you work? A hundred dollars a week, Dan said promptly. Plus expenses, headded. Kelly nodded. I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. Ifyou're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet. <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in THE STAR-SENT KNAVES?

Dan Slane is in Clyde Snithian's office; he proposes that, in response to a recent slew of art thefts, he guard Snithian's art vault overnight in addition to the external security he has. Dan is suspicious about the thefts and has a theory that the crooks are entering from within the vaults, perhaps through time travel. Snithian refuses to hire Dan, but Kelly, head of security, hires him in secret. That night, Dan guards from within the vault, keeping himself occupied with sleep and food, when a strange, cage like contraption appears out of thin air. Two men emerge, named Manny and Fiorello, and Dan hesitantly confronts them. While Dan speaks to them, Kelly's voice suddenly booms from a hidden speaker in the room, under the impression that Dan had been in on the thefts. Dan wrestles Manny and Fiorello off and manages to take control of the carrier and escape. Not knowing how to control it, Dan finds himself passing through many rooms and settings, until the carrier finally settles in an office room of a skyscraper. There, Dan meets Blote, a strange, giant-like creature, who asks him what happened to Manny and Fiorello. Blote, the apparent head of the art schemes, requests that Dan join the team to replace them. Dan refuses, and asks about the carrier, referring to it as a time machine; Blote is perplexed, unaware of the concept of a time machine, and demands that Dan find one in exchange for a reward, and for avoiding trouble for trespassing. Dan, unsure of where to retrieve a time machine, bluffs and manages to take Blote back to Snithian's, where he abandons him. Suddenly, Dan hears a siren, and the carrier travels to a park. The carrier becomes frosted over as a man emerges to confront him. The man introduces himself as an agent of the Inter-Dimensional Monitor Service.

What is the backdrop of THE STAR-SENT KNAVES? [SEP] <s> THE STAR-SENT KNAVES BY KEITH LAUMER Illustrated by Gaughan [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When the Great Galactic Union first encounters Earth ... is this what is going to happen? I Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shoulderedin a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane'stravel-stained six foot one. Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me. He nodded towardthe florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like somethingthat needed oiling. Something about important information regardingsafeguarding my paintings. That's right, Mr. Snithian, Dan said. I believe I can be of greathelp to you. Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me.... The red eyes boredinto Dan like hot pokers. Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guardshere—the papers are full of it— Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,I'd have no concern for my paintings today! Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been leftunguarded. Now, wait a minute— Kelly started. What's that? Snithian cut in. You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds dayand night— Two hundred and twenty-five, Kelly snapped. —but no one at all in the vault with the paintings, Slane finished. Of course not, Snithian shrilled. Why should I post a man in thevault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside. The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault, Dan said.There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken. By the saints, he's right, Kelly exclaimed. Maybe we ought to have aman in that vault. Another idiotic scheme to waste my money, Snithian snapped. I'vemade you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no morenonsense. And throw this nincompoop out! Snithian turned and stalkedaway, his cloak flapping at his knees. I'll work cheap, Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. I'm anart lover. Never mind that, Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. Heturned in at an office and closed the door. Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. Ifthose pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.Just how cheap would you work? A hundred dollars a week, Dan said promptly. Plus expenses, headded. Kelly nodded. I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. Ifyou're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet. <doc-sep> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep> The Sense of Wonder By MILTON LESSER Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's going, how can they tell when it has arrived? Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown. If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim. Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport. If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it? Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls. In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars. Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending. Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache? Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too.... His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence. I'll go with you, Rikud told him. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the backdrop of THE STAR-SENT KNAVES?

The first part of the story takes place in Snithian's headquarters, where he speaks to Dan in his office. Later that night, Dan sleeps in the art vault, a small room with gray walls that support paintings wrapped in brown paper. The room contains a bunk, fridge, and bookshelf. Once Dan escapes through the carrier, he finds himself passing through different rooms, including a kitchen, hallway, and bedroom. The carrier then takes him to an office in a skyscraper, with posters, framed paintings, and a desk, where he finds Blote. After returning back to Snithian's, the carrier takes him to a large park.

Can you describe the connection between Dan and Blote in THE STAR-SENT KNAVES? [SEP] <s>Your superiors? Dan eyed the window; much too far to jump. Maybe hecould reach the machine and try a getaway— I hope you're not thinking of leaving suddenly, the beachball said,following Dan's glance. One of the eighteen fingers touched a six-inchyellow cylinder lying on the desk. Until the carrier is fueled, I'mafraid it's quite useless. But, to put you in the picture, I'd bestintroduce myself and explain my mission here. I'm Blote, Trader FourthClass, in the employ of the Vegan Confederation. My job is to developnew sources of novelty items for the impulse-emporiums of the entireSecondary Quadrant. But the way Manny and Fiorello came sailing in through the wall! That has to be a time machine they were riding in. Nothing else could justmaterialize out of thin air like that. You seem to have a time-machine fixation, Dan, Blote said. Youshouldn't assume, just because you people have developed time travel,that everyone has. Now— Blote's voice sank to a bass whisper—I'llmake a deal with you, Dan. You'll secure a small time machine in goodcondition for me. And in return— I'm supposed to supply you with a time machine? Blote waggled a stubby forefinger at Dan. I dislike pointing it out,Dan, but you are in a rather awkward position at the moment. Illegalentry, illegal possession of property, trespass—then doubtless someembarrassment exists back at the Snithian residence. I daresay Mr.Kelly would have a warm welcome for you. And, of course, I myself woulddeal rather harshly with any attempt on your part to take a powder.The Vegan flexed all eighteen fingers, drummed his tentacles under thedesk, and rolled one eye, bugging the other at Dan. Whereas, on the other hand, Blote's bass voice went on, you and megot the basis of a sweet deal. You supply the machine, and I fix you upwith an abundance of the local medium of exchange. Equitable enough, Ishould say. What about it, Dan? Ah, let me see, Dan temporized. Time machine. Time machine— Don't attempt to weasel on me, Dan, Blote rumbled ominously. I'd better look in the phone book, Dan suggested. Silently, Blote produced a dog-eared directory. Dan opened it. Time, time. Let's see.... He brightened. Time, Incorporated; localbranch office. Two twenty-one Maple Street. A sales center? Blote inquired. Or a manufacturing complex? Both, Dan said. I'll just nip over and— That won't be necessary, Dan, Blote said. I'll accompany you. Hetook the directory, studied it. Remarkable! A common commodity, openly on sale, and I failed to noticeit. Still, a ripe nut can fall from a small tree as well as from alarge. He went to his desk, rummaged, came up with a handful of fuelcells. Now, off to gather in the time machine. He took his place inthe carrier, patted the seat beside him with a wide hand. Come, Dan.Get a wiggle on. <doc-sep> THE STAR-SENT KNAVES BY KEITH LAUMER Illustrated by Gaughan [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When the Great Galactic Union first encounters Earth ... is this what is going to happen? I Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shoulderedin a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane'stravel-stained six foot one. Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me. He nodded towardthe florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like somethingthat needed oiling. Something about important information regardingsafeguarding my paintings. That's right, Mr. Snithian, Dan said. I believe I can be of greathelp to you. Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me.... The red eyes boredinto Dan like hot pokers. Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guardshere—the papers are full of it— Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,I'd have no concern for my paintings today! Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been leftunguarded. Now, wait a minute— Kelly started. What's that? Snithian cut in. You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds dayand night— Two hundred and twenty-five, Kelly snapped. —but no one at all in the vault with the paintings, Slane finished. Of course not, Snithian shrilled. Why should I post a man in thevault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside. The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault, Dan said.There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken. By the saints, he's right, Kelly exclaimed. Maybe we ought to have aman in that vault. Another idiotic scheme to waste my money, Snithian snapped. I'vemade you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no morenonsense. And throw this nincompoop out! Snithian turned and stalkedaway, his cloak flapping at his knees. I'll work cheap, Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. I'm anart lover. Never mind that, Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. Heturned in at an office and closed the door. Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. Ifthose pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.Just how cheap would you work? A hundred dollars a week, Dan said promptly. Plus expenses, headded. Kelly nodded. I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. Ifyou're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet. <doc-sep>Hesitantly, Dan moved to the carrier. The bluff was all right up to apoint—but the point had just about been reached. He took his seat.Blote moved a lever. The familiar blue glow sprang up. Kindly directme, Dan, Blote demanded. Two twenty-one Maple Street, I believe yousaid. I don't know the town very well, Dan said, but Maple's over thatway. Blote worked levers. The carrier shot out into a ghostly afternoon sky.Faint outlines of buildings, like faded negatives, spread below. Danlooked around, spotted lettering on a square five-story structure. Over there, he said. Blote directed the machine as it swoopedsmoothly toward the flat roof Dan indicated. Better let me take over now, Dan suggested. I want to be sure toget us to the right place. Very well, Dan. Dan dropped the carrier through the roof, passed down through a dimlyseen office. Blote twiddled a small knob. The scene around the cagegrew even fainter. Best we remain unnoticed, he explained. The cage descended steadily. Dan peered out, searching for identifyinglandmarks. He leveled off at the second floor, cruised along a barelyvisible corridor. Blote's eyes rolled, studying the small chambersalong both sides of the passage at once. Ah, this must be the assembly area, he exclaimed. I see the machinesemploy a bar-type construction, not unlike our carriers. That's right, Dan said, staring through the haziness. This is wherethey do time.... He tugged at a lever suddenly; the machine veeredleft, flickered through a barred door, came to a halt. Two nebulousfigures loomed beside the cage. Dan cut the switch. If he'd guessedwrong— The scene fluoresced, sparks crackling, then popped into sharp focus.Blote scrambled out, brown eyes swivelling to take in the concretewalls, the barred door and— You! a hoarse voice bellowed. Grab him! someone yelled. Blote recoiled, threshing his ambulatory members in a fruitless attemptto regain the carrier as Manny and Fiorello closed in. Dan hauled at alever. He caught a last glimpse of three struggling, blue-lit figuresas the carrier shot away through the cell wall. III Dan slumped back against the seat with a sigh. Now that he was in theclear, he would have to decide on his next move—fast. There was notelling what other resources Blote might have. He would have to hidethe carrier, then— A low growling was coming from somewhere, rising in pitch and volume.Dan sat up, alarmed. This was no time for a malfunction. The sound rose higher, into a penetrating wail. There was no sign ofmechanical trouble. The carrier glided on, swooping now over a nebulouslandscape of trees and houses. Dan covered his ears against thedeafening shriek, like all the police sirens in town blaring at once.If the carrier stopped it would be a long fall from here. Dan workedthe controls, dropping toward the distant earth. The noise seemed to lessen, descending the scale. Dan slowed, broughtthe carrier in to the corner of a wide park. He dropped the last fewinches and cut the switch. As the glow died, the siren faded into silence. Dan stepped from the carrier and looked around. Whatever the noisewas, it hadn't attracted any attention from the scattered pedestriansin the park. Perhaps it was some sort of burglar alarm. But if so, whyhadn't it gone into action earlier? Dan took a deep breath. Sound or nosound, he would have to get back into the carrier and transfer it to asecluded spot where he could study it at leisure. He stepped back in,reached for the controls— There was a sudden chill in the air. The bright surface of the dialsbefore him frosted over. There was a loud pop! like a flashbulbexploding. Dan stared from the seat at an iridescent rectanglewhich hung suspended near the carrier. Its surface rippled, fadedto blankness. In a swirl of frosty air, a tall figure dressed in atight-fitting white uniform stepped through. Dan gaped at the small rounded head, the dark-skinned long-nosed face,the long, muscular arms, the hands, their backs tufted with curlyred-brown hair, the strange long-heeled feet in soft boots. A neatpillbox cap with a short visor was strapped low over the deep-setyellowish eyes, which turned in his direction. The wide mouth opened ina smile which showed square yellowish teeth. Alors, monsieur , the new-comer said, bending his knees and back ina quick bow. Vous ete une indigine, n'est ce pas? No compree, Dan choked out Uh ... juh no parlay Fransay.... My error. This is the Anglic colonial sector, isn't it? Stupid of me.Permit me to introduce myself. I'm Dzhackoon, Field Agent of Classfive, Inter-dimensional Monitor Service. That siren, Dan said. Was that you? Dzhackoon nodded. For a moment, it appeared you were disinclined tostop. I'm glad you decided to be reasonable. What outfit did you say you were with? Dan asked. The Inter-dimensional Monitor Service. Inter-what? Dimensional. The word is imprecise, of course, but it's the best ourlanguage coder can do, using the Anglic vocabulary. What do you want with me? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you describe the connection between Dan and Blote in THE STAR-SENT KNAVES?

Dan first meets Blote when he finally stops the carrier. Blote is a giant, strange man with a beachball-like head and many fingers, with a mouth above his eyes. Dan is immediately intimidated and fascinated by Blote, and Blote, aware of his superiority, requests that Dan replace Manny and Fiorello in the art stealing scheme. When Dan refuses, Blote orders that he find him a time machine and threatens to punish him for trespassing. Dan manages to fool Blote, but the two have an imbalanced power relationship, where Blote is much more powerful than Dan.

How does Dan's journey unfold in THE STAR-SENT KNAVES? [SEP] <s> THE STAR-SENT KNAVES BY KEITH LAUMER Illustrated by Gaughan [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When the Great Galactic Union first encounters Earth ... is this what is going to happen? I Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shoulderedin a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane'stravel-stained six foot one. Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me. He nodded towardthe florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like somethingthat needed oiling. Something about important information regardingsafeguarding my paintings. That's right, Mr. Snithian, Dan said. I believe I can be of greathelp to you. Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me.... The red eyes boredinto Dan like hot pokers. Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guardshere—the papers are full of it— Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,I'd have no concern for my paintings today! Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been leftunguarded. Now, wait a minute— Kelly started. What's that? Snithian cut in. You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds dayand night— Two hundred and twenty-five, Kelly snapped. —but no one at all in the vault with the paintings, Slane finished. Of course not, Snithian shrilled. Why should I post a man in thevault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside. The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault, Dan said.There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken. By the saints, he's right, Kelly exclaimed. Maybe we ought to have aman in that vault. Another idiotic scheme to waste my money, Snithian snapped. I'vemade you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no morenonsense. And throw this nincompoop out! Snithian turned and stalkedaway, his cloak flapping at his knees. I'll work cheap, Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. I'm anart lover. Never mind that, Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. Heturned in at an office and closed the door. Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. Ifthose pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.Just how cheap would you work? A hundred dollars a week, Dan said promptly. Plus expenses, headded. Kelly nodded. I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. Ifyou're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet. <doc-sep>Dan took a deep breath and tried another lever. The cage rose gently,in eerie silence. It reached the ceiling and kept going. Dan grittedhis teeth as an eight-inch band of luminescence passed down the cage.Then he was emerging into a spacious kitchen. A blue-haloed cookwaddled to a luminous refrigerator, caught sight of Dan rising slowlyfrom the floor, stumbled back, mouth open. The cage rose, penetrated asecond ceiling. Dan looked around at a carpeted hall. Cautiously he neutralized the control lever. The cage came to rest aninch above the floor. As far as Dan could tell, he hadn't traveled somuch as a minute into the past or future. He looked over the controls. There should be one labeled Forwardand another labeled Back, but all the levers were plain, unadornedblack. They looked, Dan decided, like ordinary circuit-breaker typeknife-switches. In fact, the whole apparatus had the appearance ofsomething thrown together hastily from common materials. Still, itworked. So far he had only found the controls for maneuvering in theusual three dimensions, but the time switch was bound to be heresomewhere.... Dan looked up at a movement at the far end of the hall. A girl's head and shoulders appeared, coming up a spiral staircase. Inanother second she would see him, and give the alarm—and Dan neededa few moments of peace and quiet in which to figure out the controls.He moved a lever. The cage drifted smoothly sideways, sliced throughthe wall with a flurry of vivid blue light. Dan pushed the leverback. He was in a bedroom now, a wide chamber with flouncy curtains, afour-poster under a flowered canopy, a dressing table— The door opened and the girl stepped into the room. She was young. Notover eighteen, Dan thought—as nearly as he could tell with the bluelight playing around her face. She had long hair tied with a ribbon,and long legs, neatly curved. She wore shorts and carried a tennisracquet in her left hand and an apple in her right. Her back to Dan andthe cage, she tossed the racquet on a table, took a bite of the apple,and began briskly unbuttoning her shirt. Dan tried moving a lever. The cage edged toward the girl. Another;he rose gently. The girl tossed the shirt onto a chair and undid thezipper down the side of the shorts. Another lever; the cage shot towardthe outer wall as the girl reached behind her back.... Dan blinked at the flash of blue and looked down. He was hoveringtwenty feet above a clipped lawn. He looked at the levers. Wasn't it the first one in line that moved thecage ahead? He tried it, shot forward ten feet. Below, a man steppedout on the terrace, lit a cigarette, paused, started to turn his faceup— Dan jabbed at a lever. The cage shot back through the wall. He was in aplain room with a depression in the floor, a wide window with a planterfilled with glowing blue plants— The door opened. Even blue, the girl looked graceful as a deer as shetook a last bite of the apple and stepped into the ten-foot-squaresunken tub. Dan held his breath. The girl tossed the apple core aside,seemed to suddenly become aware of eyes on her, whirled— With a sudden lurch that threw Dan against the steel bars, thecage shot through the wall into the open air and hurtled off withan acceleration that kept him pinned, helpless. He groped for thecontrols, hauled at a lever. There was no change. The cage rushedon, rising higher. In the distance, Dan saw the skyline of a town,approaching with frightful speed. A tall office building reared upfifteen stories high. He was headed dead for it— He covered his ears, braced himself— With an abruptness that flung him against the opposite side of thecage, the machine braked, shot through the wall and slammed to a stop.Dan sank to the floor of the cage, breathing hard. There was a loud click! and the glow faded. With a lunge, Dan scrambled out of the cage. He stood looking around ata simple brown-painted office, dimly lit by sunlight filtered throughelaborate venetian blinds. There were posters on the wall, a pottedplant by the door, a heap of framed paintings beside it, and at the farside of the room a desk. And behind the desk—Something. II Dan gaped at a head the size of a beachball, mounted on a torso like ahundred-gallon bag of water. Two large brown eyes blinked at him frompoints eight inches apart. Immense hands with too many fingers unfoldedand reached to open a brown paper carton, dip in, then toss threepeanuts, deliberately, one by one, into a gaping mouth that opened justabove the brown eyes. Who're you? a bass voice demanded from somewhere near the floor. I'm ... I'm ... Dan Slane ... your honor. What happened to Manny and Fiorello? They—I—There was this cop. Kelly— Oh-oh. The brown eyes blinked deliberately. The many-fingered handsclosed the peanut carton and tucked it into a drawer. Well, it was a sweet racket while it lasted, the basso voice said. Apity to terminate so happy an enterprise. Still.... A noise like anamplified Bronx cheer issued from the wide mouth. How ... what...? The carrier returns here automatically when the charge drops below acritical value, the voice said. A necessary measure to discouragebig ideas on the part of wisenheimers in my employ. May I ask how youhappen to be aboard the carrier, by the way? I just wanted—I mean, after I figured out—that is, the police ... Iwent for help, Dan finished lamely. Help? Out of the picture, unfortunately. One must maintain one'sanonymity, you'll appreciate. My operation here is under wraps atpresent. Ah, I don't suppose you brought any paintings? Dan shook his head. He was staring at the posters. His eyes,accustoming themselves to the gloom of the office, could now make outthe vividly drawn outline of a creature resembling an alligator-headedgiraffe rearing up above scarlet foliage. The next poster showed a facesimilar to the beachball behind the desk, with red circles paintedaround the eyes. The next was a view of a yellow volcano spouting fireinto a black sky. Too bad. The words seemed to come from under the desk. Dan squinted,caught a glimpse of coiled purplish tentacles. He gulped and looked upto catch a brown eye upon him. Only one. The other seemed to be busilyat work studying the ceiling. I hope, the voice said, that you ain't harboring no reactionaryracial prejudices. <doc-sep>Now that the virus diseases had been licked, people hardly evergot sick any more and, when they did, it was mostly psychosomatic.Life was so well organized that there weren't even many accidentsthese days. It was a safe, orderly existence for those who fittedinto it—which accounted for more than ninety-five per cent of thepopulation. The only ones who didn't adjust were those who couldn't,like me—psi-deficients, throwbacks to an earlier era. There were nophysical cripples, because anybody could have a new arm or a new leggrafted on, but you couldn't graft psi powers onto an atavism or, ifyou could, the technique hadn't been developed yet. I feel a sense of impending doom brooding over this household, myyoungest brother remarked cheerfully as he vaulted into his chair. You always do, Timothy, my mother said, unfolding her napkin. And Imust say it's not in good taste, especially at breakfast. He reached for his juice. Guess this is a doomed household. And whatwas all that emotional uproar about? The usual, Sylvia said from the doorway before anyone else couldanswer. She slid warily into her chair. Hey, Dan, I'm here! shecalled. If anything else comes in, it comes in manually, understand? Oh, all right. Dan emerged from the kitchen with a tray of foodfloating ahead of him. The usual? Trouble with Kev? Tim looked at me narrowly. Somehow mysense of ominousness is connected with him. Well, that's perfectly natural— Sylvia began, then stopped as Mothercaught her eye. I didn't mean that, Tim said. I still say Kev's got something wecan't figure out. You've been saying that for years, Danny protested, and he's beentested for every faculty under the Sun. He can't telepath or teleportor telekinesthesize or even teletype. He can't precognize or prefix orprepossess. He can't— Strictly a bundle of no-talent, that's me, I interrupted, trying tokeep my animal feelings from getting the better of me. That was how myfamily thought of me, I knew—as an animal, and not a very lovable one,either. No, Tim said, he's just got something we haven't developed a testfor. It'll come out some day, you'll see. He smiled at me. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does Dan's journey unfold in THE STAR-SENT KNAVES?

Dan first proposes to Snithian that he take on the job of guarding his art vault at night in order to catch the mysterious, serial art thieves. Snithian declines, but Kelly, head of security, accepts, and that night Dan is settled into the vault. After a few hours, Dan is shocked to see a machine appear out of thin air, where two men appear to steal the art. Dan believes this is a time machine, but Kelly suddenly arrives and threatens to arrest Dan, believing he is part of an inside job. Dan attempts to escape with the carrier, and after a few detours, he ends up in the office of a large man named Blote. He asks Blote about the carrier, implying that it is a time machine, but Blote demands that Dan supply him with a time machine, as his people have never seen one. Dan leads Blote back to the Snithian office, where Manny and Fiorello see him, but he manages to escape once again. Then, Dan hears a siren as the carrier hurdles through the air, and he is met by a man who says he is from the Inter-dimensional Monitor Service.

What kind of gear is utilized in THE STAR-SENT KNAVES? [SEP] <s> THE STAR-SENT KNAVES BY KEITH LAUMER Illustrated by Gaughan [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When the Great Galactic Union first encounters Earth ... is this what is going to happen? I Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shoulderedin a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane'stravel-stained six foot one. Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me. He nodded towardthe florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like somethingthat needed oiling. Something about important information regardingsafeguarding my paintings. That's right, Mr. Snithian, Dan said. I believe I can be of greathelp to you. Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me.... The red eyes boredinto Dan like hot pokers. Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guardshere—the papers are full of it— Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,I'd have no concern for my paintings today! Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been leftunguarded. Now, wait a minute— Kelly started. What's that? Snithian cut in. You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds dayand night— Two hundred and twenty-five, Kelly snapped. —but no one at all in the vault with the paintings, Slane finished. Of course not, Snithian shrilled. Why should I post a man in thevault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside. The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault, Dan said.There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken. By the saints, he's right, Kelly exclaimed. Maybe we ought to have aman in that vault. Another idiotic scheme to waste my money, Snithian snapped. I'vemade you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no morenonsense. And throw this nincompoop out! Snithian turned and stalkedaway, his cloak flapping at his knees. I'll work cheap, Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. I'm anart lover. Never mind that, Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. Heturned in at an office and closed the door. Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. Ifthose pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.Just how cheap would you work? A hundred dollars a week, Dan said promptly. Plus expenses, headded. Kelly nodded. I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. Ifyou're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet. <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>Rikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of themachinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gearsspinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then hebegan to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, hewas clearly an unauthorized person. He had heard the voice againupon entering the room. He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half aswide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires thatheld it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then heswung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbledunder his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm. Almost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were notcasual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikudsmashed everything in sight. When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the roomwas a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled inhis ears because now the throbbing had stopped. He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smallerviewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrainbeneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shoneclearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality. Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open thatdoor. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in thedarkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone. Whimpering, he fled. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What kind of gear is utilized in THE STAR-SENT KNAVES?

The main piece of equipment used in the story is the carrier that Manny and Fiorello arrive in. The carrier contains lots of different levers and controls that make it difficult to navigate. It is able to appear out of thin air, a cage-like structure that has a blue luminous glow to it. Despite the futuristic abilities of the carrier, it is made up of common parts and is not the sturdiest. The carrier is able to appear in random places, but it is also used by Blote to travel to Maple Street.

<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON 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.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep></s>

Second Secretary Magnan will be away from the Manpower Utilization Directorate, Division of Libraries and Education (MUDDLE) for two weeks, leaving Retief in charge. Magnan reminds Retief that his role is to act as a rubber stamp, continuing Magnan’s actions. Magnan points out that Retief should appreciate that Bogan is participating in the Exchange Program. Its participation might be a step toward sublimating their aggression into more cultivated channels. The Bogans are sending two thousand students to d’Land as exchange students, and Magnan thinks this might end their aggression and bring them into the cultural life of the Galaxy. Retief wonders aloud what the students will study in such a poor, industrial land. Magnan points out that this is none of Retief’s concern and that his role is simply to facilitate bringing the two groups together. When Miss Furkle, the secretary, buzzes Magnan that the bucolic person from Lovenbroy is there again, Magnan pushes the meeting off onto Retief.The person from Lovenbroy is named Hank Arapoulous. He is a farmer and tells Retief that the Bacchus vines that they use to make their wine mature every twelve years and that this year is a harvest year, but they are short on workers to harvest the grapes. They have a shortage of workers for the harvest due to their conflict over strip mining and the loss of several of their young men in the battles to prevent it. Also, Lovenbroy had to borrow money from Croanie, and the loan was due. The wine crop will put them in the clear if they can harvest it. The biggest concern is what Croanie will do with the land if they can’t pay the loan; Lovenbroy has offered half its grape acreage as security for the loan it received. Hank asks Retief for a loan, but Retief tells him that MEDDLE’s role is only for transportation. Hank says he also checked with the Labor Office, but it only offered to set them up with machinery. Retief attends a council meeting and learns that Croanie will receive a shipment of strip mining equipment. A spokesman for the Special Committee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations’ General Economies (SCROUNGE) indicates he has been trying to get mining equipment for d’Land. He tells Retief that Boge is a troublemaker, so all the agencies in the Corps are trying to appease her. Upon further discussion, Retief learns that d’Land doesn’t have a university for the exchange students to attend, just a technical college that would be overwhelmed to receive 200, much less 2,000, students. Retief also learns that all the exchange students are males, and their “luggage” is full of weapons. He diverts their luggage and sends the exchange students to Lovenbroy, where they help harvest the grapes. Retief is also sent to Lovenbroy for exceeding his authority. Hank tells Retief that he has won the prize for the picking competition. The prize is a girl named Delinda.

<s> CULTURAL EXCHANGE BY KEITH LAUMER It was a simple student exchange—but Retief gave them more of an education than they expected! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-featheredberet from the clothes tree. I'm off now, Retief, he said. I hopeyou'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without anyunfortunate incidents. That seems a modest enough hope, Retief said. I'll try to live up toit. I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division, Magnansaid testily. When I first came here, the Manpower UtilizationDirectorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Ifancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question thewisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for twoweeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function. In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple ofweeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressureto bear. I assume you jest, Retief, Magnan said sadly. I should expect evenyou to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program maybe the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into morecultivated channels. I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land, Retief said,glancing at the Memo for Record. That's a sizable sublimation. Magnan nodded. The Bogans have launched no less than four militarycampaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums ofthe Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking thatprecedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy. Breaking and entering, Retief said. You may have something there.But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrialworld of the poor but honest variety. Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,Magnan said. Our function is merely to bring them together. Seethat you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This willbe an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomaticrestraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree. A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. What is it, Miss Furkle? That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again. On the small deskscreen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval. This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,Magnan said. Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: hereat Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you. If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit, Retief said. Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle'sbutton. Send the bucolic person in. <doc-sep>Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time— Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning. I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid. Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage— You hocked the vineyards? Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time. On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat.... What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture— Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players— Can they pick grapes? Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office? Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves. The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen. You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet. Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know. II As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table. Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting? Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment. Drill rigs, that sort of thing? Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities? Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon— That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business. Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE— SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm. That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head. What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution. University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college. Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College? Two thousand students? Hah! Two hundred students would overtax thefacilities of the college. I wonder if the Bogans know that? The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away. <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></s>

The Bogans are people who have a history of aggression within the Nicodemean Cluster. In the last twenty years, they have launched four military campaigns against other Galaxy members; because of this, they are known as the Hoodlums of the Nicodemean Cluster. They have agreed to send 2,000 of their students to participate in the Exchange Program in d’Land that the Manpower Utilization Directorate, Division of Libraries and Education is facilitating. This agreement is a curiosity to Retief because d’Land is a poor, industrial society, so he wonders what the Bogans will study there. His superior, Second Secretary Magnan, tells him that is none of his business and to be sure not to antagonize the Bogan representative. According to the Special Committee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Underdeveloped Nations’ General Economies (SCROUNGE) committeeman, every agency in the Corps is trying to appease Boge since Boge is a well-known troublemaker. He also informs Retief that d’Land has no universities, just an under-endowed technical college that could not handle 200, much less 2,000, exchange students. He also tells Retief that most of d’Land’s problems result from an unwise trade agreement that it made with Boge. Retief meets Karsh, a Scoutmaster who trained the Bogan students; he made it like a game but says they know how to handle a CSU. As the Bogan students come through Customs and see Mr. Karsh, they snap to attention. Mr. Karsh refuses to let the students leave the airport. Retief notices that all the exchange students are males, and Karsh tells him they wanted to see how the first group of students was received before sending any females. Retief realizes that Bogan students are headed to a place that has no classrooms for the students. In the meantime, the tractors are being sent to Croanie, a world under obligation to Boge, and Croanie holds the mortgage to the best vineyards in Lovenbroy. Retief looks up the tractors that are being sent to Croanie and discovers they are armored vehicles with a half-megaton per second firepower. Retief learns that these continental siege units are ultimately being sent to Lovenbroy, which is rich in minerals, on behalf of Boge. Retief also learns that Boge has an application to send another 2,000 students to Croanie and is considering sending 2,000 more to Featherweight. Retief learns that Boge tried to take over Lovenbroy several years earlier and would have succeeded if not for bad luck. Retief calls a friend who works in transport and learns that the Bogan students’ luggage is all being sent to Lovenbroy, and when he looked in the luggage, it was all weapons. Retief diverts the luggage and sends the students on to Lovenbroy to help with the grape harvest for the vineyards. He impounds the luggage full of weapons.

<s>Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time— Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning. I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid. Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage— You hocked the vineyards? Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time. On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat.... What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture— Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players— Can they pick grapes? Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office? Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves. The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen. You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet. Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know. II As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table. Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting? Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment. Drill rigs, that sort of thing? Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities? Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon— That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business. Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE— SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm. That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head. What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution. University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college. Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College? Two thousand students? Hah! Two hundred students would overtax thefacilities of the college. I wonder if the Bogans know that? The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away. <doc-sep>A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousersof heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused atsight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and heldout his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, faceto face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced. Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair. That's nice knuckle work, mister, the stranger said, massaging hishand. First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. Istarted it, I guess. He grinned and sat down. What can I do for you? Retief said. You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they wereall ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.What I wanted to see you about was— He shifted in his chair. Well,out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is justabout ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don'tknow if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...? No, Retief said. Have a cigar? He pushed a box across the desk.Arapoulous took one. Bacchus vines are an unusual crop, he said,puffing the cigar alight. Only mature every twelve years. In between,the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.Apples the size of a melon—and sweet— Sounds very pleasant, Retief said. Where does the Libraries andEducation Division come in? Arapoulous leaned forward. We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folkscan't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all theland area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizableforest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.Retief. It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what— Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Ouryear's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentricorbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostlypainting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season forwoodworkers. Our furniture— I've seen some of your furniture, Retief said. Beautiful work. Arapoulous nodded. All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soiland those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Thencomes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's gettingcloser. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stayinside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beachon Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You havethe music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to thecenter of a globular cluster, you know.... You say it's time now for the wine crop? That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just theordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn'ttake long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting newplaces ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend alot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But thisyear's different. This is Wine Year. <doc-sep>At the baggage warehouse Gulver looked glumly at the opened cases ofguns. No, of course not, he said dully. Not my baggage. Not mybaggage at all. Arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh. What—what's this? Gulver spluttered. Karsh? What's happened? He had a little fall. He'll be okay, Arapoulous said. You'd better help him to the ship, Retief said. It's ready to lift.We wouldn't want him to miss it. Leave him to me! Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. I'llsee he's dealt with. I couldn't think of it, Retief said. He's a guest of the Corps, youknow. We'll see him safely aboard. Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identicaldrab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group. Take this man, Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at himdazedly, reached up to rub his head. We take our hospitality seriously, Retief said. We'll see him aboardthe vessel. Gulver opened his mouth. I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books inyour luggage, Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. You'll be busystraightening out the details of the mix-up. You'll want to avoidfurther complications. Ah. Ulp. Yes, Gulver said. He appeared unhappy. Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave. Your man—he's going too? Gulver blurted. He's not our man, properly speaking, Retief said. He lives onLovenbroy. Lovenbroy? Gulver choked. But ... the ... I.... I know you said the students were bound for d'Land, Retief said. ButI guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. Thecourse plugged into the navigators was to Lovenbroy. You'll be glad toknow they're still headed there—even without the baggage. Perhaps, Gulver said grimly, perhaps they'll manage without it. By the way, Retief said. There was another funny mix-up. Therewere some tractors—for industrial use, you'll recall. I believe youco-operated with Croanie in arranging the grant through MEDDLE. Theywere erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. Isaved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver, by arranging to havethem off-loaded at d'Land. D'Land! You've put the CSU's in the hands of Boge's bitterest enemies! But they're only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn't thatcorrect? That's ... correct. Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. Hold theships! he yelled. I'm canceling the student exchange— His voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monstertransports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by thesecond, Retief watched them out of sight, then turned to Gulver. They're off, he said. Let's hope they get a liberal education. V Retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tallfigure appeared on the knoll above him and waved. Retief! Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced Retief,slapping him on the back. I heard you were here—and I've got newsfor you. You won the final day's picking competition. Over two hundredbushels! That's a record! Let's get on over to the garden. Sounds like the celebration's aboutto start. In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Retief andArapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. A tallgirl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up toArapoulous. Delinda, this is Retief—today's winner. And he's also the fellow thatgot those workers for us. Delinda smiled at Retief. I've heard about you, Mr. Retief. Weweren't sure about the boys at first. Two thousand Bogans, and allconfused about their baggage that went astray. But they seemed to likethe picking. She smiled again. That's not all. Our gals liked the boys, Hank said. Even Bogansaren't so bad, minus their irons. A lot of 'em will be staying on. Buthow come you didn't tell me you were coming, Retief? I'd have laid onsome kind of big welcome. I liked the welcome I got. And I didn't have much notice. Mr. Magnanwas a little upset when he got back. It seems I exceeded my authority. Arapoulous laughed. I had a feeling you were wheeling pretty free,Retief. I hope you didn't get into any trouble over it. No trouble, Retief said. A few people were a little unhappy withme. It seems I'm not ready for important assignments at Departmentallevel. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little moreexperience. Delinda, look after Retief, said Arapoulous. I'll see you later.I've got to see to the wine judging. He disappeared in the crowd. Congratulations on winning the day, said Delinda. I noticed you atwork. You were wonderful. I'm glad you're going to have the prize. Thanks. I noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie ofyours. But why weren't you picking grapes with the rest of us? I had a special assignment. Too bad. You should have had a chance at the prize. Delinda took Retief's hand. I wouldn't have anyway, she said. I'mthe prize. <doc-sep></s>

Hank Arapoulousis is first described as a “bucolic person from Lovenbroy.” He is a farmer, tall with bronze skin and gray hair, who comes to MUDDLE’s office to discuss the harvest problems in Lovenbroy. They grow Bacchus vines, which only mature once every twelve years. This year is a harvest year, but they don’t have enough people to harvest the grapes. Arapoulousis explains to Retief that a few years ago, Boge landed a force on Lovenbroy to try to mine their minerals by strip-mining. Lovenbroy fought back for a year but lost a lot of its men. This created financial problems, so Lovenbroy borrowed money from Croanie, mortgaging its crops. The loan is due, and the wine crop will cover the loan amount, but they don’t have enough people to harvest the grapes. He is worried that if they don’t have a great harvest, Croanie will come in and start mining. Also, if they default on the loan, Croanie will hold half of the grape acreage that they used to secure the loan. Arapoulousis has also asked for help from the Labor Office, but they only offered to send them machinery, and machines cannot harvest the grapes. He returns to see Retief the following day to find out if Retief has discovered a way to help. When Mr. Karsh makes a scene about the missing luggage for the exchange students, Retief has Arapoulousis take Karsh away and “take care of him.” When they return, Karsh is stumbling and needs support to stand up. Arapoulousis explains that Karsh fell. Retief sends the exchange students to Lovenbroy with Arapoulousis to help with the harvest. As the harvest is winding down, Arapoulousis tells Retief that Retief has won the award for the picking competition. Arapoulousis is also the person who judges the wine contest.

<s>Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time— Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning. I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid. Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage— You hocked the vineyards? Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time. On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat.... What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture— Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players— Can they pick grapes? Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office? Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves. The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen. You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet. Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know. II As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table. Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting? Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment. Drill rigs, that sort of thing? Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities? Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon— That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business. Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE— SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm. That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head. What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution. University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college. Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College? Two thousand students? Hah! Two hundred students would overtax thefacilities of the college. I wonder if the Bogans know that? The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away. <doc-sep> CULTURAL EXCHANGE BY KEITH LAUMER It was a simple student exchange—but Retief gave them more of an education than they expected! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-featheredberet from the clothes tree. I'm off now, Retief, he said. I hopeyou'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without anyunfortunate incidents. That seems a modest enough hope, Retief said. I'll try to live up toit. I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division, Magnansaid testily. When I first came here, the Manpower UtilizationDirectorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Ifancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question thewisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for twoweeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function. In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple ofweeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressureto bear. I assume you jest, Retief, Magnan said sadly. I should expect evenyou to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program maybe the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into morecultivated channels. I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land, Retief said,glancing at the Memo for Record. That's a sizable sublimation. Magnan nodded. The Bogans have launched no less than four militarycampaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums ofthe Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking thatprecedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy. Breaking and entering, Retief said. You may have something there.But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrialworld of the poor but honest variety. Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,Magnan said. Our function is merely to bring them together. Seethat you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This willbe an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomaticrestraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree. A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. What is it, Miss Furkle? That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again. On the small deskscreen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval. This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,Magnan said. Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: hereat Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you. If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit, Retief said. Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle'sbutton. Send the bucolic person in. <doc-sep>At the baggage warehouse Gulver looked glumly at the opened cases ofguns. No, of course not, he said dully. Not my baggage. Not mybaggage at all. Arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh. What—what's this? Gulver spluttered. Karsh? What's happened? He had a little fall. He'll be okay, Arapoulous said. You'd better help him to the ship, Retief said. It's ready to lift.We wouldn't want him to miss it. Leave him to me! Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. I'llsee he's dealt with. I couldn't think of it, Retief said. He's a guest of the Corps, youknow. We'll see him safely aboard. Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identicaldrab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group. Take this man, Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at himdazedly, reached up to rub his head. We take our hospitality seriously, Retief said. We'll see him aboardthe vessel. Gulver opened his mouth. I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books inyour luggage, Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. You'll be busystraightening out the details of the mix-up. You'll want to avoidfurther complications. Ah. Ulp. Yes, Gulver said. He appeared unhappy. Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave. Your man—he's going too? Gulver blurted. He's not our man, properly speaking, Retief said. He lives onLovenbroy. Lovenbroy? Gulver choked. But ... the ... I.... I know you said the students were bound for d'Land, Retief said. ButI guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. Thecourse plugged into the navigators was to Lovenbroy. You'll be glad toknow they're still headed there—even without the baggage. Perhaps, Gulver said grimly, perhaps they'll manage without it. By the way, Retief said. There was another funny mix-up. Therewere some tractors—for industrial use, you'll recall. I believe youco-operated with Croanie in arranging the grant through MEDDLE. Theywere erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. Isaved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver, by arranging to havethem off-loaded at d'Land. D'Land! You've put the CSU's in the hands of Boge's bitterest enemies! But they're only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn't thatcorrect? That's ... correct. Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. Hold theships! he yelled. I'm canceling the student exchange— His voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monstertransports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by thesecond, Retief watched them out of sight, then turned to Gulver. They're off, he said. Let's hope they get a liberal education. V Retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tallfigure appeared on the knoll above him and waved. Retief! Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced Retief,slapping him on the back. I heard you were here—and I've got newsfor you. You won the final day's picking competition. Over two hundredbushels! That's a record! Let's get on over to the garden. Sounds like the celebration's aboutto start. In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Retief andArapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. A tallgirl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up toArapoulous. Delinda, this is Retief—today's winner. And he's also the fellow thatgot those workers for us. Delinda smiled at Retief. I've heard about you, Mr. Retief. Weweren't sure about the boys at first. Two thousand Bogans, and allconfused about their baggage that went astray. But they seemed to likethe picking. She smiled again. That's not all. Our gals liked the boys, Hank said. Even Bogansaren't so bad, minus their irons. A lot of 'em will be staying on. Buthow come you didn't tell me you were coming, Retief? I'd have laid onsome kind of big welcome. I liked the welcome I got. And I didn't have much notice. Mr. Magnanwas a little upset when he got back. It seems I exceeded my authority. Arapoulous laughed. I had a feeling you were wheeling pretty free,Retief. I hope you didn't get into any trouble over it. No trouble, Retief said. A few people were a little unhappy withme. It seems I'm not ready for important assignments at Departmentallevel. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little moreexperience. Delinda, look after Retief, said Arapoulous. I'll see you later.I've got to see to the wine judging. He disappeared in the crowd. Congratulations on winning the day, said Delinda. I noticed you atwork. You were wonderful. I'm glad you're going to have the prize. Thanks. I noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie ofyours. But why weren't you picking grapes with the rest of us? I had a special assignment. Too bad. You should have had a chance at the prize. Delinda took Retief's hand. I wouldn't have anyway, she said. I'mthe prize. <doc-sep></s>

Lovenbroy is one of the members of the Nicodemean Cluster and part of the cultural life of the Galaxy. Lovenbroy is known for its exquisite wines produced from the Bacchus vines, which only mature once every twelve years. Lovenbroy is important for the Galaxy culture because, during the time when it is not raising and harvesting grapes and other crops, it makes important cultural contributions. They have created parks and farms and left sizable forests for hunting. They offer skiing, bob-sledding, and ice skating in the spring while it is still cold. They also create fine furniture, sculpture, and art. During the summer, they offer beach parties, drama, and symphonies. The land is full of minerals, which led Boge to land a force to strip-mine some of the resources. Lovenbroy fought back, but it took a year, and it lost many men. This has left Lovenbroy short-handed for this year’s grape harvest. It also took a financial toll on Lovenbroy, and it had to borrow money from Croanie, mortgage its crops, and export its artwork. The loan is due during the harvest year, and without enough men to pick the grapes, Croanie will come in and take over half the vineyard land and mine it. Croanie is under obligation to Boge, and Boge is behind the scheme of sending “exchange students” supposedly to d’Land but really to Lovenbroy to take its minerals.

<s>Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time— Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning. I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid. Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage— You hocked the vineyards? Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time. On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat.... What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture— Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players— Can they pick grapes? Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office? Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves. The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen. You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet. Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know. II As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table. Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting? Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment. Drill rigs, that sort of thing? Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities? Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon— That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business. Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE— SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm. That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head. What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution. University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college. Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College? Two thousand students? Hah! Two hundred students would overtax thefacilities of the college. I wonder if the Bogans know that? The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away. <doc-sep>At the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first ofthe Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped toattention, his chest out. Drop that, mister, Karsh snapped. Is that any way for a student toact? The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned. Heck, no, he said. Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go totown? We fellas were thinking— You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Nowline up! We have quarters ready for the students, Retief said. If you'd liketo bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laidon. Thanks, said Karsh. They'll stay here until take-off time. Can'thave the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas aboutgoing over the hill. He hiccupped. I mean they might play hookey. We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a longwait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner. Sorry, Karsh said. As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off. Hehiccupped again. Can't travel without our baggage, y'know. Suit yourself, Retief said. Where's the baggage now? Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter. Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here. Sure, Karsh said. That's a good idea. Why don't you join us? Karshwinked. And bring a few beers. Not this time, Retief said. He watched the students, still emergingfrom Customs. They seem to be all boys, he commented. No femalestudents? Maybe later, Karsh said. You know, after we see how the first bunchis received. Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle. Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are boundfor? Why, the University at d'Land, of course. Would that be the Technical College? Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. I'm sure I've never pried into thesedetails. Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle? Retiefsaid. Personally, I'm curious as to just what it is these students aretravelling so far to study—at Corps expense. Mr. Magnan never— For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leavesme with the question of two thousand young male students headed fora world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligationto Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage onLovenbroy. Well! Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom! About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question, Retief said. Butnever mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractorswill Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program? Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business, Miss Furkle said. Mr. Magnanalways— I'm sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can. <doc-sep> CULTURAL EXCHANGE BY KEITH LAUMER It was a simple student exchange—but Retief gave them more of an education than they expected! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-featheredberet from the clothes tree. I'm off now, Retief, he said. I hopeyou'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without anyunfortunate incidents. That seems a modest enough hope, Retief said. I'll try to live up toit. I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division, Magnansaid testily. When I first came here, the Manpower UtilizationDirectorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Ifancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question thewisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for twoweeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function. In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple ofweeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressureto bear. I assume you jest, Retief, Magnan said sadly. I should expect evenyou to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program maybe the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into morecultivated channels. I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land, Retief said,glancing at the Memo for Record. That's a sizable sublimation. Magnan nodded. The Bogans have launched no less than four militarycampaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums ofthe Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking thatprecedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy. Breaking and entering, Retief said. You may have something there.But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrialworld of the poor but honest variety. Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,Magnan said. Our function is merely to bring them together. Seethat you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This willbe an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomaticrestraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree. A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. What is it, Miss Furkle? That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again. On the small deskscreen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval. This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,Magnan said. Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: hereat Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you. If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit, Retief said. Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle'sbutton. Send the bucolic person in. <doc-sep></s>

Croanie is a member of the Nicodemean Cluster of the Galaxy and is an associate of Boge, a member known to be a troublemaker. They tried to steal minerals from Lovenbroy earlier by attacking them. Croanie is under obligation to Boge. Croanie is the world that gave Lovenbroy a loan when it needed money to help tide it over until its next grape harvest. Croanie gave Lovenbroy a mortgage on its crops and holds a security interest in half of the grape acreage that it will acquire if Lovenbroy cannot meet the loan payment that is coming due. This is the reason that Hank Arapoulous goes to MEDDLE and asks for help obtaining workers to go to Lovenbroy and harvest the crop. It also turns out that Croanie is involved in Boge’s efforts to attack Lovenbroy and gain access to its minerals. Mr. Whaffle reveals to Retief that Croanie is set to receive a shipment of heavy mining equipment, but Croanie is best known for its oceans and fishing and has no ore. In addition, when the Bogan exchange students arrive without their luggage, Mr. Karsh says their luggage is coming from Croanie. When their luggage does arrive, it is full of weapons. The “tractors” that are being shipped to Croanie are really armored vehicles that are continental siege units that carry four men and have a half-megaton/second firepower. Mr. Whaffle reveals that the tractors are for transshipment and that Croanie is in a difficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise, with Boge. There is also an application for 2,000 more “exchange students” to be sent to Croanie.

<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered across hisdesk at Retief and Magnan. This entire affair, he rumbled, has made me appear to be a fool! But we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just howclever you are, Magnan burbled. Nitworth purpled. You're skirting insolence, Magnan, he roared. Whywas I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at thesight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced? We tried to get through, but our wavelengths— Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the spectacle! Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking— I did not panic! Nitworth bellowed. I merely adjusted to theapparent circumstances. Now, I'm of two minds as to the advisability ofthis foreign legion idea of yours. Still, it may have merit. I believethe wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruisein an uninhabited sector of space— The office windows rattled. What the devil! Nitworth turned, staredout at the ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale bluelight. The vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third. Nitworth whirled on Magnan. What's this! Who ordered these recruits toembark without my permission? I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr. Secretary,Retief said. There was that little matter of the Groaci infiltratingthe Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it. Call them back at once! I'm afraid that won't be possible. They're under orders to maintaintotal communications silence until completion of the mission. Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a thoughtfulexpression dawned. He nodded. This may work out, he said. I should call them back, but sincethe fleet is out of contact, I'm unable to do so, correct? Thus I canhardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising theGroaci. He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan. Very well, gentlemen,I'll overlook the irregularity this time. Magnan, see to it theSmorbrodian public are notified they can remain where they are. Andby the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of theindetectable drive the Qornt use? No, sir. That is, yes, sir. Well? Well? There isn't any. The Qornt were there all the while. Underground. Underground? Doing what? Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch. <doc-sep>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall. I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in. I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else? Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation. Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall. I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially. I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together. <doc-sep></s>

The story opens on a discussion at home between a husband and wife being overheard by their sixteen-year-old son, Wayne. They are distraught over their son’s attitude and attribute it to his age and the buildup of repressed impulses. Wayne views is parents with contempt. He reveals that he has been called to be drafted and leaves them to go to the authorities taking the family automobile.Arriving at the Youth Center, Wayne navigates the bureaucracy of being drafted which involves registering and being issued with a firearm and a switchblade. He bristles against the military authority figures at the youth center, deriding their appearance and position. Wayne is cocky and confident even as he is warned about the dangers of his mission. Wayne is assigned a mission that involves killing a known murderer and his girl. He has six hours of autonomy where he is privileged to operate outside of the normal rule of law.Wayne makes his way to a rougher neighborhood and witnesses another teenager hunt down and brutally murder a vagrant with a baseball bat. Wayne enters the bar which contains his target. He locates and engages them, shooting the man and chasing the woman out of the bar into a crumbling apartment building. When he eventually corners her, she begs him to kill her quickly. Wayne however is overcome with a physical aversion to the violence he was intending to commit.Wayne is later being evaluated back at the Youth Center. It is revealed that society engages teenagers to execute criminals as a preferred outlet for their aggressive impulses. Those that go through with an execution are initiated into the military. Wayne mournfully contemplates that “punking out” in failing to execute his targets relegates him to a shameful, nondescript life much like that of his own father.

<s>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall. I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in. I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else? Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation. Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall. I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially. I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together. <doc-sep> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep> The Sense of Wonder By MILTON LESSER Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's going, how can they tell when it has arrived? Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown. If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim. Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport. If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it? Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls. In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars. Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending. Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache? Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too.... His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence. I'll go with you, Rikud told him. <doc-sep></s>

The story is set in an urban environment in an unspecified time in the future. The story begins in a conventional domestic setting but quickly transitions to a Youth Center and then gritty underbelly of the city. The Youth Center is bureaucratic and clinical with Wayne making his way from registration to the Armory to his assignment. Later he returns to this center for psychological treatment. The inner-city area is known as Slumville and is filled with crumbling infrastructure and violent dealings. It is described as dark and mazelike with semi-abandoned buildings that are on the verge of collapse. The Four Aces Club where the main conflict of the story takes place is a seedy bar in Slumville where undesirables congregate. Smoky and filled with jazzy music, the club becomes a scene of tension and violence as Wayne confronts his targets there.

<s>Moscow, Idaho June 17 Dear Joe: I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks! It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world? A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population. Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world. They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright. The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself. Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep. As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice. Glmpauszn <doc-sep>Boise, Idaho July 15 Dear Joe: A great deal has happened to me since I wrote to you last.Systematically, I have tested each emotion and sensation listed inour catalog. I have been, as has been said in this world, like a reedbending before the winds of passion. In fact, I'm rather badly bentindeed. Ah! You'll pardon me, but I just took time for what is knownquaintly in this tongue as a hooker of red-eye. Ha! I've masteredeven the vagaries of slang in the not-language.... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. I feel much better now. You see, Joe, as I attuned myself to the various impressions thatconstantly assaulted my mind through this body, I conditioned myself toreact exactly as our information catalog instructed me to. Now it is all automatic, pure reflex. A sensation comes to me when I amburned; then I experience a burning pain. If the sensation is a tickle,I experience a tickle. This morning I have what is known medically as a syndrome ... a groupof symptoms popularly referred to as a hangover ... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. Strangely ... now what was I saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strangelyenough, the reactions that come easiest to the people in this worldcame most difficult to me. Money-love, for example. It is a great thinghere, both among those who haven't got it and those who have. I went out and got plenty of money. I walked invisible into a bank andcarried away piles of it. Then I sat and looked at it. I took the moneyto a remote room of the twenty room suite I have rented in the besthotel here in—no, sorry—and stared at it for hours. Nothing happened. I didn't love the stuff or feel one way or the otherabout it. Yet all around me people are actually killing one another forthe love of it. Anyway.... Ahhh. Pardon me. I got myself enough money to fill ten orfifteen rooms. By the end of the week I should have all eighteen sparerooms filled with money. If I don't love it then, I'll feel I havefailed. This alcohol is taking effect now. Blgftury has been goading me for reports. To hell with his reports!I've got a lot more emotions to try, such as romantic love. I've beenstudying this phenomenon, along with other racial characteristics ofthese people, in the movies. This is the best place to see thesepeople as they really are. They all go into the movie houses and theredo homage to their own images. Very quaint type of idolatry. Love. Ha! What an adventure this is becoming. By the way, Joe, I'm forwarding that five dollars. You see, it won'tcost me anything. It'll come out of the pocket of the idiot who'swriting this letter. Pretty shrewd of me, eh? I'm going out and look at that money again. I think I'm at lastlearning to love it, though not as much as I admire liquor. Well, onesimply must persevere, I always say. Glmpauszn <doc-sep>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall. I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in. I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else? Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation. Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall. I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially. I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together. <doc-sep></s>

Distinctive teenage or “teener” vernacular language is used extensively throughout the story. Wayne uses slang to communicate his dismissiveness of those in authority. People who live commonplace lives are “squareheads” and “punks”. Some typical proper nouns are shortened “Olds” for Oldsmobile, “Cad” for Cadillac. The effect is to cement the story in a future where language has evolved from its current state with teens communicating in a way that distinguishes them from other more conventional member of society. Wayne’s interaction with the waiter is emblematic of this effect. By saying, “Bring me a Crusher,” and then “Fade,” it is signaled to the reader that Wayne views himself as a member of a select group with its own cant.

<s> THE RECRUIT BY BRYCE WALTON It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up—some of them! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgutand bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervouslypolite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailtythat he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all,marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out. The old man said, He'll be okay. Let him alone. But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time. Hell, the old man said. Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waitingfor the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough. Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to rememberabout all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere togo, like they say. You read the books. But he's unhappy. Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? Whatdo we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed orwe'll be late. Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposelessnoises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say.Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in thesame old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all theway to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or witheyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retireinto limbo. How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? Onething—when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pantsoff Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget hispunkie origins in teeveeland. But the old man was right on for once about the dangerous repressedimpulses. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was nodoubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion.So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alonewaiting for the breakout call from HQ. Well, dear, if you say so, Mother said, with the old resigned sighthat must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly. They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up. Relax, Wayne said. You're not going anywhere tonight. What, son? his old man said uneasily. Sure we are. We're going tothe movies. He could feel them watching him, waiting; and yet still he didn'tanswer. Somewhere out in suburban grayness a dog barked, then wassilent. Okay, go, Wayne said. If you wanta walk. I'm taking the familyboltbucket. But we promised the Clemons, dear, his mother said. Hell, Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. I just got mydraft call. He saw the old man's Adam's apple move. Oh, my dear boy, Mother criedout. So gimme the keys, Wayne said. The old man handed the keys over. Hisunderstanding smile was strained, and fear flicked in his sagging eyes. Do be careful, dear, his mother said. She ran toward him as helaughed and shut the door on her. He was still laughing as he whoomedthe Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ramponto the Freeway. Ahead was the promising glitter of adventure-callingneon, and he looked up at the high skies of night and his eyes sailedthe glaring wonders of escape. <doc-sep>He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strodeunder a sign reading Public Youth Center No. 947 and walked casuallyto the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and apansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork. Where you think you're going, my pretty lad? Wayne grinned down. Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey. Well, the sergeant said. How tough we are this evening. You have apass, killer? Wayne Seton. Draft call. Oh. The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wroteon a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. Go to the Armory andcheck out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report toCaptain Jack, room 307. Thanks, sarge dear, Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory. A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne.Finally he said, So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kidbreaking out tonight? Hold your teeth, pop, Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting acigarette. I've decided. The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement.Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city andyou're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babesare clever hellcats in a dark alley. You must be a genius, Wayne said. A corporal with no hair and stilla counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad. The corporal sighed wearily. You can get that balloon headventilated, bud, and good. Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward theshelves and racks of weapons. I'll remember that crack when I getmy commission. He blew smoke in the corporal's face. Bring me aSmith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw ina Skelly switchblade for kicks—the six-inch disguised job with thedouble springs. The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchbladedisguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger,while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled thecylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slippedthe knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at itsgleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refractedincandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting andscary. He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his leftarmpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling theway the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacketback on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward theelevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, Good luck, tiger. Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive withstuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. CaptainJack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It hada head shaped like a grinning bear. Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed toshrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a peaamong bowling balls. Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggyhead. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags. Wayne Seton, said Captain Jack as if he were discussing somethingin a bug collection. Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you?Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk? Yes, sir, Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos.His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fearthe way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'llshow you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat untilhe screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him,ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. Butthat wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy,what was he doing holding down a desk? Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterflycollection. The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inchfrom Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clampeda knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth. Captain Jack chuckled. All right, superboy. He handed Wayne hispasscard. Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to makeout. Yes, sir. Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the WestSide. Know where that is, punk? No, sir, but I'll find it fast. Sure you will, punk, smiled Captain Jack. She'll be wearing yellowslacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a heftypsycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people.They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go andthey're your key to the stars. Yes, sir, Wayne said. So run along and make out, punk, grinned Captain Jack. <doc-sep>He walked through the wavering haze of smoke and liquored dizziness andstood until his eyes learned the dark. He spotted her red shirt andyellow legs over in the corner above a murky lighted table. He walked toward her, watching her little subhuman pixie face lift.The eyes widened with exciting terror, turned even paler behind a redslash of sensuous mouth. Briefed and waiting, primed and eager forrunning, she recognized her pursuer at once. He sat at a table nearher, watching and grinning and seeing her squirm. She sat in that slightly baffled, fearful and uncomprehending attitudeof being motionless, as though they were all actors performing in aweirdo drama being staged in that smoky thick-aired dive. Wayne smiled with wry superiority at the redheaded psycho in a dirtyT-shirt, a big bruiser with a gorilla face. He was tussling his mouseheavy. What's yours, teener? the slug-faced waiter asked. Bring me a Crusher, buddyroo, Wayne said, and flashed his pass card. Sure, teener. Red nuzzled the mouse's neck and made drooly noises. Wayne watched andfed on the promising terror and helplessness of her hunted face. Shesat rigid, eyes fixed on Wayne like balls of frozen glass. Red looked up and stared straight at Wayne with eyes like black buttonsimbedded in the waxlike skin of his face. Then he grinned all on oneside. One huge hand scratched across the wet table top like a furiouscat's. Wayne returned the challenging move but felt a nervous twitch jerk athis lips. A numbness covered his brain like a film as he concentratedon staring down Red the psycho. But Red kept looking, his eyes brightbut dead. Then he began struggling it up again with the scared littlemouse. The waiter sat the Crusher down. Wayne signed a chit; tonight he was inthe pay of the state. What else, teener? One thing. Fade. Sure, teener, the waiter said, his breathy words dripping like syrup. Wayne drank. Liquored heat dripped into his stomach. Fire tickled hisveins, became hot wire twisting in his head. He drank again and forced out a shaky breath. The jazz beat thumpedfast and muted brass moaned. Drumpulse, stabbing trumpet raped theair. Tension mounted as Wayne watched her pale throat convulsing, thewhite eyelids fluttering. Red fingered at her legs and salivated at herthroat, glancing now and then at Wayne, baiting him good. Okay, you creep, Wayne said. He stood up and started through the haze. The psycho leaped and a tablecrashed. Wayne's .38 dropped from its spring-clip holster and the blastfilled the room. The psycho screamed and stumbled toward the doorholding something in. The mouse darted by, eluded Wayne's grasp and wasout the door. Wayne went out after her in a laughing frenzy of release. He felt thecold strange breath of moist air on his sweating skin as he sprinteddown the alley into a wind full of blowing wet. He ran laughing under the crazy starlight and glimpsed her now andthen, fading in and out of shadows, jumping, crawling, running with thelife-or-death animation of a wild deer. Up and down alleys, a rat's maze. A rabbit run. Across vacant lots.Through shattered tenement ruins. Over a fence. There she was, falling,sliding down a brick shute. He gained. He moved up. His labored breath pumped more fire. And herscream was a rejuvenation hypo in his blood. <doc-sep></s>

Wayne is a cocky, arrogant sixteen-year-old defined by his lack of respect for authority. His main goal in life is to be drafted into the military and lead an adventuring life.His unnamed parents care for their son but are nonplussed by his attitude and general demeanor of rebelliousness. They seem to live commonplace lives with domestic trips to the movie theatre or a neighborhood poker game. Wayne views this type of life as detestable. His interaction with his parents is crude and condescending.The military officials that Wayne meets in the Youth Center also elicit Wayne’s contempt. He views their desk jobs as an analog to his parents’ “punkie” existence. To Wayne, the only admirable way of life is one of high adventure. He disrespects most of the desk workers, but the commanding officer, Captain Jack, deflates his self-assurance.Wayne is keenly intent on hunting his targets. He stares them down tensely before violently engaging them. female target, nicknamed the “mouse”, is revealed to be a woman without hope. She’s tired of running and just wants to be put out of her misery. Surprisingly, at the moment of truth, Wayne cannot bring himself to execute the woman in cold blood, in his own words, “punking out”. He admits to the doctor analyzing him after his assignment that he felt sorry for her.

<s> What is POSAT? By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course coming events cast their shadows before, but this shadow was 400 years long! The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines: MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS! What is the secret source of those profound principles that can solve the problems of life? Send for our FREE booklet of explanation. Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU can alter the course of your life! Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages! The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth POSAT an ancient secret society Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand. Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of YourLife and Psychology that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time. Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said. It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the Antivivisectionist Gazette the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible. Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in The Bulletin of Physical Research . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object. He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page. It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it. I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters. Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form. Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope. He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility. Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation. To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity. What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire. I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out! The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin. Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address? Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers! The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT? Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script. It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed. Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him. His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future. It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them. Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats. After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too. Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise. Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these? She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort. This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?' Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab? Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes? Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants? He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket? He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him. His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners. Dear Doctor Alford: We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you. The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps? It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning. Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home! But it was impossible! He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem! Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or— But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information. His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents? Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic. At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday. <doc-sep>There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe? I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger? Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything. You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude. The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it? Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful. When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care. Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse. <doc-sep>As I see it, Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wineglass, you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don't particularly liketo fight. We don't mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, asQornt, we're expected to die in battle. But what I say is, why rushthings? I have a suggestion, Magnan said. Why not turn the reins ofgovernment over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group. What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt. It seems there's always oneamong us who's a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to followhim. Why? Because that's the way it's done. Why not do it another way? Magnan offered. Now, I'd like to suggestcommunity singing— If we gave up fighting, we might live too long. Then what wouldhappen? Live too long? Magnan looked puzzled. When estivating time comes there'd be no burrows for us. Anyway, withthe new Qornt stepping on our heels— I've lost the thread, Magnan said. Who are the new Qornt? After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they're Qornt, of course.The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosizeinto Verpp— You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-natured naturalists—will becomewarmongers like Qorn? Very likely. 'The milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qorn,' as the oldsaying goes. What do Qornt turn into? Retief asked. Hmmmm. That's a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood. Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways? Magnan asked. Whatabout taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance? Don't mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It's great sport tosit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashingoff to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. Butwe prefer a nice numerical advantage. Not this business of tackling youTerrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea whatyour strength was. But now that's all off, of course, Magnan chirped. Now that we'vehad diplomatic relations and all— Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days. After all, we'reQornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action. But Mr. Retief is your leader now. He won't let you! Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack day comes. And even ifhe orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the otherCenters—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the Invasion isdefinitely on. Why don't you go invade somebody else? Magnan suggested. I couldname some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course. Hold everything, Retief said. I think we've got the basis of a dealhere.... V At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retiefand Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDTSector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged,flying an Ambassadorial flag under a plain square of white. Curious, Magnan commented. I wonder what the significance of thewhite ensign might be? Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrementsand a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The highwhite sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes,butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather. A brave show indeed, Magnan commented approvingly. I confess theidea has merit. The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tiredwheels, gyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomatstepped out. Why, Ambassador Nitworth, Magnan glowed. This is very kind of you. Keep cool, Magnan, Nitworth said in a strained voice. We'll attemptto get you out of this. He stepped past Magnan's out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly atthe ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond, atthe eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnaughts. Good afternoon, sir ... ah, Your Excellency, Nitworth said, blinkingup at the leading Qornt. You are Commander of the Strike Force, Iassume? Nope, the Qornt said shortly. I ... ah ... wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuateHeadquarters, Nitworth plowed on. Mr. Ambassador. Retief said. This— Don't panic, Retief. I'll attempt to secure your release, Nitworthhissed over his shoulder. Now— You will address our leader with more respect! the tall Qornt hooted,eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up. Oh, yes indeed, sir ... your Excellency ... Commander. Now, about theinvasion— Mr. Secretary, Magnan tugged at Nitworth's sleeve. In heaven's name, permit me to negotiate in peace! Nitworth snapped.He rearranged his features. Now your Excellency, we've arranged toevacuate Smorbrod, of course, just as you requested— Requested? the Qornt honked. Ah ... demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered.Instructed. And, of course, we'll be only too pleased to follow anyother instructions you might have. You don't quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.This isn't— Silence, confound you! Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked atRetief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth and stuffeda length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around andheld him facing Retief. If you don't mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr.Ambassador, Retief said blandly. I think I should mention that thisisn't an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the PeaceEnforcement Corps. Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth'smouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. We felt, he said, thatthe establishment of a Foreign Brigade within the P. E. Corps structurewould provide the element of novelty the Department has requestedin our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma ofTerrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations. Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caughtthe Qornt's eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides. I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun, Retief said.Magnan edged close. What about the gag? he whispered. Let's leave it where it is for a while, Retief murmured. It may saveus a few concessions. <doc-sep></s>

The expository dialogue by Doctor Burns at the end of the story provides some insight into how this society views the tendency toward violence in its citizens and retributive criminal justice. The prevailing understanding is that adolescents (presumably adolescent men) are subjected to aggressive and violent impulses. The society seeks to provide these teens a preferred outlet for these impulses in the form of a violent act in service of the state. Typical this seems to be the execution of an undesirable member of society who is viewed as beyond redemption. This permitted brutality is thought to get it out of a teen’s system and prepare him for a life as a contributing member in the state’s military apparatus. The result of this situation is a dramatically violent society where untrained youths are recruited to act as vicious vigilantes who terrorize anyone labelled as undesirable.

<s>What do you do ? Steffens asked. Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return. When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so. Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back. If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic. It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built? Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all. Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith. But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God. God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God? Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered: It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you. Steffens understood. He nodded. The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God. It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself. But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled. <doc-sep>After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had theship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were metby the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side,humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands ofthe robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of themstood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sunlike a vast, metallic field of black wheat. The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to feel their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionlessfaces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they werestill reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, hadbuilt them well. Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clearplastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved outfrom the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speakhad remained with Steffens. Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ballwas for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing andtalking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon thebare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died.It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in theirvery lines which was pleasant and relaxing. Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too. There's no harm in them, said Ball at last, openly, not minding ifthe robots heard. They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoeverheard of a robot being glad? Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: I hopeyou will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. Wehave never before made contact with a race like yours. It was saidhaltingly, but it was the best he could do. The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head. I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you.Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I amnot exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended toconvey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believethat there is fundamental similarity between our structures. The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it wasdisconcerted. I must tell you, the thing went on, that we ourselves are—curious.It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend.Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length: We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largelymetallic, and that of the Makers , which would appear to be somewhatmore like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint youwith the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you areinterested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to beof assistance. It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently whileBall and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously,were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the doctors,Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designedspecifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers. The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the questionhe had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush: Can you tell us where the Makers are? Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn'treally be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spokewith difficulty. The Makers—are not here. Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion andwent on: The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time. Could that be pain in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then thespectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind. War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not beenkilled. He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in themidst of a radiation so lethal that nothing , nothing could live;robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide. The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp. If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life aswell, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that thefree oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how oldwere the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots,then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The blackwheat. Steffens felt a deep chill. Were they immortal? <doc-sep>Would you like to see a doctor? Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robotwas referring. No, not yet, he said, thank you. He swallowed hard as the robotscontinued waiting patiently. Could you tell me, he said at last, how old you are? Individually? By your reckoning, said his robot, and paused to make thecalculation, I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days ofage, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive. Steffens tried to understand that. It would perhaps simplify our conversations, said the robot, ifyou were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using thefirst—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb. Glad to meet you, Steffens mumbled. You are called 'Stef,' said the robot obligingly. Then it added,pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: The age of—Peb—is seventeenyears, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining somethirty-eight years. Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously aboutfifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot,Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygenand plant life would have been needed. Unless— He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV. Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all. His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order. Do you build yourselves? the exec asked. Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, asif the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering. No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the— another pause fora word—by the Factory . The Factory? Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it? Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly. Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here. It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew wentalong with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the otherside of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light ofdusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay ina valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circlingin the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots movedoutside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving aroundtheir birthplace. <doc-sep></s>

“Click” Hathaway, a photographer, is on a spaceship with “Irish” Marnagan, the ship’s pilot, as the ship is hit by a meteor and crashesAfter the crash, Hathaway jokes about getting a shot of Marnagan emerging from the wreckage, which Marnagan takes offense to, pointing out he could have been dead; Hathaway says he took it for granted that Marnagan would survive. Marnagan states that they could walk the entire diameter of the planet they are on in four hours, but Hathaway points out that he has only an hour of oxygen. Hathaway states that he has photo evidence that the meteor that hit their ship was thrown at them, probably by Gunther, the person Marnagan is trying to capture, but Marnagan redirects their priorities to oxygen, food, and a way back to earth.As they walk in search of help, they notice that there is human-made gravity on the planet. Immediately after making that discovery, they encounter an enormous herd of dangerous beasts. When Marnagan discovers his gun is ineffective as a weapon, they flee to a nearby cave for protection, as the cave is too small for the beasts to enter.Marnagan asks Hathaway to take a picture of him with the beasts. Hathaway snaps several pictures of Marnagan posing at a safe distance. Hathaway then says that between the “natural” meteors, gravity, and beasts, their crash will look accidental rather than like murder. He shows Marnagan the pictures he shot, intending to use the beasts as part of his argument, but Marnagan protests that his film is “lousy” as only Marnagan, appears in the shots and not the beasts. When Hathaway confirms this is so, he is insistent that the film cannot lie. If the beasts do not appear in the photos, they don’t exist.When they emerge from the cave and the animals are gone, the men are at first elated. Hathaway quickly realizes, though, that with their oxygen running low and limiting the time they have to find Gunther’s base and fresh oxygen, they must get the beasts to return so that they can follow the beasts to their source--Gunther’s base.The men concentrate on the beasts and the beasts reappear; Hathaway and Marnagan locate a source point and head toward it. Marnagan believes he is being attacked by a beast, but when Hathaway reminds him the monsters are fake, Marnagan is able to resist the telepathic message. Marnagan enters the cave where it appears the animals are coming from and finds an air-lock door and a tunnel before he is captured by a guard. He tells the guard his partner is dead.Hathaway creeps in through the air-lock door to see Marnagan held at gunpoint. Hathaway fools the guard into believing he is armed, takes his gun, and gets the guard to guide him and Marnagan to oxygen. They then use photos of Marnagan, inserted in the telepath machines, to take over Gunther’s fortress and capture him. The story ends with Hathaway taking a triumphant posed picture of Marnagan.

<s> The Monster Maker By RAY BRADBURY Get Gunther, the official orders read. It was to laugh! For Click and Irish were marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening. The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury. Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round. There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now. It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs. Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out! Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT? Is this what ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet. Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!? Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films! They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones. The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out. Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like this one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera. <doc-sep>That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters! Only now it was only Marnagan. No more monsters. Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away! Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments! And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward! Smile when you say that, Irish. Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes? Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets? I'll take it up with the Board, lad. Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them. Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill. Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous— The Irishman whistled. But, we've got to move , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them. If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click— Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick. Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach. Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback! Come back? How? They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return. Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em? Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a certain point . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to see them coming at us again. Do we, now? With twenty minutes left, maybe less— All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it? Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over. Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...? Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish. Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it! The monsters returned. <doc-sep>Click shrugged. Still doubt it? Okay. Look. He tapped his camera anda spool popped out onto his gloved palm. Holding it up, he strippedit out to its full twenty inch length, held it to the light while itdeveloped, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developingfilm. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical,leaving imprints; the second exposure simply hardened, secured theimpressions. Quick stuff. Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-viewer in the camera's base,Click handed the whole thing over. Look. Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. Ah,Click. Now, now. This is one lousy film you invented. Huh? It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroidmonsters complete. What! Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again:Pictures in montage; Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationallywith nothing ; Marnagan shooting his gun at nothing ; Marnaganpretending to be happy in front of nothing . Then, closeup—of—NOTHING! The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hairlike a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it.Maybe— Hathaway said it, loud: Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of thismess! Here— He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film,the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said themonsters weren't there, they weren't there. Yeah, said Marnagan. But step outside this cave— If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid, said Click. Marnagan scowled. You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet orinfra-red or something that won't come out on film? Nuts! Any color we see, the camera sees. We've been fooled. Hey, where you going? Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller mantried pushing past him. Get out of the way, said Hathaway. Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. If anyone is going anywhere,it'll be me does the going. I can't let you do that, Irish. Why not? You'd be going on my say-so. Ain't your say-so good enough for me? Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess— If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, standaside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle theirbones. He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn't existexcept under an inch of porous metal plate. Your express purpose onthis voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol laterfor teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-handeducation. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give meprofile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into TheLion's Den. Irish, I— Shut up and load up. Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it. Ready, Click? I—I guess so, said Hathaway. And remember, think it hard, Irish.Think it hard. There aren't any animals— Keep me in focus, lad. All the way, Irish. What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera! Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one,two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters werewaiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking. Right out into the middle of them.... <doc-sep></s>

Hathaway’s photography is the reason he is initially selected to go along on the mission to capture the outlaw Gunther. Unlike the character Marnagan, who is repeatedly described as physically very large and strong, Hathaway is not on the mission for his physical prowess, but is there to document Marnagan’s capture of Gunther for training of Junior Patrolmen in the future Hathaway has also invented self-developing film which seems like a cross between Polaroid pictures and a digital camera, as it has to be put into a micro-viewer at the camera’s base to be seen. This film allows Hathaway and Marnagan, the active partner on the mission, to view Hathaway’s pictures immediately and notice the absence of beasts from Hathaway’s pictures. This allows for the revelation that the beasts are telepathic projections into the men’s minds and sets up the final “battle” in the story, in which telepathic projections of Marnagan, created by the same projectors that created the beasts, along with photos from Hathaway’s film, defeat Gunther’s guards and enable Hathaway and Marnagan to capture Gunther. While nothing could have been accomplished without Marnagan, Hathaway’s photography is essential to the successful completion of the mission.

<s> The Monster Maker By RAY BRADBURY Get Gunther, the official orders read. It was to laugh! For Click and Irish were marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening. The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury. Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round. There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now. It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs. Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out! Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT? Is this what ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet. Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!? Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films! They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones. The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out. Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like this one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera. <doc-sep>Click shrugged. Still doubt it? Okay. Look. He tapped his camera anda spool popped out onto his gloved palm. Holding it up, he strippedit out to its full twenty inch length, held it to the light while itdeveloped, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developingfilm. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical,leaving imprints; the second exposure simply hardened, secured theimpressions. Quick stuff. Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-viewer in the camera's base,Click handed the whole thing over. Look. Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. Ah,Click. Now, now. This is one lousy film you invented. Huh? It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroidmonsters complete. What! Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again:Pictures in montage; Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationallywith nothing ; Marnagan shooting his gun at nothing ; Marnaganpretending to be happy in front of nothing . Then, closeup—of—NOTHING! The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hairlike a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it.Maybe— Hathaway said it, loud: Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of thismess! Here— He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film,the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said themonsters weren't there, they weren't there. Yeah, said Marnagan. But step outside this cave— If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid, said Click. Marnagan scowled. You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet orinfra-red or something that won't come out on film? Nuts! Any color we see, the camera sees. We've been fooled. Hey, where you going? Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller mantried pushing past him. Get out of the way, said Hathaway. Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. If anyone is going anywhere,it'll be me does the going. I can't let you do that, Irish. Why not? You'd be going on my say-so. Ain't your say-so good enough for me? Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess— If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, standaside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle theirbones. He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn't existexcept under an inch of porous metal plate. Your express purpose onthis voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol laterfor teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-handeducation. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give meprofile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into TheLion's Den. Irish, I— Shut up and load up. Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it. Ready, Click? I—I guess so, said Hathaway. And remember, think it hard, Irish.Think it hard. There aren't any animals— Keep me in focus, lad. All the way, Irish. What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera! Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one,two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters werewaiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking. Right out into the middle of them.... <doc-sep>That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters! Only now it was only Marnagan. No more monsters. Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away! Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments! And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward! Smile when you say that, Irish. Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes? Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets? I'll take it up with the Board, lad. Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them. Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill. Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous— The Irishman whistled. But, we've got to move , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them. If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click— Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick. Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach. Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback! Come back? How? They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return. Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em? Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a certain point . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to see them coming at us again. Do we, now? With twenty minutes left, maybe less— All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it? Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over. Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...? Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish. Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it! The monsters returned. <doc-sep></s>

Despite their clear differences, Hathaway and Marnagan are a solid team who work well together and depend on each other. We first see this in the opening scene of the story where Hathaway is physically clinging to Marnagan in his distress during the crash sequence. After the crash, Hathaway is more concerned with taking photos of Marnagan emerging from the crash than helping him emerge from the rubble, not because he doesn’t care about his companion, but because he sees his companion as so strong, it doesn’t occur to him to be concerned for his physical safety. This points to one of their key differences--while Marnagan is immediately concerned for Hathaway’s safety and assumes Hathaway would reciprocate, Hathaway sees Marnagan as much stronger than himself, nearly invulnerable.We see Hathaway and Marnagan’s collaborative relationship continue when they are faced with the beasts. They are both afraid; Hathaway is the first to spot the secure hiding place of the cave and hails Marnagan to run there. Marnagan then proposes that he pose “with” the beasts--standing at a safe distance with them in the background--and Hathaway agrees. They continue to argue about what to do while Hathaway develops the film as part of his argument. When Hathaway presents the developed film as evidence, Marnagan teases him about his invention being “lousy”, as only he (Marnagan) shows in the photos, but the monsters do not. This joke sets up Hathaway’s realization that the beasts are telepathic projections rather than physical beings, leading the men to debate which of them will lead the hunt for oxygen. While Hathaway knows his partner is physically stronger and he is already suffering from oxygen deprivation, he doesn’t want to risk Marnagan’s safety if his deduction proves wrong. Marnagan, however, shows his trust in Hathaway by insisting that he (Marnagan) lead, confident that if Hathaway says the monsters aren’t there, they are indeed not.When Marnagan briefly succumbs to the telepathic illusion of the beasts, Hathaway is able to talk him down. Just by listening to Hathaway’s words, Marnagan is able to convince himself again that the beasts are not real. Marnagan then convinces the guard he encounters that Hathaway died in the ship crash, allowing Hathaway to sneak in, capture the guard, and get both the men oxygen. They use their teamwork in a last instance to defeat the principal antagonist of the story, Gunther. Hathaway is captured by more of Gunther’s guards and taken to him, but is already prepared. He shows Gunther that Gunther’s men are being overwhelmed and defeated by five hundred armed Patrol men, causing Gunther to pull out a weapon and fire wildly until Hathaway knocks him unconscious. We then are told that the “five hundred Patrol men” are telepathic illusions of Marnagan projected by the same projectors that created the images of the beasts, supplied with photos of Marnagan shot by Hathaway. Once again their teamwork proves crucial to the success of the mission.

<s>They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway feltfunny about something; didn't know what. Something about these monstersand Gunther and— Which one will you be having? asked Irish, casually. A red one or ablue one? Hathaway laughed nervously. A pink one with yellow ruffles—Good God,now you've got me doing it. Joking in the face of death. Me father taught me; keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck. That didn't please the photographer. I'm an Anglo-Swede, he pointedout. Marnagan shifted uneasily. Here, now. You're doing nothing butsitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so takeme a profile shot of the beasties and myself. Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. What in hell's the use? Allthis swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it. Then, retorted Marnagan, we'll develop it for our own benefit; whilewaitin' for the U.S. Cavalry to come riding over the hill to ourrescue! Hathaway snorted. U.S. Cavalry. Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. Snap me this pose, hesaid. I paid your salary to trot along, photographing, we hoped,my capture of Gunther, now the least you can do is record peacenegotiations betwixt me and these pixies. Marnagan wasn't fooling anybody. Hathaway knew the superficial palaverfor nothing but a covering over the fast, furious thinking runningaround in that red-cropped skull. Hathaway played the palaver, too, buthis mind was whirring faster than his camera as he spun a picture ofMarnagan standing there with a useless gun pointed at the animals. Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at the monsters. Marnagan smilingfor the camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan looking grim, withoutmuch effort, for the camera. And then, a closeup of the thrashing deathwall that holed them in. Click took them all, those shots, not sayinganything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and theyhad sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts. When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used itup arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him: Gunther drew us down here, sure as Ceres! That gravity change we feltback on that ridge, Irish; that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So,what's he do; he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Spacewar isn't perfect yet, guns don't prime true in space, trajectoryis lousy over long distances. So what's the best weapon, whichdispenses with losing valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of men?Super-gravity and a couple of well-tossed meteors. Saves all around.It's a good front, this damned iron pebble. From it, Gunther strikesunseen; ships simply crash, that's all. A subtle hand, with all aces. Marnagan rumbled. Where is the dirty son, then! He didn't have to appear, Irish. He sent—them. Hathaway nodded atthe beasts. People crashing here die from air-lack, no food, or fromwounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animalstend to them. It all looks like Nature was responsible. See how subtlehis attack is? Looks like accidental death instead of murder, if thePatrol happens to land and finds us. No reason for undue investigation,then. I don't see no Base around. <doc-sep> The Monster Maker By RAY BRADBURY Get Gunther, the official orders read. It was to laugh! For Click and Irish were marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening. The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury. Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round. There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now. It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs. Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out! Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT? Is this what ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet. Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!? Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films! They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones. The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out. Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like this one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera. <doc-sep>That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters! Only now it was only Marnagan. No more monsters. Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away! Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments! And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward! Smile when you say that, Irish. Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes? Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets? I'll take it up with the Board, lad. Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them. Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill. Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous— The Irishman whistled. But, we've got to move , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them. If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click— Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick. Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach. Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback! Come back? How? They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return. Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em? Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a certain point . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to see them coming at us again. Do we, now? With twenty minutes left, maybe less— All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it? Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over. Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...? Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish. Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it! The monsters returned. <doc-sep></s>

The crash of Hathaway and Marnagan’s ship is the precipitating event for the events that follow, but it is also more than that. Hathaway states shortly after the crash that the meteor that hit their ship was deliberately aimed at them with force, based on it being “hot and glowing” at the time of the collision. Hathaway hypothesizes at that time that Gunther, the man Marnagan is trying to capture on their mission, had engineered the crash. A short time later, when walking along the surface of the planet, Hathaway notices sudden weight loss. After he and Marnagan test it and confirm that it really happened, they conclude that their ship was not only hit by a meteor, it was dragged down to the planet by an unnatural amount of gravity, more than the planet is generating. They then meet horrifying, dangerous monsters, but these are revealed in short order to be telepathic projections. They are able to dispel the images of the monsters by their own belief that the monsters are not really there, then summon them back by imagining that they are there, but that the monsters cannot harm them. In this way, the monsters lead them to Gunther, who is captured when Marnagan and Hathaway use the telepathic projectors that generated the “monster” images to generate hundreds of images of Marnagan, making it appear that there is an army ready to take over Gunther’s base and capture or kill all his men. All of this flows from the initial crash engineered by Gunther with the propelled meteor and the area of super-gravity that pulled the ship down to the planet. Gunther hoped to make the ship disappear and Marnagan and Hathaway along with it. Instead, they crashed on the single planet where they could find him and had to take on an immediate quest to search for him in order to survive, as they had limited oxygen and needed to find the only other humans on the planet in order to replenish their supply.

<s>What do you do ? Steffens asked. Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return. When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so. Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back. If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic. It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built? Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all. Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith. But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God. God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God? Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered: It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you. Steffens understood. He nodded. The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God. It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself. But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled. <doc-sep>I wished I had been born a couple of hundred years ago—before peoplestarted playing around with nuclear energy and filling the air withradiations that they were afraid would turn human beings into hideousmonsters. Instead, they developed the psi powers that had always beenlatent in the species until we developed into a race of supermen. Idon't know why I say we —in 1960 or so, I might have been consideredsuperior, but in 2102 I was just the Faradays' idiot boy. Exploring space should have been my hope. If there had been anythinguseful or interesting on any of the other planets, I might have founda niche for myself there. In totally new surroundings, the psi powersgeared to another environment might not be an advantage. But by thetime I was ten, it was discovered that the other planets were justbarren hunks of rock, with pressures and climates and atmospheresdrastically unsuited to human life. A year or so before, the hyperdrivehad been developed on Earth and ships had been sent out to explore thestars, but I had no hope left in that direction any more. I was an atavism in a world of peace and plenty. Peace, because peoplecouldn't indulge in war or even crime with so many telepaths runningaround—not because, I told myself, the capacity for primitive behaviorwasn't just as latent in everybody else as the psi talent seemed latentin me. Tim must be right, I thought—I must have some undreamed-ofpower that only the right circumstances would bring out. But what wasthat power? For years I had speculated on what my potential talent might be,explored every wild possibility I could conceive of and found noneproductive of even an ambiguous result with which I could fool myself.As I approached adulthood, I began to concede that I was probablynothing more than what I seemed to be—a simple psi-negative. Yet, fromtime to time, hope surged up again, as it had today, in spite of myknowledge that my hope was an impossibility. Who ever heard of latentpsi powers showing themselves in an individual as old as twenty-six? I was almost alone in the parks where I used to walk, because peopleliked to commune with one another those days rather than with nature.Even gardening had very little popularity. But I found myself most athome in those woodland—or, rather, pseudo-woodland—surroundings,able to identify more readily with the trees and flowers than I couldwith my own kind. A fallen tree or a broken blossom would excite moresympathy from me than the minor catastrophes that will beset anyhousehold, no matter how gifted, and I would shy away from bloodynoses or cut fingers, thus giving myself a reputation for callousnessas well as extrasensory imbecility. However, I was no more callous in steering clear of human breakdownsthan I was in not shedding tears over the household machines when theybroke down, for I felt no more closely akin to my parents and siblingsthan I did to the mechanisms that served and, sometimes, failed us. <doc-sep>After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had theship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were metby the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side,humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands ofthe robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of themstood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sunlike a vast, metallic field of black wheat. The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to feel their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionlessfaces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they werestill reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, hadbuilt them well. Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clearplastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved outfrom the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speakhad remained with Steffens. Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ballwas for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing andtalking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon thebare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died.It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in theirvery lines which was pleasant and relaxing. Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too. There's no harm in them, said Ball at last, openly, not minding ifthe robots heard. They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoeverheard of a robot being glad? Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: I hopeyou will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. Wehave never before made contact with a race like yours. It was saidhaltingly, but it was the best he could do. The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head. I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you.Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I amnot exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended toconvey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believethat there is fundamental similarity between our structures. The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it wasdisconcerted. I must tell you, the thing went on, that we ourselves are—curious.It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend.Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length: We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largelymetallic, and that of the Makers , which would appear to be somewhatmore like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint youwith the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you areinterested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to beof assistance. It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently whileBall and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously,were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the doctors,Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designedspecifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers. The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the questionhe had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush: Can you tell us where the Makers are? Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn'treally be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spokewith difficulty. The Makers—are not here. Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion andwent on: The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time. Could that be pain in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then thespectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind. War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not beenkilled. He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in themidst of a radiation so lethal that nothing , nothing could live;robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide. The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp. If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life aswell, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that thefree oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how oldwere the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots,then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The blackwheat. Steffens felt a deep chill. Were they immortal? <doc-sep></s>

Telepathy plays an interesting role in this story. Rather than telepathy being used by one character to discern the thoughts of another character, as is often the case, we instead have machines creating telepathic projections. It is fitting, then, that since machines are creating the telepathic projections, a machine can also defeat them. The camera does not see through interpreting images or trying to understand them. It only records light and shadow. For this reason, it remains unaffected by telepathy--it can only record what is there, not what is projected into the mind.Hathaway and Marnagan become trapped in a small cave by what they believe are dangerous wild beasts. Marnagan asks Hathaway to take his pictures as Marnagan poses against the backdrop of the beasts. When Marnagan looks at the photos and complains that the beasts do not appear, Hathaway realizes that the beasts are not physically real, but only telepathic projections in the men's minds. He and Marnagan are then able to dismiss the beasts and bring them back at will in order to let the projections lead them to their source.Telepathy plays a significant role again when Hathaway and Marnagan formulate a plan to capture Gunther, the person Marnagan is on a mission to capture and the man that caused their crash. While the two of them could easily overpower Gunther if he were alone, there are at least fifty guards with him at his base. Hathaway realizes they can photograph Marnagan in poses as though he's taking over the base and use those images in the telepathic projector against the guards and Gunther. The telepathic projector turns one Marnagan into five hundred, allowing the two men to easily capture the base and Gunther while the guards flee. The guards are likely aware of the telepathic projectors, but do not suspect that Hathaway and Marnagan have managed to turn the projectors to their own ends. By using the projectors, Hathaway and Marnagan are able to turn a very dangerous situation into an easy victory.

<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram. Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'. For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet. Say that again! she cried. The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and.... That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this is Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see? I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on. What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration.... But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...? Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty. I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream. And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another. There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly. An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment. It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh! He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes. Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more. Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again. Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled. <doc-sep>Inside the freighter's narrow corridor Grannie faced me with eyesfilled with excitement. Billy-boy, she said, we've got two problems now. We've got to stopDoctor Universe, and we've got to find a way of getting out of here.Right now we're nicely bottled up. As if in answer to her words the visi set revealed the face of the quizmaster on the screen. He was saying: Remember tomorrow at this same hour I will have a message ofunparalleled importance for the people of the nine planets. Tomorrownight I urge you, I command you, to tune in. With a whistling intake of breath the old woman turned to one of theVenusians. Bring all our equipment in here, she ordered. Hurry! She untied the ribbon under her chin and took off her cap. She rolledup her sleeves, and as the Venusians came marching into the space shipwith bundles of equipment, she fell to work. Silently Ezra Karn and I watched her. First she completely dismantledthe visi set, put it together again with an entirely altered hookup.Next she unrolled a coil of flexible copper mesh which we had broughtalong as a protective electrical screening against the marsh insects.She fastened rubberite suction cups to this mesh at intervals of everytwelve inches or more, carried it down to the freighter's hold andfastened it securely against the stepto glass wall. Trailing a three-ply conduit up from the hold to the corridor sheselected an induction coil, several Micro-Wellman tubes and a quantityof wire from a box of spare parts. Dexterously her fingers moved in andout, fashioning a complicated and curious piece of apparatus. At length she finished. It's pretty hay-wire, she said, but I think it will work. Now I'lltell you what I'm going to do. When Doctor Universe broadcasts tomorrownight, he's going to announce that he has set himself up as supremedictator. He'll have the Green Flame radiations coming from this shipunder full power. I'm going to insert into his broadcast—the laughingof the Varsoom! You're going to what? Broadcast the mass laughter from those invisible creatures out there.Visualize it, Billy-boy! At the dramatic moment when Doctor Universemakes his plea for System-wide power, he will be accompanied by wildpeals of laughter. The whole broadcast will be turned into a burlesque. How you going to make 'em laugh? interrupted Karn. We must think of a way, Grannie replied soberly. I, for one, am glad that no representative of the InterstellarPsychiatry Society witnessed our antics during the early hours of thatmorning and on into the long reaches of the afternoon, as we vainlytried to provoke the laughter of the Varsoom. All to no avail. Uttersilence greeted our efforts. And the time was growing close to thescheduled Doctor Universe program. Ezra Karn wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. Maybe we've gotto attract their attention first, he suggested. Miss Flowers, whydon't you go up on the roof and read to 'em? Read 'em something fromone of your books, if you've got one along. That ought to make 'em situp and take notice. For a moment the old woman gazed at him in silence. Then she got to herfeet quickly. I'll do it, she said. I'll read them the attack scene from MurderOn A Space Liner . <doc-sep></s>

Grannie Annie, a prolific science fiction novelist, goes to see Billy at a men’s club. The two sit down to have a drink in an empty portion of the club, but they only have a minute to chat before Grannie Annie remembers she has an appointment at the Satellite Theater. She insists that Billy come with her. Grannie Annie forces Billy to take a seat in the audience, and she takes her place backstage. The show is called “Doctor Universe and His Nine Geniuses,” and it’s a type of gameshow. People and creatures on nine different planets tune into the program, and they ask the geniuses questions. If the show’s experts cannot answer the question, the listener gets a sum of money. Grannie Annie is there to serve as the guest star. The show goes off without a hitch. The only remarkable thing that Billy notices is that the audience appears to be mesmerized by Dr. Universe. Grannie Annie tells Billy that while she was writing a sequel to her latest novel, she met Ezra Karn, and he told her about the Green Flames. The Green Flame is a radioactive rock originally found on Mercury, and the rock’s Gamma Rays have the power to make people and creatures have a strong desire for a leader. Grannie Annie included these fantastical ideas in her recent novel, but her manuscript was stolen. Now, she’s concerned that the rocks and rays will be used by an authoritarian leader. In the middle of their conversation, Grannie Annie and Billy are attacked by someone with a heat ray. The pair leaves Swamp City, followed by the enemy. They travel and find Ezra Karn in his home. Karn takes his friends to the spaceship where the Green Flames are stored. The precious resource is behind impenetrable glass, and it’s clear that whoever controls it made sure it was safe. Karn is an avid Doctor Universe fan, and he off-handedly tells Grannie Annie and Billy that they ought to make the man the king. Grannie Annie realizes that Doctor Universe is in fact the person hoarding the Green Flames, and he’s using his quiz show to control the minds of the masses so that he can take over as dictator. Without warning, Billy and his friends feel an invisible force pushing them and holding down their bodies. They recognize force as the Varsoom, and the only way to stop it is to make them laugh. Grannie Annie builds a machine that allows the group to interrupt Doctor Universe’s broadcast. When Doctor Universe comes on the radio again, Grannie Annie reads one of her science fiction books to the invisible creatures. The plan works, and the Varsoom laugh wildly, which ruins the Doctor’s plans to take over the universe. Grannie Annie says it won’t deter her from writing her novels, and she invites Billy to come along for the research portion of her next project.

<s>Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram. Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'. For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet. Say that again! she cried. The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and.... That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this is Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see? I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on. What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration.... But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...? Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty. I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream. And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another. There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly. An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment. It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh! He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes. Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more. Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again. Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled. <doc-sep>A tall man, clad in a claw-hammer coat, came out from the wings andadvanced to the footlights. People of Swamp City, he said, bowing, permit me to introducemyself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts. There was a roar of applause from the Satellite audience. When it hadsubsided, the man continued: As most of you are familiar with our program, it will be unnecessaryto give any advance explanation. I will only say that on this stage arenine visi sets, each tuned to one of the nine planets. At transmittingsets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions.These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For everyquestion missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand planetoles . One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will matchher wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer ofscience fiction, Annabella C. Flowers. From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her placeon the dais. The Doctor's program began. The operator of the Earth visi twisted hisdials and nodded. Blue light flickered on the pantascope panel tocoalesce slowly into the face of a red-haired man. Sharp and dear hisvoice echoed through the theater: Who was the first Earthman to titter the sunward side of Mercury? Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised herhand. She said quietly: Charles Zanner in the year 2012. In a specially constructedtracto-car. And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed inthe visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutoniancafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offeringbantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed,or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name ofthe winner. It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie hadbrought me here. And then I began to notice things. The audience in the Satellite seemed to have lost much of itsoriginal fervor. They applauded as before but they did so only at thesignal of Doctor Universe. The spell created by the man was complete. Pompous and erect, he strode back and forth across the stage like ageneral surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lipswere turned in a smile of satisfaction. When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-movingcrowd. It was outside under the street marquee that a strange incidentoccurred. A yellow-faced Kagor from the upper Martian desert country shuffled by,dragging his cumbersome third leg behind him. Kagors, of course, had anunpleasant history of persecution since the early colonization days ofthe Red Planet. But the thing that happened there was a throw back toan earlier era. Someone shouted, Yah, yellow-face! Down with all Kagors! As oneman the crowd took up the cry and surged forward. The helpless Kagorwas seized and flung to the pavement. A knife appeared from nowhere,snipped the Martian's single lock of hair. A booted foot bludgeonedinto his mouth. Moments later an official hydrocar roared up and a dozen I.P. menrushed out and scattered the crowd. But a few stragglers lingered toshout derisive epithets. Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my armand led me around a corner and through a doorway under a sign that readTHE JET. Inside was a deep room with booths along one wall. The placewas all but deserted. In a booth well toward the rear the old lady surveyed me with sobereyes. Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted? I nodded. As disgraceful an exhibition as I've ever seen. The I.P. menought to clamp down. The I.P. men aren't strong enough. She said it quietly, but there was a glitter in her eyes and a harshline about her usually smiling lips. What do you mean? <doc-sep> Doctor Universe By CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, who wrote science fiction under the nom de plume of Annabella C. Flowers, had stumbled onto a murderous plot more hair-raising than any she had ever concocted. And the danger from the villain of the piece didn't worry her—I was the guy he was shooting at. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I was killing an hour in the billiard room of the Spacemen's Club in Swamp City when the Venusian bellboy came and tapped me on theshoulder. Beg pardon, thir, he said with his racial lisp, thereth thome one tothee you in the main lounge. His eyes rolled as he added, A lady! A woman here...! The Spacemen's was a sanctuary, a rest club wherein-coming pilots and crewmen could relax before leaving for anothervoyage. The rule that no females could pass its portals was strictlyenforced. I followed the bellhop down the long corridor that led to the mainlounge. At the threshold I jerked to a halt and stared incredulously. Grannie Annie! There she stood before a frantically gesticulating desk clerk, leaningon her faded green umbrella. A little wisp of a woman clad in avoluminous black dress with one of those doily-like caps on her head,tied by a ribbon under her chin. Her high-topped button shoes wereplanted firmly on the varpla carpet and her wrinkled face was set incalm defiance. I barged across the lounge and seized her hand. Grannie Annie! Ihaven't seen you in two years. Hi, Billy-boy, she greeted calmly. Will you please tell thisfish-face to shut up. The desk clerk went white. Mithter Trenwith, if thith lady ith afriend of yourth, you'll have to take her away. It'th abtholutelyagainth the ruleth.... Okay, okay, I grinned. Look, we'll go into the grille. There's noone there at this hour. In the grille an equally astonished waiter served us—me a lime rickeyand Grannie Annie her usual whisky sour—I waited until she had tossedthe drink off at a gulp before I set off a chain of questions: What the devil are you doing on Venus? Don't you know women aren'tallowed in the Spacemen's ? What happened to the book you werewriting? Hold it, Billy-boy. Laughingly she threw up both hands. Sure, I knewthis place had some antiquated laws. Pure fiddle-faddle, that's whatthey are. Anyway, I've been thrown out of better places. She hadn't changed. To her publishers and her readers she might beAnnabella C. Flowers, author of a long list of science fiction novels.But to me she was still Grannie Annie, as old-fashioned as last year'shat, as modern as an atomic motor. She had probably written more drivelin the name of science fiction than anyone alive. But the public loved it. They ate up her stories, and they clamored formore. Her annual income totaled into six figures, and her publisherssat back and massaged their digits, watching their earnings mount. One thing you had to admit about her books. They may have been dimenovels, but they weren't synthetic. If Annabella C. Flowers wrote anovel, and the locale was the desert of Mars, she packed her carpet bagand hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between twoexpeditions on Callisto, she went to Callisto. She was the most completely delightful crackpot I had ever known. What happened to Guns for Ganymede ? I asked. That was the title ofyour last, wasn't it? <doc-sep></s>

Grannie Annie is a small elderly woman who wears a bonnet and dresses in black. She smokes tobacco and her choice of beverage is whiskey. She is a very well-known science fiction writer, and her work is highly sought after by publishers. Her pen name is Annabella C. Flowers. Her writing includes some repetition. Each novel includes a beautiful woman for the protagonist to fall in love with. Still, Grannie Annie always does her research. If she’s writing about a colony on Venus, she spends weeks there to truly get to know the place before she portrays the setting in her book. Grannie Annie is bold and intelligent. Although she does not first suspect that Doctor Universe is the wannabe dictator, as soon as Karn mentions that he thinks the Doctor should be king, everything clicks, and Annie recognizes him as the villain. She is a quick thinker and a tinkerer as well. She is able to build a contraption that interrupts Doctor Universe’s broadcast in very little time. When the Varsoom laugh at her novel, she gets angry. She clearly takes pride in her work and doesn’t like feeling like a laughingstock. Annie is not a quitter. When Billy asks her if she will continue writing, she already has the idea for her next piece ready to go.

<s>Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram. Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'. For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet. Say that again! she cried. The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and.... That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this is Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see? I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on. What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration.... But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...? Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty. I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream. And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another. There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly. An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment. It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh! He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes. Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more. Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again. Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled. <doc-sep>Inside the freighter's narrow corridor Grannie faced me with eyesfilled with excitement. Billy-boy, she said, we've got two problems now. We've got to stopDoctor Universe, and we've got to find a way of getting out of here.Right now we're nicely bottled up. As if in answer to her words the visi set revealed the face of the quizmaster on the screen. He was saying: Remember tomorrow at this same hour I will have a message ofunparalleled importance for the people of the nine planets. Tomorrownight I urge you, I command you, to tune in. With a whistling intake of breath the old woman turned to one of theVenusians. Bring all our equipment in here, she ordered. Hurry! She untied the ribbon under her chin and took off her cap. She rolledup her sleeves, and as the Venusians came marching into the space shipwith bundles of equipment, she fell to work. Silently Ezra Karn and I watched her. First she completely dismantledthe visi set, put it together again with an entirely altered hookup.Next she unrolled a coil of flexible copper mesh which we had broughtalong as a protective electrical screening against the marsh insects.She fastened rubberite suction cups to this mesh at intervals of everytwelve inches or more, carried it down to the freighter's hold andfastened it securely against the stepto glass wall. Trailing a three-ply conduit up from the hold to the corridor sheselected an induction coil, several Micro-Wellman tubes and a quantityof wire from a box of spare parts. Dexterously her fingers moved in andout, fashioning a complicated and curious piece of apparatus. At length she finished. It's pretty hay-wire, she said, but I think it will work. Now I'lltell you what I'm going to do. When Doctor Universe broadcasts tomorrownight, he's going to announce that he has set himself up as supremedictator. He'll have the Green Flame radiations coming from this shipunder full power. I'm going to insert into his broadcast—the laughingof the Varsoom! You're going to what? Broadcast the mass laughter from those invisible creatures out there.Visualize it, Billy-boy! At the dramatic moment when Doctor Universemakes his plea for System-wide power, he will be accompanied by wildpeals of laughter. The whole broadcast will be turned into a burlesque. How you going to make 'em laugh? interrupted Karn. We must think of a way, Grannie replied soberly. I, for one, am glad that no representative of the InterstellarPsychiatry Society witnessed our antics during the early hours of thatmorning and on into the long reaches of the afternoon, as we vainlytried to provoke the laughter of the Varsoom. All to no avail. Uttersilence greeted our efforts. And the time was growing close to thescheduled Doctor Universe program. Ezra Karn wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. Maybe we've gotto attract their attention first, he suggested. Miss Flowers, whydon't you go up on the roof and read to 'em? Read 'em something fromone of your books, if you've got one along. That ought to make 'em situp and take notice. For a moment the old woman gazed at him in silence. Then she got to herfeet quickly. I'll do it, she said. I'll read them the attack scene from MurderOn A Space Liner . <doc-sep>For a moment the old lady sat there in silence; then she leaned back,closed her eyes, and I knew there was a story coming. My last book, Death In The Atom , hit the stands last January,she began. When it was finished I had planned to take a six months'vacation, but those fool publishers of mine insisted I do a sequel.Well, I'd used Mars and Pluto and Ganymede as settings for novels, sofor this one I decided on Venus. I went to Venus City, and I spent sixweeks in-country. I got some swell background material, and I met EzraKarn.... Who? I interrupted. An old prospector who lives out in the deep marsh on the outskirts ofVarsoom country. To make a long story short, I got him talking abouthis adventures, and he told me plenty. The old woman paused. Did you ever hear of the Green Flames? sheasked abruptly. I shook my head. Some new kind of ... It's not a new kind of anything. The Green Flame is a radio-activerock once found on Mercury. The Alpha rays of this rock are similarto radium in that they consist of streams of material particlesprojected at high speed. But the character of the Gamma rays hasnever been completely analyzed. Like those set up by radium, they areelectromagnetic pulsations, but they are also a strange combination of Beta or cathode rays with negatively charged electrons. When any form of life is exposed to these Gamma rays from the GreenFlame rock, they produce in the creature's brain a certain lassitudeand lack of energy. As the period of exposure increases, this conditiondevelops into a sense of impotence and a desire for leadership orguidance. Occasionally, as with the weak-willed, there is a spirit ofintolerance. The Green Flames might be said to be an inorganic opiate,a thousand times more subtle and more powerful than any known drug. I was sitting up now, hanging on to the woman's every word. Now in 2710, as you'd know if you studied your history, the threeplanets of Earth, Venus, and Mars were under governmental bondage. Thecruel dictatorship of Vennox I was short-lived, but it lasted longenough to endanger all civilized life. The archives tell us that one of the first acts of the overthrowinggovernment was to cast out all Green Flames, two of which Vennox hadordered must be kept in each household. The effect on the people wasimmediate. Representative government, individual enterprise, freedomfollowed. Grannie Annie lit a cigarette and flipped the match to the floor. To go back to my first trip to Venus. As I said, I met Ezra Karn, anold prospector there in the marsh. Karn told me that on one of histravels into the Varsoom district he had come upon the wreckage ofan old space ship. The hold of that space ship was packed with GreenFlames! If Grannie expected me to show surprise at that, she was disappointed.I said, So what? So everything, Billy-boy. Do you realize what such a thing would meanif it were true? Green Flames were supposedly destroyed on all planetsafter the Vennox regime crashed. If a quantity of the rock were inexistence, and it fell into the wrong hands, there'd be trouble. Of course, I regarded Karn's story as a wild dream, but it madecorking good story material. I wrote it into a novel, and a week afterit was completed, the manuscript was stolen from my study back onEarth. I see, I said as she lapsed into silence. And now you've come to theconclusion that the details of your story were true and that someone isattempting to put your plot into action. Grannie nodded. Yes, she said. That's exactly what I think. I got my pipe out of my pocket, tamped Martian tobacco into the bowland laughed heartily. The same old Flowers, I said. Tell me, who'syour thief ... Doctor Universe? She regarded me evenly. What makes you say that? I shrugged. The way the theater crowd acted. It all ties in. The old woman shook her head. No, this is a lot bigger than a simplequiz program. The theater crowd was but a cross-section of what ishappening all over the System. There have been riots on Earth and Mars,police officials murdered on Pluto and a demand that government byrepresentation be abolished on Jupiter. The time is ripe for a militarydictator to step in. And you can lay it all to the Green Flames. It seems incredible that asingle shipload of the ore could effect such a wide ranged area, but inmy opinion someone has found a means of making that quantity a thousandtimes more potent and is transmiting it en masse . If it had been anyone but Grannie Annie there before me, I wouldhave called her a fool. And then all at once I got an odd feeling ofapproaching danger. Let's get out of here, I said, getting up. Zinnng-whack! All right! On the mirror behind the bar a small circle with radiating cracksappeared. On the booth wall a scant inch above Grannie's head thefresco seemed to melt away suddenly. A heat ray! Grannie Annie leaped to her feet, grasped my arm and raced for thedoor. Outside a driverless hydrocar stood with idling motors. The oldwoman threw herself into the control seat, yanked me in after her andthrew over the starting stud. An instant later we were plunging through the dark night. <doc-sep></s>

The Green Flames are highly important to the narrative because without them, Doctor Universe would not be able to try and take over the universe. The Green Flames originally come from planet Mercury. When earthlings or other creatures come in contract with the rock’s Gamma rays, their brains instantly desire control from leadership. The element’s power is immense but also subtle. The Green Flames have already been used to institute a dictatorship, as with the cautionary tail of Vennox. Vennox forced each creature to keep two of the rocks in each house, and he used their powers to make them servile. When the government was overthrown, the Green Flames were destroyed. Ezra Karn finds the Green Flames hidden away in a spaceship in the Varsoom district of Venus. Doctor Universe has secured the resource and its power when he broadcasts his weekly quiz show, “Doctor Universe and His Nine Geniuses.” The show is a hit on multiple planets, and the quiz master urges his followers to tune in to each broadcast. The Green Flames lead listeners to believe that he is a supreme being and deserves to be in a position of power.

<s>Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram. Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'. For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet. Say that again! she cried. The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and.... That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this is Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see? I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on. What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration.... But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...? Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty. I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream. And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another. There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly. An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment. It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh! He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes. Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more. Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again. Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled. <doc-sep>A tall man, clad in a claw-hammer coat, came out from the wings andadvanced to the footlights. People of Swamp City, he said, bowing, permit me to introducemyself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts. There was a roar of applause from the Satellite audience. When it hadsubsided, the man continued: As most of you are familiar with our program, it will be unnecessaryto give any advance explanation. I will only say that on this stage arenine visi sets, each tuned to one of the nine planets. At transmittingsets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions.These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For everyquestion missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand planetoles . One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will matchher wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer ofscience fiction, Annabella C. Flowers. From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her placeon the dais. The Doctor's program began. The operator of the Earth visi twisted hisdials and nodded. Blue light flickered on the pantascope panel tocoalesce slowly into the face of a red-haired man. Sharp and dear hisvoice echoed through the theater: Who was the first Earthman to titter the sunward side of Mercury? Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised herhand. She said quietly: Charles Zanner in the year 2012. In a specially constructedtracto-car. And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed inthe visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutoniancafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offeringbantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed,or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name ofthe winner. It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie hadbrought me here. And then I began to notice things. The audience in the Satellite seemed to have lost much of itsoriginal fervor. They applauded as before but they did so only at thesignal of Doctor Universe. The spell created by the man was complete. Pompous and erect, he strode back and forth across the stage like ageneral surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lipswere turned in a smile of satisfaction. When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-movingcrowd. It was outside under the street marquee that a strange incidentoccurred. A yellow-faced Kagor from the upper Martian desert country shuffled by,dragging his cumbersome third leg behind him. Kagors, of course, had anunpleasant history of persecution since the early colonization days ofthe Red Planet. But the thing that happened there was a throw back toan earlier era. Someone shouted, Yah, yellow-face! Down with all Kagors! As oneman the crowd took up the cry and surged forward. The helpless Kagorwas seized and flung to the pavement. A knife appeared from nowhere,snipped the Martian's single lock of hair. A booted foot bludgeonedinto his mouth. Moments later an official hydrocar roared up and a dozen I.P. menrushed out and scattered the crowd. But a few stragglers lingered toshout derisive epithets. Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my armand led me around a corner and through a doorway under a sign that readTHE JET. Inside was a deep room with booths along one wall. The placewas all but deserted. In a booth well toward the rear the old lady surveyed me with sobereyes. Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted? I nodded. As disgraceful an exhibition as I've ever seen. The I.P. menought to clamp down. The I.P. men aren't strong enough. She said it quietly, but there was a glitter in her eyes and a harshline about her usually smiling lips. What do you mean? <doc-sep>Grannie spilled a few shreds of Martian tobacco onto a paper and deftlyrolled herself a cigarette. It wasn't Guns , it was Pistols ; and it wasn't Ganymede , it was Pluto . I grinned. All complete, I'll bet, with threats against the universeand beautiful Earth heroines dragged in by the hair. What else is there in science fiction? she demanded. You can't haveyour hero fall in love with a bug-eyed monster. Up on the wall a clock chimed the hour. The old woman jerked to herfeet. I almost forgot, Billy-boy. I'm due at the Satellite Theater in tenminutes. Come on, you're going with me. Before I realized it, I was following her through the lounge and out tothe jetty front. Grannie Annie hailed a hydrocar. Five minutes later wedrew up before the big doors of the Satellite . They don't go in for style in Swamp City. A theater to the grizzledcolonials on this side of the planet meant a shack on stilts over themuck, zilcon wood seats and dingy atobide lamps. But the place waspacked with miners, freight-crew-men—all the tide and wash of humanitythat made Swamp City the frontier post it is. In front was a big sign. It read: ONE NIGHT ONLY DOCTOR UNIVERSE AND HIS NINE GENIUSES THE QUESTION PROGRAM OF THE SYSTEM As we strode down the aisle a mangy-looking Venusian began to pound atinpan piano in the pit. Grannie Annie pushed me into a seat in thefront row. Sit here, she said. I'm sorry about all this rush, but I'm one ofthe players in this shindig. As soon as the show is over, we'll gosomewhere and talk. She minced lightly down the aisle, climbed thestage steps and disappeared in the wings. That damned fossilized dynamo, I muttered. She'll be the death of meyet. The piano struck a chord in G, and the curtain went rattling up. On thestage four Earthmen, two Martians, two Venusians, and one Mercuriansat on an upraised dais. That is to say, eight of them sat. TheMercurian, a huge lump of granite-like flesh, sprawled there, palpablyuncomfortable. On the right were nine visi sets, each with its newimproved pantascope panel and switchboard. Before each set stood anEarthman operator. <doc-sep></s>

When Grannie Annie shows up at the men’s club to see Billy, the two friends have not seen each other in two years. It is immediately clear that Grannie Annie runs the show in their relationship, in part because Billy is willing to risk his reputation at the men’s club in order to make his elderly friends happy. Within minutes, Billy is whisked away to the theater to watch Annie guest star on Doctor Universe’s show, even though she does not explain the plan to him and he has little interest in being an audience member.Although the rest of the world knows Grannie Annie as Annabella C. Flowers, the name she uses to publish her science fiction novels, Billy would never address her so formally. There is an obvious feeling of trust between the two characters. When Grannie Annie gets her novel stolen and worries that there’s a dictator about to take over the universe, she finds Billy to help her solve the case. Similarly, when Grannie Annie spills her guts about her far-fetched theory about her novel inspiring an evil villain to use the Green Flames to control millions of beings, Billy believes her right off the bat. The pair get along very well, and it’s clear that’s the case when Grannie Annie asks Billy to accompany her on her next trip to research her upcoming novel. Billy simply can’t say no to his friend, whom he deeply admires.

<s>Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram. Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'. For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet. Say that again! she cried. The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and.... That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this is Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see? I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on. What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration.... But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...? Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty. I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream. And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another. There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly. An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment. It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh! He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes. Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more. Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again. Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled. <doc-sep>Inside the freighter's narrow corridor Grannie faced me with eyesfilled with excitement. Billy-boy, she said, we've got two problems now. We've got to stopDoctor Universe, and we've got to find a way of getting out of here.Right now we're nicely bottled up. As if in answer to her words the visi set revealed the face of the quizmaster on the screen. He was saying: Remember tomorrow at this same hour I will have a message ofunparalleled importance for the people of the nine planets. Tomorrownight I urge you, I command you, to tune in. With a whistling intake of breath the old woman turned to one of theVenusians. Bring all our equipment in here, she ordered. Hurry! She untied the ribbon under her chin and took off her cap. She rolledup her sleeves, and as the Venusians came marching into the space shipwith bundles of equipment, she fell to work. Silently Ezra Karn and I watched her. First she completely dismantledthe visi set, put it together again with an entirely altered hookup.Next she unrolled a coil of flexible copper mesh which we had broughtalong as a protective electrical screening against the marsh insects.She fastened rubberite suction cups to this mesh at intervals of everytwelve inches or more, carried it down to the freighter's hold andfastened it securely against the stepto glass wall. Trailing a three-ply conduit up from the hold to the corridor sheselected an induction coil, several Micro-Wellman tubes and a quantityof wire from a box of spare parts. Dexterously her fingers moved in andout, fashioning a complicated and curious piece of apparatus. At length she finished. It's pretty hay-wire, she said, but I think it will work. Now I'lltell you what I'm going to do. When Doctor Universe broadcasts tomorrownight, he's going to announce that he has set himself up as supremedictator. He'll have the Green Flame radiations coming from this shipunder full power. I'm going to insert into his broadcast—the laughingof the Varsoom! You're going to what? Broadcast the mass laughter from those invisible creatures out there.Visualize it, Billy-boy! At the dramatic moment when Doctor Universemakes his plea for System-wide power, he will be accompanied by wildpeals of laughter. The whole broadcast will be turned into a burlesque. How you going to make 'em laugh? interrupted Karn. We must think of a way, Grannie replied soberly. I, for one, am glad that no representative of the InterstellarPsychiatry Society witnessed our antics during the early hours of thatmorning and on into the long reaches of the afternoon, as we vainlytried to provoke the laughter of the Varsoom. All to no avail. Uttersilence greeted our efforts. And the time was growing close to thescheduled Doctor Universe program. Ezra Karn wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. Maybe we've gotto attract their attention first, he suggested. Miss Flowers, whydon't you go up on the roof and read to 'em? Read 'em something fromone of your books, if you've got one along. That ought to make 'em situp and take notice. For a moment the old woman gazed at him in silence. Then she got to herfeet quickly. I'll do it, she said. I'll read them the attack scene from MurderOn A Space Liner . <doc-sep>It didn't make sense, of course. But nothing made sense in this madventure. Grannie Annie opened her duffel bag and drew out a copy ofher most popular book. With the volume under her arm, she mounted theladder to the top of the envelope. Ezra Karn rigged up a radite searchlamp, and a moment later the old woman stood in the center of a circleof white radiance. Karn gripped my arm. This is it, he said tensely. If this fails ... His voice clipped off as Grannie began to read. She read slowlyat first, then intoned the words and sentences faster and moredramatically. And out in the swamp a vast hush fell as if unseen ears were listening. ... the space liner was over on her beam ends now as another shotfrom the raider's vessel crashed into the stern hold. In the controlcabin Cuthbert Strong twisted vainly at his bonds as he sought to freehimself. Opposite him, lashed by strong Martian vinta ropes to thegravascope, Louise Belmont sobbed softly, wringing her hands in muteappeal. A restless rustling sounded out in the marsh, as if hundreds of bodieswere surging closer. Karn nodded in awe. She's got 'em! he whispered. Listen. They're eatin' up every word. I heard it then, and I thought I must be dreaming. From somewhere outin the swamp a sound rose into the thick air. A high-pitched chuckle,it was. The chuckle came again. Now it was followed by another andanother. An instant later a wave of low subdued laughter rose into theair. Ezra Karn gulped. Gripes! he said. They're laughing already. They're laughing at her book! And look, the old lady's gettin' sore. Up on the roof of the envelope Grannie Annie halted her reading toglare savagely out into the darkness. The laughter was a roar now. It rose louder and louder, peal after pealof mirthful yells and hysterical shouts. And for the first time in mylife, I saw Annabella C. Flowers mad. She stamped her foot; she shookher fist at the unseen hordes out before her. Ignorant slap-happy fools! she screamed. You don't know good sciencefiction when you hear it. I turned to Karn and said quietly, Turn on the visi set. DoctorUniverse should be broadcasting now. Tune your microphone to pull inas much of that laughter as you can. <doc-sep></s>

Grannie Annie first meets Ezra Karn when she goes to Venus City to research the setting for her novel. Ezra Karn is a prospector who lives in a deep marsh in Varsoom country. Grannie Annie learns that the Green Flames were not all destroyed after the last dictatorship when he tells her that he stumbled upon the resource in an abandoned spaceship. Grannie Annie and Billy find Karn at his hut in the marsh. They ask Karn to take them to the Green Flames, and after some hesitation, he agrees. He knows that the only way to defeat the Varsoom is to make them laugh, but he does not know what exactly they think is funny. He is a huge fan of Doctor Universe, and he never misses a show. Ezra Karn successfully takes Grannie Annie and Billy to the spaceship he previously found. Within moments of laying eyes on it, Karl yells out in pain. He rolls around on the ground, trying to stand but failing. He informs his companions that the force he is dealing with is the Varsoom, and the only way to end the madness is to make them laugh. When it’s time to interrupt Doctor Universe’s broadcast to stop him from taking over the universe, it is Karn’s idea to have Grannie Annie read her book to the Varsoom. He does not realize that they will find it funny, but he does think it’s a good way to get the invisible creatures’ attention. He essentially saves everyone, since Grannie Annie’s book makes the Varsoom laugh and laugh and make it impossible for Doctor Universe to control the minds of the masses.

<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> IMAGE OF SPLENDOR By LU KELLA From Venus to Earth, and all the way between, it was a hell of a world for men ... and Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four! On my way, sir! At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone. Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly? Fusion control two points low, sir. O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off? If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir? So a control reset itself in flight, hey? I don't know yet, sir. Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth! The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud. Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four. Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way. She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am! I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>

O’Rielly is an apprentice maintaining Burner Four during his first flight on a spaceship traveling between Venus and Earth. The story begins when his supervisor, Burner Chief Callahan, alerts O’Rielly that one of the controls on his burner has slipped, so he sets about resetting the controls to prevent the ship from crashing when it starts its descent toward Earth. He searches his watch room and around the burner looking for a mouse or anyone who might have moved the control. He thinks about Captain Millicent Hatwoody, the ship’s commander nicknamed “Old Woman”, and worries she will exile him to a distant moon if she discovers the issue. During his search, he discovers a stowaway Venusian woman named Trillium on his bunk bed, and she tells him she had moved the control in order to escape the burner room where she was hiding. O’Rielly is struck by her beauty and allows her to shower in his bathroom. While she is showering, Callahan to interrogate O’Rielly and instructs him to take a shower because Captain Hatwoody is bringing a guest to tour the facilities. He reminds O’Rielly of the history of the Earth women’s supremacy over men, which began as a response to the Earth men’s infatuation with Venusian women. When they established dominance, the Earth women returned the Venusian women to their planet. Consequently, the Venusian men warned of war if any Earth men attempted to contact Venusian women. For their part, Venusian women would be killed if they tried to leave. To soften the threat, Venus agreed to let Earth purchase products at a lower cost. O’Rielly reminds Callahan that no Earth man has seen a Venusian woman in 125 years, and Callahan tells the story—an Earth man disguised himself as a Venusian in order to visit his love, a Venusian woman named Berta. When Trillium returns, she reveals that she is Berta’s granddaughter. She hides again before Captain Hatwoody arrives. The captain and her guest, a Venusian ambassador named Dimdooly, investigate the burner, and their interactions reveal conflicting attitudes towards gender superiority on Earth versus Venus. As they leave, Trillium reveals herself, and Dimdooly recognizes her as the Venusian president’s granddaughter. Captain Hatwoody then calls the presidents of both planets, who begin to blame each other and threaten war. Trillium explains that it was Berta, the president’s wife, who taught her how to stowaway, as she had done so herself 125 years prior. She reveals her purpose for stowing away was to draw attention to her revolutionary vision—to convince Earth to stop purchasing products from Venus, thus stopping their cash flow to fund wars. She explains the wars distract Venusian men, and that is why the women are attracted to Earth men. While the president balks, his wife orders him to step aside as she has been elected new President of Venus, and the Venusian women are taking over. Trillium is rewarded with Dimdooly’s ambassadorship, and Callahan and O’Rielly are sent back to work.

<s> IMAGE OF SPLENDOR By LU KELLA From Venus to Earth, and all the way between, it was a hell of a world for men ... and Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four! On my way, sir! At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone. Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly? Fusion control two points low, sir. O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off? If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir? So a control reset itself in flight, hey? I don't know yet, sir. Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth! The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud. Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four. Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way. She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am! I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control. <doc-sep>The alien was a pathetic sight: a Stortulian, a squirrely-lookingcreature about three feet high. His fur, which should have been alustrous black, was a dull gray, and his eyes were wet and sad. Histail drooped. His voice was little more than a faint whimper, even atfull volume. Begging your most honored pardon most humbly, important sir. I am abeing of Stortul XII, having sold my last few possessions to travelto Ghryne for the miserable purpose of obtaining an interview withyourself. I said, I'd better tell you right at the outset that we're alreadycarrying our full complement of Stortulians. We have both a male and afemale now and— This is known to me. The female—is her name perchance Tiress? I glanced down at the inventory chart until I found the Stortulianentry. Yes, that's her name. The little being immediately emitted a soul-shaking gasp. It is she!It is she! I'm afraid we don't have room for any more— You are not in full understanding of my plight. The female Tiress,she is—was—my own Fire-sent spouse, my comfort and my warmth, my lifeand my love. Funny, I said. When we signed her three years ago, she said she wassingle. It's right here on the chart. She lied! She left my burrow because she longed to see the splendorsof Earth. And I am alone, bound by our sacred customs never to remarry,languishing in sadness and pining for her return. You must take me toEarth! But— I must see her—her and this disgrace-bringing lover of hers. I mustreason with her. Earthman, can't you see I must appeal to her innerflame? I must bring her back! My face was expressionless. You don't really intend to join ourorganization at all—you just want free passage to Earth? Yes, yes! wailed the Stortulian. Find some other member of my race,if you must! Let me have my wife again, Earthman! Is your heart a deadlump of stone? <doc-sep>Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images. The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings? Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied. Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park. Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank. Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again. Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs. That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever? On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady. Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks. Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds. Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping. The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window. Look here, he said. Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work. All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men. I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator: Turn it on! The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice. <doc-sep></s>

The story takes place on a spaceship that shuttles between Earth and Venus. The ship is commanded by Captain Hatwoody, a stern woman who represents the matriarchy that has taken over Earth. The majority of the story’s narrative happens in Apprentice Burnerman O’Rielly’s watch room. This is a simple room equipped with a bunk bed and bathing facilities, which includes a shower. From this room, he is able to maintain careful stewardship of Burner Four, which helps power the ship. When Callahan notifies O’Rielly that one of his controls has slipped, O’Rielly investigates the burner to find the culprit of the situation. After he discovers Trillium, she uses his bathing facilities to wash herself of the stink from the burner room where she was stowing away. After Callahan enters the watch room and learns of Trillium’s presence, he encourages her to hide again because of Captain Hatwoody’s impending visit. She hides beneath O’Rielly’s bunk. After Captain Hatwoody and her guest, Ambassador Dimdooly, stumble upon Trillium, the captain demands that they all follow her to her office. In her office, she convenes a conference with the presidents of Earth and Venus. After Berta—Trillium’s grandmother, the wife of the current Venusian president, and Callahan’s former love interest—reveals herself as the new ruler of Venus, O’Rielly and Callahan are given a five-minute break and sent back to their former duties managing the burners below.

<s>Venus boys rared up and served notice that if Earth ever got any funnynotions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in anatom's eyebrow. Touchy as hornets on a hot griddle, them Venus guys.Crazier than bed bugs about war. Could smell a loose dollar a millionlight years away too. Finagled around until they finally cooked up adeal. No Venus dames allowed within fifty miles of their port. Earth guysstay inside the high-voltage fence. Any dame caught trying to leaveVenus thrown to the tigers for supper. Same for any Earth guy caughtaround a Venus dame. In return, Earth could buy practically everythingat bargain basement prices. Oh, I was shown the history films in pre-flight, O'Rielly said, stilldreamily. But not a peek of any Venus dame. Pray heaven you'll never lay eyes on one nor have one get within tenfoot of you! Even though you'd know she'd be your damnation wouldn'tmake a whit difference—you'd still act sappier than thirty-sevenangels flying on vino. Callahan suddenly stared at O'Rielly. Holyhollering saints! Now, now, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded with an airylaugh. No Earth guy for a hundred twenty-five years been near one andlived to tell it, has he? So the whispers run, Callahan murmured with a queer flame dancinginto his eyes. So the old whispers still run. Never a name, though. Never how it was done. O'Rielly snorted.Probably just a goofy tale set loose by some old space bum. Oh? Callahan bristled up like a bad name had been bandied about.Seen them ditty bags Venus bigwigs have, ain't you? Some big enough tostuff a cow in. Notice how nobody ever dares question a bigwig's bags,even through customs? Just run 'em through the big Geiger that tellswhether there's any fusionable junk inside. Well, our boy got himselfone of them bags, stuffed himself inside and joined a bigwig's pile of'em. Didn't pull it whilst on the Venus port during a layover either, whena crew check would of turned him up missing. Pulled it on vacation.Started on the Earth end. Made himself a pair of beards to paste on hisears of course. Wove Jupiter wiggle worms in to keep the beards moving.Wasn't like the real thing, but good enough to flimflam Venus guys. With suddenly enlivened interest O'Rielly looked at Callahan. Hey, howcome you know so much? Hah? What? Callahan blinked like waking from a trance; even groanedto himself, something that sounded like, Blabbering like I'd hada nip myself—or one of them dillies was radiating nearby. ThenCallahan glared fit to drill holes in O'Rielly's head. Look! I wasa full Burnerman before you was born. Been flying the spaces hundredtwenty-five years now. Had more chances to hear more—just hear more,you hear! Only tried to clear your mind about Venus dames so you couldput your brain on your control mess. So now put it! If you ain't highon vino and ain't been made nuts by a Venus dame, what answer do wefeed the Old Woman? Search me, Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly responded cheerfully. Of all the loony apprentices I ever had to answer the Old Woman for!Awp, lemme out where I can think of something to save me own neck atleast! Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from rolling on the deck with glee.Old Callahan had been flimflammed for fair! The dear little stowawaywas saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save herlovely neck and his own forever. O'Rielly's shower door, however, opened abruptly. O'Rielly had notopened it. O'Rielly, however, suffered a cruel stab of dismay. Surelyhis dear stowaway had been listening through the door. Why didn't shehave brains enough to stay hid until Callahan was gone! At sight of her, of course, Callahan's eyes near popped from his oldhead. Berta! Oh, I'm Trillium, she assured Callahan sweetly. But Grandmamma'sname is Berta and people say I'm just like she was a hundred andtwenty-five years ago. <doc-sep>Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience. Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power. Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility. Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history. Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory! Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience. Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials. The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta? I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew. Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest. The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations. Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose. What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary. You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go? Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess. O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma? Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all. I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.' Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not. But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever. Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears. So what? Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em! <doc-sep> IMAGE OF SPLENDOR By LU KELLA From Venus to Earth, and all the way between, it was a hell of a world for men ... and Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four! On my way, sir! At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone. Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly? Fusion control two points low, sir. O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off? If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir? So a control reset itself in flight, hey? I don't know yet, sir. Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth! The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud. Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four. Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way. She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am! I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control. <doc-sep></s>

Callahan is Burner Chief on the ship and has been flying as a professional Burnerman for 125 years. Berta is the first lady of Venus, and the grandmother of Trillium. When O’Rielly is trying to hide Trillium in his shower, Callahan tells the story of when women first took control of Earth: They were not pleased that Earth men were so entranced by Venusian women, and so they took over leadership of the planet and sent all Venusian women back to their own planet. Likewise, Venusian men banned Earth men from interacting with Venusian women under threat of war. This led to an agreement where Earth and Venus could conduct trade together for cheaper prices. Callahan suggests that he was the last man to touch a Venusian woman, and he did so by hiding himself inside a large bag and sneaking through customs disguised as a Venusian man with a long, fake beard. The woman he was sneaking in to see turned out to be Berta, and Callahan says she ultimately rejected him because she could tell his beard was fake, and Venusian women loved to be tickled by real beards.

<s>Seeming to grind her teeth, the Old O Woman turned abruptly to leaveO'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from bustingout laughing for joy. Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! Andbetwixt O'Rielly's grand brain and Callahan's great experience she'd behappy forever. A fine loud thump, however, was now heard. Old Woman whirled back andyanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk. Of all the sappy hiding places! Callahan yelped, in surprise ofcourse. Trillium? His Excellency bellowed as if stung by one of thesabre-tailed hornets of his native planet. Trillium! Trillium, O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, why do you have tokeep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you? Her eyes merely became deep pools in which O'Rielly would have gladlydrowned himself if he could. There are rewards, the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness ofouter space, for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and forher leaving her planet. Shut up! His Excellency's ear beards were standing straight outsideways. I'll handle this! May I remind His Excellency, the Old Woman snapped, that I representEarth and her dominion of space gained by right of original flight! May I remind the Captain, His Excellency declared fit to be heardback to his planet, that I am the Personal Ambassador of the Presidentof Venus and this thing can mean war! Yes! War in which people will actually die! As His Excellency paledat that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth atO'Rielly, Callahan and Trillium. All right, come along! O'Rielly joined the death march gladly. He felt the way Callahanlooked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness andprotect it to his last breath of life. Old Woman led the way to her office. Jabbed some buttons on her desk.Panels on opposite walls lit up. Presidents of Earth and Venus, please, the Old Woman stated evenly.Interplanetary emergency. Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonallypleasant. Madame President's office. She is in a Cabinet meeting. Mr. President's office. He is in personal command of our glorious warefforts. Old Woman sighed through her teeth. Venus woman aboard this ship.Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries. The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by ablizzard of scrambled faces and torrents of incoherent voices. Finally on the Earth panel appeared the famous classic features. Thefacts, if you please, Captain Hatwoody. The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features,that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. Trillium! Myown granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly, Mr. President roared at hisExcellency, what's this nonsense? Some loud creature is interfering, Madame President snapped withannoyance. Blasted fools still have the circuits crossed, Mr. President swore.Some silly female cackling now! The parties in the panels saw each other now. Each one's left hand on adesk moved toward a big red button marked, ROCKETS. So, Mr. President said evenly. Another violation by your Earthmen. By your granddaughter, at least, Madame President replied coolly. An innocent child, Mr. President snapped, obviously kidnapped bythose two idiotic Earthmen there! Oh, no, Grandpapa, Trillium said swiftly; I stole away all bymyself, and Mr. O'Rielly and Callahan have been very helpful. Impossible! Grandpapa President's ear beards stood near straight upas he roared, You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium,tell the truth! Very well. Grandmamma told me how. <doc-sep>Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged, HisExcellency Dimdooly declared. Grandmamma Berta wouldn't know the firstthing about such things! Impossible! Grandpapa President agreed. I've been married to herfor a hundred and twenty-four and a half years and she's the finestrattle-brain I ever knew! She learned, Trillium stated emphatically, a hundred and twenty-fiveyears ago. Hundred twenty-five, Grandpapa president growled like a boilingvolcano. The year some Earthman.... Never did catch the devil....Berta? Impossible! Madame President's shapely finger now rested full on the button thatcould launch the fleets of war rockets that had been pre-aimed for athousand years. I'm afraid your Ambassador is unwelcome now, MadamePresident stated coolly. Your granddaughter's actions have every markof an invasion tactic by your government. What do you mean, her actions? Grandpapa President's finger now laypoised on the button that had been waiting a thousand years to blowEarth out of the universe. My grandchild was kidnapped by men underyour official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear? No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bringour cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will onlystop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on yourwars any longer no matter what happens to we revolutionaries! Revolutionaries? Such claptrap! And what's wrong with my wars? Peoplehave to have something to keep their minds off their troubles! Nobodyaround here gets hurt. Oh, maybe a few scratches here and there. Butnobody on Venus dies from the things any more. But Venus men are so excited all the time about going to war theyhaven't time for us women. That's why we always radiated such a fatalattraction for Earthmen. We want to be loved! We want our own men homedoing useful work! Well, they do come home and do useful work! Couple weeks every tenmonths. Proven to be a highly efficient arrangement. More boys to run off to your old wars and more girls to stay home andbe lonely! Now you just listen to me, Trillium! Grandpapa President was allVenus manhood laying down the law. That's the way things have been onVenus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can'tchange it! I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during theseconversations, Madame President said crisply. Earth is terminatingall trade agreements with Venus as of this instant. What? Grandpapa's beards near pulled his ears off. It's not legal!You can't get away with this! Take your finger off that trigger, boy! a heavenly voice similar toTrillium's advised from the Venus panel. Whereupon Grandpapa glared to one side. Berta! What are you doinghere? I am deciding matters of the gravest interplanetary nature! Were. Features more beautifully mature than Trillium's crowded ontothe panel too. From now on I'm doing the deciding. Nonsense! You're only my wife! And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women. Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet intoanother Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so! Take him away, girls, Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse wasyanked from view. His bellows, however, could be heard yet. Unhand me, you foolcreatures! Guards! Guards! Save your breath, Berta advised him. And while you're in the cooler,enjoy this latest batch of surrender communiques. We women are incontrol everywhere now. Dimmy, Trillium was saying firmly to His Excellency, you have beataround the bush with me long enough. Now say it! <doc-sep>Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience. Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power. Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility. Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history. Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory! Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience. Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials. The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta? I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew. Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest. The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations. Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose. What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary. You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go? Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess. O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma? Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all. I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.' Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not. But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever. Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears. So what? Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em! <doc-sep></s>

Trillium is the granddaughter of the President of Venus and his wife, Berta. One-hundred twenty-five years ago, Berta learned from Callahan’s example how to stowaway and break the rules devised between the two planets. She taught her granddaughter how to do the same, so Trillium took this knowledge to implement her own plan. Trillium represents the women of Venus, who are tired of the lack of attention they receive from Venusian men; the men are far more interested in war and harbor misogynistic attitudes towards women. Likewise, the women rulers of Earth treat men as their inferiors as a result of their lust for Venusian women. When Trillium is discovered, this triggers a meeting between the two presidents of Earth and Venus, and the president of Earth announces that her presence on the ship signifies a breach in their rules. Therefore, the special arrangement between the two planets is ended, and Earth no longer recognizes Dimdooly’s ambassadorship. As the Venusian president resists, he also learns that his wife Berta has been elected the new President of Venus, and that women will now take over just as they did on Earth. She orders her husband to be taken away. After Dimdooly loses his position, he announces his love for Trillium, which confirms her plan to regain the amorous attentions of Venusian men has worked. As a reward for her role in the revolution, Trillium receives Dimdooly’s ambassadorship.

<s>Seeming to grind her teeth, the Old O Woman turned abruptly to leaveO'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from bustingout laughing for joy. Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! Andbetwixt O'Rielly's grand brain and Callahan's great experience she'd behappy forever. A fine loud thump, however, was now heard. Old Woman whirled back andyanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk. Of all the sappy hiding places! Callahan yelped, in surprise ofcourse. Trillium? His Excellency bellowed as if stung by one of thesabre-tailed hornets of his native planet. Trillium! Trillium, O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, why do you have tokeep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you? Her eyes merely became deep pools in which O'Rielly would have gladlydrowned himself if he could. There are rewards, the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness ofouter space, for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and forher leaving her planet. Shut up! His Excellency's ear beards were standing straight outsideways. I'll handle this! May I remind His Excellency, the Old Woman snapped, that I representEarth and her dominion of space gained by right of original flight! May I remind the Captain, His Excellency declared fit to be heardback to his planet, that I am the Personal Ambassador of the Presidentof Venus and this thing can mean war! Yes! War in which people will actually die! As His Excellency paledat that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth atO'Rielly, Callahan and Trillium. All right, come along! O'Rielly joined the death march gladly. He felt the way Callahanlooked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness andprotect it to his last breath of life. Old Woman led the way to her office. Jabbed some buttons on her desk.Panels on opposite walls lit up. Presidents of Earth and Venus, please, the Old Woman stated evenly.Interplanetary emergency. Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonallypleasant. Madame President's office. She is in a Cabinet meeting. Mr. President's office. He is in personal command of our glorious warefforts. Old Woman sighed through her teeth. Venus woman aboard this ship.Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries. The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by ablizzard of scrambled faces and torrents of incoherent voices. Finally on the Earth panel appeared the famous classic features. Thefacts, if you please, Captain Hatwoody. The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features,that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. Trillium! Myown granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly, Mr. President roared at hisExcellency, what's this nonsense? Some loud creature is interfering, Madame President snapped withannoyance. Blasted fools still have the circuits crossed, Mr. President swore.Some silly female cackling now! The parties in the panels saw each other now. Each one's left hand on adesk moved toward a big red button marked, ROCKETS. So, Mr. President said evenly. Another violation by your Earthmen. By your granddaughter, at least, Madame President replied coolly. An innocent child, Mr. President snapped, obviously kidnapped bythose two idiotic Earthmen there! Oh, no, Grandpapa, Trillium said swiftly; I stole away all bymyself, and Mr. O'Rielly and Callahan have been very helpful. Impossible! Grandpapa President's ear beards stood near straight upas he roared, You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium,tell the truth! Very well. Grandmamma told me how. <doc-sep> IMAGE OF SPLENDOR By LU KELLA From Venus to Earth, and all the way between, it was a hell of a world for men ... and Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four! On my way, sir! At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone. Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly? Fusion control two points low, sir. O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off? If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir? So a control reset itself in flight, hey? I don't know yet, sir. Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth! The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud. Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four. Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way. She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am! I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control. <doc-sep>Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience. Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power. Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility. Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history. Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory! Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience. Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials. The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta? I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew. Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest. The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations. Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose. What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary. You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go? Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess. O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma? Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all. I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.' Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not. But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever. Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears. So what? Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em! <doc-sep></s>

Captain Hatwoody is the commander of the ship that ferries between Earth and Venus. She is a stern, efficient Earth woman with a vocal disdain for men. Behind her back, the men of her crew refer to her as “the Old Woman.” Ambassador Dimdooly is a Venusian who works as the right-hand man of the President of Venus. Similar to Hatwoody’s disgust for men, Ambassador Dimdooly harbors a deep-seated misogyny. Both characters’ innate sexism is reflected in the social orders of their individual planets and are the result of over one-hundred years of conflict. Captain Hatwoody plays gracious host to Ambassador Dimdooly when he visits the ship, even referring to him as “Excellency.” However, their tensions are revealed when together they inspect Burner Four after visiting O’Rielly in his watch room. They each make snarky comments to each other about the inferiority of the others’ respective gender. Their attitudes are reflected later during the confrontational meeting between the presidents of Earth and Venus in Captain Hatwoody’s office. These two characters’ interactions are essential in highlighting the gender conflict that explodes at the story’s end when both Earth and Venusian women solidify their rule over their respective planets.

<s> QUEST OF THIG By BASIL WELLS Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation. Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens. The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans. Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets. The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha. Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself! The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger.... <doc-sep>The mild shocks went on—whether from projectiles or energy-charges,would be hard to find out and it didn't matter; whatever was hittingthe Quest III's shell was doing it at velocities where thedistinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist. But that shell was tough. It was an extension of the gravitic drivefield which transmitted the engines' power equally to every atom ofthe ship; forces impinging on the outside of the field were similarlytransmitted and rendered harmless. The effect was as if the vessel andall space inside its field were a single perfectly elastic body. Ameteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded—usually vaporized bythe impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and oppositeforces, rebounded too, but since its mass was so much greater, itsdeflection was negligible. The people in the Quest III would have felt nothing at all ofthe vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that theirinertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities,was intentionally operated at one half of one per cent efficiency toprovide the illusion of Earthly gravitation. One of the officers said shakily, It's as if they've been lying inwait for us. But why on Earth— That, said the captain grimly, is what we have to find out. Why—onEarth. At least, I suspect the answer's there. The Quest III bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even ifone were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating orchange course. There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel leftif there had been; come what might, this was journey's end—perhapsin a more violent and final way than had been anticipated. All aroundwheeled the pigmy enemies, circling, maneuvering, and attacking,always attacking, with the senseless fury of maddened hornets. Theinterstellar ship bore no offensive weapons—but suddenly on one of thevision screens a speck of light flared into nova-brilliance, dazzlingthe watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were tornapart. Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one waspaying attention to him. The men on the Quest III's bridge lookedquestions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashedinto many minds at once. But Captain Llud said soberly, It must havecaught one of their own shots, reflected. Maybe its own, if it scoredtoo direct a hit. He studied the data so far gathered. A few blurred pictures had beengot, which showed cylindrical space ships much like the Quest III ,except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size. Theirsize was hard to ascertain, because you needed to know their distanceand speed—but detector-beam echoes gave the distance, and likewise, bythe Doppler method, the velocity of directly receding or approachingships. It was apparent that the enemy vessels were even smaller thanGwar Den had at first supposed—not large enough to hold even one man.Tiny, deadly hornets with a colossal sting. Robot craft, no doubt, said Knof Llud, but a chill ran down his spineas it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of humanorigin. They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxythey had explored, but one of the other Quests might have encounteredand been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able toconquer. <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep></s>

Three aliens from the planet Ortha, Thig, Kam and their Commander, Torp, have landed on Long Island to see if Earth is viable for the Orthans to take over. Thig captures a passing man, an author named Lewis Terry, and brings him back to the spaceship, where Torp decides that Thig should impersonate Terry to learn more about Earth. Terry’s knowledge is transferred to Thig, a process that kills Terry and arms Thig with with all of his memories. He is given plastic surgery to look like Terry, and he goes to live with Terry’s family. He is greeted by Terry’s three young children and his wife, Ellen; the children’s affection and Ellen’s kiss lead to sensations that confuse but excite Thig. The story then jumps ahead 12 weeks to when they return from their vacation, Thig having experienced many new emotions and sensations and having become very attached to Terry’s family. He knows that he must report to his Orthan colleagues, but has misgivings about doing so. Upon his arrival back to the ship, he tells Torp that Earth is ideal for their purposes, and Torp commends him and says he’ll recommend that Ortha take it over and eradicate the humans. Thig suggests that they instead disarm and exile the humans, and train them in the ways of Ortha. Torp responds angrily that they don’t need to waste their time with anyone outside the Orthan “Horde”. He asks Kam to check his blood for disease. Thig realizes that he loves Ellen and wants to protect her and the earthlings and says as much to Kam, who attempts to subdue him. After a struggle over Kam’s blaster, Thig kills him. Torp sees what he has done and flies into the type of rage Orthans don’t ascribe to, bludgeoning Thig until he thinks he is dead. Thig takes a blaster from a case above him and kills Torp. He reads in the ship log that Torp has written that Earth is not viable, because it infected Thig with a disease that led to him killing Kam and made it necessary for Torp to kill him. Thig puts the ship on autopilot toward Ortha, takes one of the small auxiliary ships, and heads back to Earth. He experiences many emotions, and regrets how callous he was when he first arrived on Earth and captured Lewis Terry. He vows to live as Terry in repayment to his family, and thinks knowing that Ellen doesn’t really love him, Thig, will be his punishment while he strives to make her happy. As he heads toward Long Island, the idea for a story develops in his mind. This one is about a cowboy that visits other worlds, worlds like the ones Thig has seen. He thinks maybe he could write this, and then reminds himself to remember that he is Lewis Terry now.

<s>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once. I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation. But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort? Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking. Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten. Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha. Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes. The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them. Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet. Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde. No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde. Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered. Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig. <doc-sep>There it is, announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the capturedEarthman to the metal deck-plates. It is a male of the species thatmust have built the cities we saw as we landed. He resembles Thig, announced Kam. But for the strange covering hewears he might be Thig. Thig will be this creature! announced Torp. With a psychic relay wewill transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge tothe brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world withoutarousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore thetwo inner planets. You are the commander, said Thig. But I wish this beast did not wearthese clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the useof our limbs so. Do not question the word of your commander, growled Torp, swellingout his thick chest menacingly. It is for the good of our people thatyou disguise yourself as an Earthman. For the good of the Horde, Thig intoned almost piously as he liftedTerry's body and headed for the laboratory. Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefullycultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, theyknew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirelylacking in their early training and later life. They were trainedantlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Hordewere of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeelingrobots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,their love-life, their everything! So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strappedon two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked toone another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon theirheads. For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's braindry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthmanproved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stoppedcompletely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to hisbody and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his torturedbrain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet. There is nothing more to learn, he informed his impassive comrades.Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My newbody must return to its barbaric household before undue attention isaroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleamingbaubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly. An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed andpainless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space shipand set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path runninginland to his home. Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhoodmemories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the placewhere Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure thatold 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance ofthat episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in hispocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach! He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot onthe sagging boards the screen door burst open and three littleEarth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that hisacquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward fromaround his heart. Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of thedead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Menhad no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the otherprimitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understandingthe emotions that swept through his acquired memory. Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood chokedachingly up into his throat. Lew, dear, Ellen was asking, where have you been all day? I calledup at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know thatSaddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for Reversed Revolversand three other editors asked for shorts soon. <doc-sep>The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of hisweapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thigsuddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A suddenreversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivellingabout full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed downupon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of thedecomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked. Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foulcorruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicatedmatter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his ownHorde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulledfor the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward thecontrol blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into thenarrowed icy eyes of his commander. He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against hisskull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waitedstupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and allthe struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboyyarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon. Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlesslytoward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torpwould ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weaponupon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow.... <doc-sep></s>

Thig is the protagonist of the story, a native of the planet Ortha. He is described as shorter than an average human man (though tall for an Orthan man), and thick-bodied with well-developed muscles, average-to-large facial features, and reddish brown eyes. At the beginning of the story, he and two other Orthans, Kam and Torp, are on a mission to find planets considered viable for the Orthans to take over. Thig kidnaps a human man, Lewis Terry, and the Orthans transfer his memories to Thig and surgically alter him to look like Terry. Thig assumes his identity and joins his family posing as Terry. He begins to feel new sensations and emotions around Terry’s wife, Ellen, and their kids, and travels with them on a three-month vacation during which he learns what it feels like to be human and to care for a family. When they return and he must make his report to the other Orthans, he truthfully reports that Earth would be ideal to take over but has second thoughts when Torp says he’ll recommend that they conquer Earth and decimate the population. When his pleas to consider just disarming and exiling the humans are met with scorn, Thig becomes angry and ultimately realizes that he loves Ellen and wants to go back to save Earth. He kills both of his Orthan colleagues and sends the ship back toward Ortha as he takes an auxiliary ship back to Long Island. Along the way, he experiences many emotions including regret for his former callousness and taking Lewis Terry away from his family. Instead of the robotic being who initially exhibited coldness and indifference at the beginning of the story, he now experiences remorse and selflessness as he decides to give Ellen and the kids the life they deserve even though he’ll always know who he is and what he has done.

<s> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep> QUEST OF THIG By BASIL WELLS Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation. Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens. The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans. Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets. The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha. Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself! The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger.... <doc-sep>Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, heheaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde'screation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of theWest. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry andnow, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family. The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would bea knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Herdreams and happiness must never be shattered. The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlinesof Long Island in the growing twilight. A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about acowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write aboutthem.... He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that! <doc-sep></s>

The story is set in multiple locations, including Long Island, New York, an Orthan spaceship and smaller auxiliary ship, parts of the American West, and outer space. The ship from Ortha lands on Long Island in New York, and this is where Thig captures Lewis Terry and takes him to the Orthans’ spaceship, before settling in with his family, posing as Terry. This area of Long Island is near the beach and the sound, and is described as lush and green. The Terry family lives in a small grey house that is somewhat run down. While we don’t travel out west on the Terry family vacation, we do experience bits of it in Thig’s memory, including the Grand Canyon in Arizona and unspecified desert terrain. The story then takes us back to the ship, and a small laboratory aboard the ship, and then inside a smaller ship as it heads back to Long Island.

<s> QUEST OF THIG By BASIL WELLS Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation. Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens. The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans. Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets. The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha. Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself! The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger.... <doc-sep>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once. I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation. But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort? Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking. Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten. Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha. Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes. The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them. Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet. Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde. No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde. Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered. Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig. <doc-sep>There it is, announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the capturedEarthman to the metal deck-plates. It is a male of the species thatmust have built the cities we saw as we landed. He resembles Thig, announced Kam. But for the strange covering hewears he might be Thig. Thig will be this creature! announced Torp. With a psychic relay wewill transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge tothe brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world withoutarousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore thetwo inner planets. You are the commander, said Thig. But I wish this beast did not wearthese clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the useof our limbs so. Do not question the word of your commander, growled Torp, swellingout his thick chest menacingly. It is for the good of our people thatyou disguise yourself as an Earthman. For the good of the Horde, Thig intoned almost piously as he liftedTerry's body and headed for the laboratory. Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefullycultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, theyknew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirelylacking in their early training and later life. They were trainedantlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Hordewere of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeelingrobots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,their love-life, their everything! So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strappedon two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked toone another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon theirheads. For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's braindry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthmanproved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stoppedcompletely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to hisbody and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his torturedbrain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet. There is nothing more to learn, he informed his impassive comrades.Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My newbody must return to its barbaric household before undue attention isaroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleamingbaubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly. An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed andpainless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space shipand set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path runninginland to his home. Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhoodmemories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the placewhere Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure thatold 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance ofthat episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in hispocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach! He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot onthe sagging boards the screen door burst open and three littleEarth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that hisacquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward fromaround his heart. Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of thedead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Menhad no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the otherprimitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understandingthe emotions that swept through his acquired memory. Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood chokedachingly up into his throat. Lew, dear, Ellen was asking, where have you been all day? I calledup at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know thatSaddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for Reversed Revolversand three other editors asked for shorts soon. <doc-sep></s>

The society on Ortha has discarded what they consider to be primal or barbaric tendencies and customs. Their children are raised in laboratories never knowing their parents and are not shown love or affection. They are taught to value loyalty to the Orthan “Hordes” over everything, and to believe that they are entitled to anything in the universe that they desire, with no regard to those outside the Hordes. They don’t have mates or have sex, though they do walk around naked. Free thought and primal urges are discouraged, and Orthan society has attempted to filter out any behavior they consider to be barbaric in favor of a robotic, obedient populace. By contrast, Thig discovers that humans feel the full gamut of emotions, think for themselves, and feel empathy rather than the dispassionate callousness Ortha demands.

<s>Home again, whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weekslater and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She kneltbeside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it. The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful, she wenton as they climbed the steps, but nowhere was there any place asbeautiful as our own little strip of sky and water. Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from theexposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray carand the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their livingquarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in thechaos of his cool Orthan brain. Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellowsand report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary forceto wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could belanded. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for theHordes? Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of thedead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For threemonths he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificedfor reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the headyglory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He hadexperienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue againstthe wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abruptdivision of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborerthought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertaintyadded zest to every day's life. The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual tothe Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add tothe progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthancivilization had remained static, its energies directed into certainwell-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vastmechanical hives. There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen hadcaught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneaththem. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in luridred the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush andcactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the sonof Ellen and the man he had destroyed. Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the betterof his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them toblast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down theroad toward the beach. The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshlybut they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to thedoor and called after him. Hurry home, dear, she said. I'll have a bite ready in about an hour. He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and shewould have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort ofperson when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of ahand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound. Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through theautumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west thatlived no longer. He mentally titled it: Rustlers' Riot and blockedin the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of thecareless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to besapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would neverbe written, but he toyed with the idea. So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted fromthe unquestioning worship of the Horde! <doc-sep> QUEST OF THIG By BASIL WELLS Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation. Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens. The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans. Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets. The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha. Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself! The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger.... <doc-sep>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once. I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation. But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort? Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking. Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten. Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha. Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes. The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them. Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet. Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde. No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde. Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered. Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig. <doc-sep></s>

Ellen is the wife of Lewis Terry, and she is described as slender with red hair. When Thig assumes Terry’s identity, some of the first sensations he experiences result from Ellen kissing him. On their travels throughout the American West, Thig bonds with her and with her children. He learns to understand new experiences and emotions throughout his time with Ellen, and he observes that she seems to know how he’s feeling without him telling her. When Thig ultimately realizes that he wants to go back to Earth, it is because he loves Ellen and wants to save her and humanity. It is Ellen he thinks about as he returns to Earth and feels the sting of regret that he killed her husband, and decides to spend the rest of her life making it up to her.

<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep>Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks. The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous. Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold— Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point— Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said, May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid? Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below. Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something? Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands. I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye. <doc-sep></s>

Joe and Harvey land on Planetoid 42 and enter a bar. They see Genius, an incredible looking creature with six limbs, and immediately become interested in him. They tell the bartender, Johnson, that they’re very thirsty, so he sells them each eight glasses of water, and they guzzle them down. Harvey and Joe are horrified to find out that the water is highly expensive. Johnson explains that the water must be purified. When the pair leaves, they find a pipe in a small pond and realize that Johnson has undoubtedly swindled them. The sweet water is readily available and it is transported directly to the saloon via this pipe. Harvey and Joe head back to the bar. Joe comes down with a sudden illness, and it’s clear that this is a con the men use all the time. Johnson recognizes that Joe has asteroid fever and becomes frightened. Harvey explains that the only medication that will provide an instant cure is the one they happen to be selling: La-anago Yergis.Joe is instantly cured once Harvey pours the special liquid into his mouth. Johnson is flabbergasted and wants to purchase an entire case. While in the privacy of their ship, Joe and Harvey discuss their joint desire to purchase Genius. They believe they could make a fortune off of him if they featured him in an exhibit. Johnson accepts the fake solution and informs Harvey and Joe that his restaurant is open. After looking at the menu, the men are astounded at the low prices. However, they soon find out that they have been taken advantage of when they receive a bill for a very large sum of money. They learn that the fine print they missed on the menu explains the charge. When Joe tells Johnson they won’t pay the bill, Johnson reminds them that he is in fact the Sheriff as well as the saloon owner and the mayor. Harvey requests to purchase Genius, and Johnson agrees. In a last ditch effort to recoup some more money, Harvey brings up an invention they have on their ship that Johnson must see. Joe brings back a radio that was supposedly created by a famous doctor. It is special because it broadcasts from the fourth dimension. They convince Johnson that he is the perfect person to make sense of the garbled transmissions. Johnson pays extra for the special batteries it takes.Just as Harvey and Joe make it back to the ship with Genius, the creature informs them that he cannot leave the planet because another planet’s pressure would squish him to death. And yes, he admits, Johnson was fully aware of this fact when he sold him. When Harvey does the math involved in the various exchanges of goods, he realizes that after all that time and the several cons they engaged in, he and Joe made a measly four cents. The men take off on their ship and head to Mars.

<s> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep>It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine ona bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko signin front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keepinga faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went toinvestigate. Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender moundthat was unmistakably a buried pipe. What's this doing here? Harvey asked, puzzled. I thought Johnson hadto transport water in pails. Wonder where it leads to, Joe said uneasily. It leads to the saloon, said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing thepipe back toward the spaceport. What I am concerned with is where itleads from . Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion ofscrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burstinto the open—before a clear, sparkling pool. Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water. I am growing suspicious, he said in a rigidly controlled voice. But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water andtasting it. Sweet! he snarled. They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.His mouth went wry. Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! Theonly thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor'sconscience. The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on, saidHarvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. Joseph, the good-natured artist inme has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until wehave had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from thispoint hence. Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door theystopped and their fists unclenched. Thought you gents were leaving, the mayor called out, seeing themfrozen in the doorway. Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City. You don't need any more, said Harvey, dismayed. Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hairand held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously beenborn and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would havekept him down near the general dimensions of a man. He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his ownhand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again whenhis fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressedone. Pleased to meet you, piped a voice that had never known a denseatmosphere. The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick andunpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for.... Joseph! he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. Don't youfeel well? Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes weregently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his featuresdrooping like a bloodhound's. Bring him in here! Johnson cried. I mean, get him away! He's comingdown with asteroid fever! Of course, replied Harvey calmly. Any fool knows the first symptomsof the disease that once scourged the universe. What do you mean, once ? demanded Johnson. I come down with itevery year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get himout of here! In good time. He can't be moved immediately. Then he'll be here for months! Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor andhis gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathein tiny, uncontaminating gasps. You'll find everything you want in the back room, Johnson saidfrantically, sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suctioncups— Relics of the past, Harvey stated. One medication is all modern manrequires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever. What's that? asked the mayor without conviction. Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-handrocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within afew minutes, carrying a bottle. <doc-sep>Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowlycrossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partnerdrink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back andwaited for the inevitable result. Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for severalmoments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomedto perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his featuresstraightened out. Are—are you all right? asked the mayor anxiously. Much better, said Joe in a weak voice. Maybe you need another dose, Harvey suggested. Joe recoiled. I'm fine now! he cried, and sprang off the bar to proveit. Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse. Well, I'll be hanged! Johnson ejaculated. La-anago Yergis never fails, my friend, Harvey explained. Byactual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-threeminutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caughtthis one before it grew formidable. The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. If youdon't charge too much, he said warily, I might think of buying some. We do not sell this unbelievable remedy, Harvey replied with dignity.It sells itself. 'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a wholecase, said Johnson. That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared withthe vast loss of time and strength the fever involves. How much? asked the mayor unhappily. For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundredbuckos. Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression ofdoing so. F-four hundred, he offered. Not a red cent less than four seventy-five, Harvey said flatly. Make it four fifty, quavered Johnson. I dislike haggling, said Harvey. The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos andfifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: And we will include, gratis , an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurianhandicraftsmanship. Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. No tricks now. I want a taste ofthat stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me. Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. Themayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuingminute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle whichthe man gradually won. There ain't no words for that taste, he gulped when it was safe totalk again. Medicine, Harvey propounded, should taste like medicine. To Joe hesaid: Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task towhich we have dedicated ourselves. With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed theclearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe droppedhis murderous silence and cried: What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of thatsnake oil? That was not poison, Harvey contradicted quietly. It was La-anagoYergis extract, plus. Plus what—arsenic? Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufactureour specific for all known ailments, with the intention of sellingyonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had beenswindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit havebeen, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course. But why use it on me? Joe demanded furiously. Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. Did Johnson ask totaste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to producethe same medicine that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were aguinea pig for a splendid cause. Okay, okay, Joe said. But you shoulda charged him more. Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of whichthat swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables hepossesses. We could not be content with less. Well, we're starting all right, admitted Joe. How about that thingwith six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off? Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively. I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with ourstreamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolicsuckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on theaudio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendousfigure to the zoo! <doc-sep></s>

Harvey and Joe are business partners and conmen. Although they are both important players in their various ruses, Harvey is definitely the brains behind the operation. Joe is willing to listen to Harvey’s instructions and play along in order to get money out of their victims. However, he is also a bit more hot-headed than his partner, and it’s up to Harvey to calm Joe down when he gets flustered because they are taken advantage of. When Joe finds out about the sweet water that Johnson lied about, he is instantly irate. Later, when Johnson tricks them into ordering loads of food at his restaurant, Joe is furious and threatens not to pay the bill. In both instances, Harvey recognizes that the pair was fooled fair and square and all they can do is accept the loss. It is obvious that the two have been working together for a long time because they are able to communicate using very few words and gestures. They both know their playbook of tricks, and it is easy for each of the men to tip the other off to their thoughts. After meeting Genius, Harvey and Joe immediately agree that they should try and acquire the creature. Both men are money-minded and they see dollar signs when they lay their eyes on an alien as peculiar as him. When the duo wants to sell their medicine, Joe pretends to come down with symptoms of asteroid fever, and Harvey doesn’t miss a beat. Within moments he asks Joe if he’s feeling okay and goes to fetch the fake panacea that they peddle.

<s>The air-lock door was still wide open when Click reached it, his headswimming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-fire and hell-rockets. Helet himself down in, quiet and soft. He didn't have a weapon. He didn'thave a weapon. Oh, damn, damn! A tunnel curved, ending in light, and two men silhouetted in thatyellow glare. Marnagan, backed against a wall, his helmet cracked,air hissing slowly out of it, his face turning blue. And the guard, aproton gun extended stiffly before him, also in a vac-suit. The guardhad his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: I think I'll letyou stand right there and die, he said quietly. That what Guntherwanted, anway. A nice sordid death. Hathaway took three strides, his hands out in front of him. Don't move! he snapped. I've got a weapon stronger than yours. Onetwitch and I'll blast you and the whole damned wall out from behindyou! Freeze! The guard whirled. He widened his sharp eyes, and reluctantly, droppedhis gun to the floor. Get his gun, Irish. Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled clumsily forward. Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun, smirked at the guard. Thanks forposing, he said. That shot will go down in film history for candidacting. What! Ah: ah! Keep your place. I've got a real gun now. Where's the doorleading into the Base? The guard moved his head sullenly over his left shoulder. Click was afraid he would show his weak dizziness. He needed air.Okay. Drag Marnagan with you, open the door and we'll have air. Doubletime! Double! Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen ontheir backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard,hid him in a huge trash receptacle. Where he belongs, observed Irishtersely. They found themselves in a complete inner world; an asteroid nothingmore than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged.Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and wasshort-handed of men. Gunther simply waited for specific cargo ships torocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them forcargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and theswarms of tourists that filled the void these days. Small fry weren'twanted. They were scared off. The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank ofintricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored filmwith images slid into slots and machine mouths that translated theminto thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius. So here we are, still not much better off than we were, growledIrish. We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turnup any moment. You think we could refocus this doohingey, project themonsters inside the asteroid to fool the pirates themselves? What good would that do? Hathaway gnawed his lip. They wouldn't foolthe engineers who created them, you nut. Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would comeriding over the hill— <doc-sep> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep>Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt. I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker? A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you. He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled. How much did we have when we landed, Joseph? Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly. I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents! Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper. Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents. Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled. But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy. Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him? Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it? How much did it cost us? Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents! Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax! He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold? Goldbricks! Harvey said succinctly. Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars. <doc-sep></s>

Genius is an important character because he is used to illustrate just how brilliant Johnson is. The man is clearly intelligent because he has positioned himself as the sheriff, the barman, and the mayor of Planetoid 42. He also makes money by fooling gullible outsiders into paying high prices for water and food. However, his idea to sell Genius over and over again is perhaps the most shrewd. His asking price for the remarkable creature is in the 600s, much more than he’s able to charge for water or dishes at his restaurant. Johnson pretends that he’s attached to Genius and would hate to see him go, yet he cannot turn down the incredible sum of money. Each time Genius is sold to naive buyers, he ends up making his way right back to Johnson’s bar, and Johnson profits all of the money. Genius cannot leave the planet because the pressure in other habitats is too much for his unique body to handle. If one of the buyers insisted on bringing him aboard their ship, he would turn up dead and useless to them anyway. Therefore, they always send the poor creature back to Johnson and lose out on their plans to make loads of money off of him.

<s>Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowlycrossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partnerdrink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back andwaited for the inevitable result. Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for severalmoments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomedto perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his featuresstraightened out. Are—are you all right? asked the mayor anxiously. Much better, said Joe in a weak voice. Maybe you need another dose, Harvey suggested. Joe recoiled. I'm fine now! he cried, and sprang off the bar to proveit. Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse. Well, I'll be hanged! Johnson ejaculated. La-anago Yergis never fails, my friend, Harvey explained. Byactual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-threeminutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caughtthis one before it grew formidable. The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. If youdon't charge too much, he said warily, I might think of buying some. We do not sell this unbelievable remedy, Harvey replied with dignity.It sells itself. 'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a wholecase, said Johnson. That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared withthe vast loss of time and strength the fever involves. How much? asked the mayor unhappily. For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundredbuckos. Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression ofdoing so. F-four hundred, he offered. Not a red cent less than four seventy-five, Harvey said flatly. Make it four fifty, quavered Johnson. I dislike haggling, said Harvey. The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos andfifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: And we will include, gratis , an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurianhandicraftsmanship. Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. No tricks now. I want a taste ofthat stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me. Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. Themayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuingminute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle whichthe man gradually won. There ain't no words for that taste, he gulped when it was safe totalk again. Medicine, Harvey propounded, should taste like medicine. To Joe hesaid: Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task towhich we have dedicated ourselves. With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed theclearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe droppedhis murderous silence and cried: What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of thatsnake oil? That was not poison, Harvey contradicted quietly. It was La-anagoYergis extract, plus. Plus what—arsenic? Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufactureour specific for all known ailments, with the intention of sellingyonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had beenswindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit havebeen, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course. But why use it on me? Joe demanded furiously. Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. Did Johnson ask totaste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to producethe same medicine that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were aguinea pig for a splendid cause. Okay, okay, Joe said. But you shoulda charged him more. Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of whichthat swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables hepossesses. We could not be content with less. Well, we're starting all right, admitted Joe. How about that thingwith six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off? Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively. I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with ourstreamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolicsuckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on theaudio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendousfigure to the zoo! <doc-sep>It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine ona bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko signin front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keepinga faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went toinvestigate. Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender moundthat was unmistakably a buried pipe. What's this doing here? Harvey asked, puzzled. I thought Johnson hadto transport water in pails. Wonder where it leads to, Joe said uneasily. It leads to the saloon, said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing thepipe back toward the spaceport. What I am concerned with is where itleads from . Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion ofscrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burstinto the open—before a clear, sparkling pool. Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water. I am growing suspicious, he said in a rigidly controlled voice. But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water andtasting it. Sweet! he snarled. They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.His mouth went wry. Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! Theonly thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor'sconscience. The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on, saidHarvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. Joseph, the good-natured artist inme has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until wehave had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from thispoint hence. Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door theystopped and their fists unclenched. Thought you gents were leaving, the mayor called out, seeing themfrozen in the doorway. Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City. You don't need any more, said Harvey, dismayed. Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hairand held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously beenborn and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would havekept him down near the general dimensions of a man. He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his ownhand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again whenhis fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressedone. Pleased to meet you, piped a voice that had never known a denseatmosphere. The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick andunpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for.... Joseph! he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. Don't youfeel well? Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes weregently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his featuresdrooping like a bloodhound's. Bring him in here! Johnson cried. I mean, get him away! He's comingdown with asteroid fever! Of course, replied Harvey calmly. Any fool knows the first symptomsof the disease that once scourged the universe. What do you mean, once ? demanded Johnson. I come down with itevery year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get himout of here! In good time. He can't be moved immediately. Then he'll be here for months! Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor andhis gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathein tiny, uncontaminating gasps. You'll find everything you want in the back room, Johnson saidfrantically, sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suctioncups— Relics of the past, Harvey stated. One medication is all modern manrequires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever. What's that? asked the mayor without conviction. Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-handrocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within afew minutes, carrying a bottle. <doc-sep> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep></s>

Joe and Harvey are professional conmen, so they are quite good at swindling innocent victims. They make their money by peddling a fake panacea called La-anago Yergis. The men regularly partake in an act where Joe falls ill and Harvey has to come to his rescue with the extract. Although Johnson falls for this trick and purchases an entire case of the medicine, he also does a great job of getting Harvey and Joe back. At the end of the story, the opposing sides come out basically even in terms of financial gains. Johnson first demonstrates that he can take advantage of Harvey and Joe when he gives them each eight glasses of water before letting them know that he charges a lot for each glass. The men say they’re thirsty, so he is happy to give them as much as they’d like to drink. Although Johnson says that the water costs so much because it must be specially purified, the truth is that he has access to an entire body of water and there really isn’t any reason to charge so much.Later, Johnson convinces Harvey and Joe that they’re hungry enough to sit down at his restaurant even though neither one had even mentioned food. He allows them to order their food and believe that they’re getting an incredible deal until he tells them about the fine print on the menu. Harvey and Joe are forced to fork over hundreds of dollars for their meal, and when they threaten to walk out, Johnson reminds them that he is the sheriff on Planetoid 42, and he has the power to arrest them.

<s> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <doc-sep>Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks. The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous. Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold— Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point— Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said, May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid? Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below. Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something? Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands. I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye. <doc-sep></s>

Planetoid 42 is a place without much to offer besides a port. It is heavily polluted, covered in plants that are similar to vines, and boasts only one saloon. It is home to only two humans, Johnson and his son Jeb, and Genius, a fantastic creature with six limbs that is unlike anything Joe and Harvey have ever seen before. The planet has gravity, which made it possible for Jed to grow to eight feet tall. Genius is also able to thrive on Planetoid 42 while he would perish on other planets with more gravity. Although Johnson says that the water must be purified so it doesn’t taste bitter, the truth is that there’s a large pool with sweet water on the planet. Johnson insists that he has to charge a lot of money for water in part because he has very few customers. The planet is mostly deserted and people only show up to his bar if they’re in trouble.Johnson makes the rules because he is in charge of everything. He is the sheriff, fire chief, mayor, justice of the peace, and restaurateur.

<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport. Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport? Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived. It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different. Then they've changed? No, merely different. Well, what about the viewport? It changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change? The stars come out at night. So there is a change from day to night! I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night? Once they shone all the time. Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable. <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt. Rikud sat down hard. He blinked. The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. <doc-sep></s>

The story describes the crew of a probe spaceship as it investigates an extraterrestrial world. The crew is made up of Stark, Gilbert, Steiner, Langweilig, Craig, and Briton—the captain, executive officer, crewmember, engineer, part-owner of the probe, and a Catholic priest respectively.From orbit, the crew scans the moon using various technological instruments. They discover abundant highly developed life forms including a small location of sentient life, possibly of extraordinary magnitude. They descend to the moon’s surface near the location of the sentient life. They discover a multitude of plants and animals that are found on Earth, also finding two individuals that appear to be human, Ha-Adamah and Hawwah.Their investigation of the surroundings bears a startling resemblance to the biblical story of Genesis. The crew is bewildered to consider that this may indeed be a new Garden of Eden which never fell into sin and was preserved as a perfect paradise.After remaining for a few days, the crew returns to their probe. They remark how immoral it would be to meddle such an unspoiled paradise, but nevertheless begin the process of advertising the world to potential colonizers who would indeed exploit the moon for profit.Surprisingly, it is revealed that back on the planet that the individuals that were merely posing as Ha-Adamah and Hawwah working with their boss, Snake-oil Sam, to deceive potential colonists, ambushing them upon arrival and confiscating their valuable supplies and equipment.Back on the probe Father Briton chides the rest of the crew that they had been taken in by an obvious ruse and to inform any potential colonists to prepare for armed resistance. The incredulous crew demands to know the reasoning behind his conclusion. He casually says that besides what he contended were glaring inaccuracies, the fact that Ha-Adamah refused to play him in checkers despite claiming to have a preternaturally perfect intellect was all the proof he needed.

<s>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport. Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport? Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived. It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different. Then they've changed? No, merely different. Well, what about the viewport? It changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change? The stars come out at night. So there is a change from day to night! I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night? Once they shone all the time. Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable. <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt. Rikud sat down hard. He blinked. The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. <doc-sep>Bombay, India June 8 Mr. Joe Binkle Plaza Ritz Arms New York City Dear Joe: Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born. Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation. As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera. Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time. I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again. The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information. I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness. I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely. All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task! Farewell till later. Glmpauszn <doc-sep></s>

There are two main groups of characters: the crew of the Little Probe and the inhabitants of the “Garden” world.The crew of the Little Probe consist of Stark, the captain; Gilbert, the executive officer; Steiner, a generall crewmember “flunky”; Langweilig, the engineer; Craig, a businessman and part-owner of the ship; and Fr. Briton, priest, linguist, and checkers afficionado. Stark is the leader of the group, commanding the others to their various tasks. Craig is shown to be a shrewd entrepreneur who is most intent on reaping potential profit from the situation they find themselves in.On the moon lives Ha-Adamah and Hawwah who present themselves as archetypes of the biblical Adam and Eve. In reality, they are settlers, attempting to gather supplies to farm this world by stealing supplies from other settlers that they entice to world and then ambush. They are commanded by Snake-Oil Sam, a cynical, former showbusiness professional who runs the con.The two groups interact when the crew descends to the surface of the moon. Ha-Adamah describes his environment in casual but bewildering terms to his visitors. Briton, as a Catholic priest, is designated by the crew to be Ha-Adamah’s main interlocutor. Hawwah, notedly does not speak at all—a flourish to attempt to further depict the attractiveness of the world to their all-male visitors. The crew beside Briton are enamored by the environment of the moon and are totally taken in by the performance of their hosts. The story concludes with Briton chiding his crewmates for their gullibility. Although Briton perhaps had the most reason to believe the moon was divinely ordained, he saw through the charade without much difficulty.

<s>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport. Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport? Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived. It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different. Then they've changed? No, merely different. Well, what about the viewport? It changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change? The stars come out at night. So there is a change from day to night! I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night? Once they shone all the time. Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable. <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt. Rikud sat down hard. He blinked. The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. <doc-sep>All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer didnot sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went toeat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and thewhimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but thesmooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not runany more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food. Chuls said, over and over, I'm hungry. We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us, Wilm repliedconfidently. It won't any more, Rikud said. What won't? The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it. Crifer growled. I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a badthing you did, Rikud. It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and thestars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden therebeyond the viewport. That's ridiculous, Chuls said. Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. He broke the buzzer and no one caneat. I hate Rikud, I think. There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, Ihate Rikud. Then everyone was saying it. Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside withhim and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would havehad a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women'squarters. Did women eat? Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off afrond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe theplants in the viewport would even be better. We will not be hungry if we go outside, he said. We can eat there. We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken, Chuls said dully. Crifer shrilled, Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again. No, Rikud assured him. It won't. Then you broke it and I hate you, said Crifer. We should break you,too, to show you how it is to be broken. We must go outside—through the viewport. Rikud listened to the oddgurgling sound his stomach made. A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heardCrifer's voice. I have Rikud's head. The voice was nasty, hostile. Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he hadbroken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearerto understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud. The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.I hit him! I hit him! Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someonewas on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, andhe did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, Let usdo to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery. Rikud ran. In thedarkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were tooweak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawinghurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voicesand the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away. It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to runwas chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, andhow big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing himwere unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completelyand positively. He became sickly giddy thinking about it. But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he woulddie because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled andgrumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him. He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but thevoice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place ofmachinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, andhe thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heardCrifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage. Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch itwith his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet. He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him werecloser now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear thosebehind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were notfar away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted tobreak him. Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster oflow mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. Ifplants could live out there as they did within the world, then so couldpeople. Rikud and his people should . This was why the world had movedacross the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.But he was afraid. He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that hisfingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and fora long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside heheard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded onthe metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:There is Rikud on the floor! Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.Something small and brown scurried across the other side of theviewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideousred eyes. Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his facewas so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport thateveryone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of themachinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metalwhich he could see in the dim light through the open door. Where's the buzzer? he sobbed. I must find the buzzer. Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, You broke it. Youbroke it. And now we will break you— Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slippeddown against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footstepscame, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him. His head whirled and the viewport seemed to swim in a haze. Could itbe variable, as Crifer had suggested? He wondered if the scurryingbrown thing waited somewhere, and nausea struck at the pit of hisstomach. But if the plants could live out there and the scurrying thingcould live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness,then so could he live out there, and Crifer and all the others.... So tightly did he grip the handle that his fingers began to hurt. Andhis heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side ofhis neck. He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where theblue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the rowof mounds. <doc-sep></s>

The story takes place on an unnamed extraterrestrial moon and a small probe that is visiting the moon to investigate its suitability for development. The moon is an earthlike environment that appears to be a perfect paradise in every respect. The land is fertile, the wild animals are domesticated, and there is an abundance of fruit to eat and minerals to potentially harvest. The description of the world that the crew receives depicts it as a true Eden—a perfect paradise. Also on the moon is a massive cave, from where the inhabitants of the moon store their stolen goods and prepare to ambush unsuspecting potential settlers.

<s>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through. I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves. I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What— Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised. The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago. At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay. You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that? Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully. What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of any kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience? Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing! But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this. He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy. I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity. One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow. Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent. No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what we did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right. <doc-sep>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport. Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport? Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived. It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different. Then they've changed? No, merely different. Well, what about the viewport? It changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change? The stars come out at night. So there is a change from day to night! I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night? Once they shone all the time. Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable. <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt. Rikud sat down hard. He blinked. The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. <doc-sep></s>

Christianity is a central component of the story. The heart of the narrative revolves around the description of the world as a replica of the biblical Garden of Eden. The author goes into extensive detail regarding the aspects of the garden and its inhabitants and how they conform to aspects of the Genesis narrative and how it was understood by religious analysis. It is heavily suggested that here, the Serpent did not succeed in convincing man to sin and fall from grace as was the case in the biblical narrative. As a result, Ha-Adamah and Hawwah (the Hebrew names for Adam and Eve) remain clothed in light and still enjoy the preternatural gifts of creation including a highly advanced intellect, immortality and even an illuminated appearance.It is revealed that this depiction is a deception on the part of the moon’s inhabitants. Interestingly, the 4 non-believers on the crew are the most ready to believe that the state of affairs on the planet is indeed supernatural. It is only the clever priest who possesses faith, but employs the skepticism necessary to see through the fraud.

<s>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall. I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in. I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else? Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation. Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall. I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially. I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together. <doc-sep>But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water,but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles likethe first water ever made. What do you make of them? asked Stark. Human, said Steiner. It may even be that they are a little more thanhuman. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seemto be clothed, as it were, in dignity. And very little else, said Father Briton, though that light trickdoes serve a purpose. But I'm not sure they'd pass in Philadelphia. Talk to them again, said Stark. You're the linguist. That isn't necessary here, Captain. Talk to them yourself. Are there any other people here? Stark asked the man. The two of us. Man and woman. But are there any others? How would there be any others? What other kind of people could therebe than man and woman? But is there more than one man or woman? How could there be more than one of anything? The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly:Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people? You are not anything till I name you. But I will name you and thenyou can be. You are named Captain. He is named Priest. He is namedEngineer. He is named Flunky. Thanks a lot, said Steiner. But are we not people? persisted Captain Stark. No. We are the people. There are no people but two. How could there beother people? And the damnest thing about it, muttered Langweilig, is, how are yougoing to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling. Can we have something to eat? asked the Captain. Pick from the trees, said Ha-Adamah, and then it may be that youwill want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which doesnot need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But youare free to enjoy the garden and its fruits. We will, said Captain Stark. They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were theanimals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, thoughthey offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though theywanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you. If there are only two people here, said Casper Craig, then it may bethat the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertilewherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. Andthose rocks would bear examining. Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else, said Stark. Avery promising site. And everything grows here, added Steiner. Those are Earth-fruits andI never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figsand dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be,the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But Ihaven't yet tried the— and he stopped. If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think, said Gilbert, then itwill be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream orwhether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one. I won't be the first to eat one. You eat. Ask him first. You ask him. Ha-Adamah, is it allowed to eat the apples? Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden. <doc-sep>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport. Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport? Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived. It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different. Then they've changed? No, merely different. Well, what about the viewport? It changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change? The stars come out at night. So there is a change from day to night! I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night? Once they shone all the time. Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable. <doc-sep></s>

Human sinfulness and its collective fall from grace are referenced in several ways in the story. Ha-Adamah contrasts his world’s perfection with the fallenness that is apparent in the visitors. He claims to be free from the stain of original sin. He presents himself as perfectly happy and not subject to corruption, aging, or death. This is contrasted with Earth's humanity which was fated to “lose that happiness, and then to seek it vainly through all the ages.”The entire crew of the Little Probe agree on the unacceptability of spoiling a pristine world. Even so, they irresistibly and almost gleefully prepare to exploit the world’s riches.Snake-Oil Sam expounds upon this inclination. He claims that on top of the very real greed of the visitors they’ve deceived over the years, they are capitalizing on the human desire to despoil the unspoiled. This is a clear summation of concupiscence—the inclination for fallen humanity to tend toward sin. It is clear that Sam and his associates are just as fallen as the other individuals in the story, preying on others to further their own goals.

<s>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared. I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death. But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission. He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later. I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him. He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were. “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?” He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?” I told him one-thirty-five. “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?” “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.” “No, I mean real heat.” Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.” “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.” “What trip?” “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said. I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?” He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then, nobody’s gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.” I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself. It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust how hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it. I wanted to be along. <doc-sep> Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.” Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it. Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing. The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.” Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.” “At perihelion?” “Of course. When else?” The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.” “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded. “The name is Claney,” said the stranger. There was a silence. Then: “Claney? Peter Claney?” “That’s right.” Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man— where have you been hiding? We’ve been trying to contact you for months!” “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.” “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling. Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.” “But you’ve got to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need details . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—” “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney. “Of course we want to know. We have to know.” “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.” “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.” Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the planet that whipped us, that and the Sun . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.” “Never,” said Baron. “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said. <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore. Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures. Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around. The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations. Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like. Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy. It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test. We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges. The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?” “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know. “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.” I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?” “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.” “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked. “No. Are you worried?” “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.” The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.” Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course. “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west could be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.” Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.” The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—” It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized. But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO 2 , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide. The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there. Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited. He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about. Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest. <doc-sep></s>

James Baron is planning a trek to Brightside Crossing on Mercury, a feat so far unaccomplished. Few had tried, and those that did died. All except for one. He is asked to wait at the Red Baron as someone wanted to see him at 8. He waits patiently and is rewarded with the company of Peter Claney, the man who made it back home. Claney instantly tells him to give up on the journey and stay on Earth. Baron asks for details about their trek and what went wrong, but Claney refuses to give him the details. Claney is an older man now with an epithelioma on his face. Although he came to warn him, he quickly learns that Baron may only listen if he hears the truth. So Claney recounts the story. Major Tom Mikuta recruited Claney, Jack Stone, and Ted McIvers to join him. They were to adventure to the Brightside Crossing at perihelion, a more dangerous journey. Temperatures reached up to 770 degrees Fahrenheit at perihelion, but Mikuta was an all-or-nothing man. Stone arrived on Mercury first, soon followed by Mikuta and Claney. McIvers was the last to arrive and they left soon after with three Bugs and one tractor dragging the sledges. Stone was briefed by Sanderson, the head of the observatory, before they left, and the men pored over all images and maps of the Crossing before beginning. Despite their high-tech spacesuits and general gadgets, the giant sun still got to them. They were constantly thirsty and hot, and their skin itched and burned. They drove for eight hours, then slept for five. They needed to travel 70 miles a day. It would take 30 days to reach the Center, and then another 30 to reach the pick-up spot. The journey quickly took a toll on Stone, who was the most apprehensive of the bunch. He retreats into himself, while McIvers chatters nonstop to fill the silence. Tension grew among the crew, especially as McIvers put himself at risk by adventuring away from them. Claney lead the gang in his Bug, while McIvers and Mikuta flanked him. Stone was in the very back. If Claney saw something suspicious or unsafe, they would investigate on foot before continuing in their equipment. As they travel, they got closer to the Sun, which appeared to be twice as big as it did on Earth. Several drives into their journey, McIvers discovered something truly terrible on one of his forrays. He screamed into the intercom, alerting the others who quickly rushed after him. He stood there, pointing below. There lay a broken, older Bug and two corpses. Wyatt and Carpenter, the original discoverers. They continued on with disheartened spirits until Claney reached a cleft. There was no way to cross it, except for a very small and dangerous ledge. The cleft slowly began to crumble under their Bugs and they’re left in a very precarious position.

<s>We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets. The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off. That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat. The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?” McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.” The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?” Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—” McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?” “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?” “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?” “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.” Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.” McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the advance work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?” “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply. “Charts! I’m talking about detail work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—” “No dice,” the Major broke in. “But why not? We could save ourselves days!” “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.” McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.” “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?” McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too. “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.” It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab. I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges. Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles. I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite. We didn’t feel the heat so much those first days out. We saw it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace. We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins. The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so. We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer. After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases. It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible. Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself. Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain. I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash. We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires. I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first. Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too. McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time. Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better. And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek. But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones. I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds.... We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets. This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on their Brightside Crossing. <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore. Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures. Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around. The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations. Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like. Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy. It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test. We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges. The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?” “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know. “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.” I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?” “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.” “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked. “No. Are you worried?” “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.” The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.” Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course. “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west could be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.” Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.” The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—” It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized. But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO 2 , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide. The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there. Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited. He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about. Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest. <doc-sep>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared. I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death. But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission. He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later. I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him. He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were. “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?” He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?” I told him one-thirty-five. “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?” “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.” “No, I mean real heat.” Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.” “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.” “What trip?” “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said. I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?” He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then, nobody’s gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.” I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself. It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust how hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it. I wanted to be along. <doc-sep></s>

From the get-go, Claney is clear in his obvious mistrust of McIvers and his preceding reputation. Late to Mercury, he arrives ready to explore. With long, gray hair and paradoxically drowsy yet alert eyes, McIvers’ constant movement and chatter get on his colleague’s nerves. McIvers is a famous climber known for pushing the boundaries and being a daredevil. After his arrival on Mercury, he and the crew soon set out for their treacherous journey to the Brightside Crossing. He switches spots with Stone, so he would have control of a Bug. He also asks to explore four or five miles ahead of the rest of the crew to see if it’s dangerous footing ahead. Mikuta quickly shuts him down. McIvers talks nonstop through the intercoms or when they’re supposed to be resting. As well, he disobeys Mikuta’s orders and occasionally drifts off from the rest of the group, discovering things as he goes. He never drifts far enough to receive any real punishment, though he does get farther away every time. During one of his side-explorations, he discovers a wrecked Bug and two corpses belonging to Wyatt and Carpenter, the previous explorers of the Brightside Crossing. With this shocking find, he returns to the crew in silence.

<s>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared. I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death. But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission. He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later. I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him. He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were. “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?” He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?” I told him one-thirty-five. “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?” “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.” “No, I mean real heat.” Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.” “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.” “What trip?” “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said. I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?” He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then, nobody’s gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.” I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself. It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust how hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it. I wanted to be along. <doc-sep> Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.” Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it. Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing. The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.” Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.” “At perihelion?” “Of course. When else?” The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.” “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded. “The name is Claney,” said the stranger. There was a silence. Then: “Claney? Peter Claney?” “That’s right.” Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man— where have you been hiding? We’ve been trying to contact you for months!” “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.” “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling. Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.” “But you’ve got to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need details . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—” “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney. “Of course we want to know. We have to know.” “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.” “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.” Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the planet that whipped us, that and the Sun . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.” “Never,” said Baron. “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said. <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore. Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures. Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around. The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations. Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like. Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy. It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test. We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges. The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?” “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know. “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.” I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?” “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.” “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked. “No. Are you worried?” “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.” The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.” Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course. “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west could be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.” Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.” The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—” It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized. But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO 2 , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide. The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there. Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited. He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about. Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest. <doc-sep></s>

Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse mostly takes place on the surface of Mercury. The main characters begin in an observatory equipped to support human life as well as do research on the planet itself. However, they quickly move on in their journey to cross the Brightside at perihelion. Full of craters, gorges, and cracked land, the planet’s surface is incredibly dangerous to travel on. Sulfurous, hot winds blow across the planet. Beyond the towering, rocky spears and jagged gorges lay yellow valleys and flatlands. The gas beneath the surface of the planet can cause volcanic-like eruptions. This gas can also imply rise up from the core and poison the atmosphere around it. Gray dust caused by years of erosion rested atop every surface. Mercury is an incredibly hot planet, being the nearest to the sun, and the surface reflects that.

<s>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared. I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death. But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission. He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later. I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him. He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were. “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?” He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?” I told him one-thirty-five. “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?” “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.” “No, I mean real heat.” Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.” “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.” “What trip?” “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said. I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?” He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then, nobody’s gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.” I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself. It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust how hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it. I wanted to be along. <doc-sep> Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.” Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it. Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing. The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.” Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.” “At perihelion?” “Of course. When else?” The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.” “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded. “The name is Claney,” said the stranger. There was a silence. Then: “Claney? Peter Claney?” “That’s right.” Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man— where have you been hiding? We’ve been trying to contact you for months!” “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.” “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling. Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.” “But you’ve got to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need details . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—” “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney. “Of course we want to know. We have to know.” “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.” “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.” Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the planet that whipped us, that and the Sun . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.” “Never,” said Baron. “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said. <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore. Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures. Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around. The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations. Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like. Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy. It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test. We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges. The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?” “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know. “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.” I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?” “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.” “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked. “No. Are you worried?” “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.” The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.” Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course. “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west could be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.” Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.” The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—” It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized. But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO 2 , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide. The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there. Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited. He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about. Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest. <doc-sep></s>

The Brightside Crossing is an undiscovered portion of Mercury. It is the closest planet to the sun, and the Brightside is the surface that is face-to-face with the surface of the sun most of the time, thanks to Mercury’s quick orbit. It is an incredibly dangerous area of Mercury, with temperatures reaching up to 770 degrees Fahrenheit, possibly more. Because of the difficult atmosphere, the presence of dangerous gases, treacherous landscape, and the heat, the Brightside Crossing remained undiscovered and uninhabitable for hundreds of years. Major Tom Mikuta decided to follow in the footsteps of Wyatt and Carpenter and take on the challenge. The promise of power and discovery draws the main characters forward, as well as the idea of being the first. Mikuta claims that if he were to make the crossing, Mercury would be his. The challenge of the Brightside Crossing is the origin of their desire.

<s>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore. Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures. Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around. The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations. Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like. Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy. It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test. We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges. The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?” “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know. “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.” I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?” “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.” “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked. “No. Are you worried?” “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.” The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.” Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course. “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west could be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.” Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.” The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—” It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized. But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO 2 , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide. The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there. Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited. He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about. Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest. <doc-sep>We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets. The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off. That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat. The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?” McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.” The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?” Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—” McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?” “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?” “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?” “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.” Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.” McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the advance work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?” “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply. “Charts! I’m talking about detail work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—” “No dice,” the Major broke in. “But why not? We could save ourselves days!” “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.” McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.” “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?” McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too. “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.” It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab. I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges. Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles. I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite. We didn’t feel the heat so much those first days out. We saw it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace. We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins. The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so. We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer. After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases. It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible. Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself. Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain. I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash. We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires. I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first. Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too. McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time. Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better. And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek. But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones. I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds.... We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets. This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on their Brightside Crossing. <doc-sep>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared. I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death. But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission. He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later. I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him. He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were. “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?” He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?” I told him one-thirty-five. “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?” “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.” “No, I mean real heat.” Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.” “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.” “What trip?” “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said. I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?” He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then, nobody’s gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.” I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself. It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust how hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it. I wanted to be along. <doc-sep></s>

Jack Stone arrives on the surface of Mercury around a week ahead of his partners. It’s revealed rather early on that Stone is not much of an explorer himself. His wits and genius make him an invaluable resource, but his heart wasn’t necessarily in the right place. Claney claims that Stone only came to follow Major Mikuta around, a man he deeply respected and admired. At barely 25 years old, Stone was the youngest member of the team. His experience with Mikuta at the Vulcan qualified him for the trek, or so he thought, and so he tagged along. His apprehension and anxiety about the trip are evident from the beginning. After Sanderson, the leader of an observatory on Mercury, explained how treacherous their journey was going to be, Stone almost cried. Once they begin their trek, Stone retreats further into himself. Jack’s job was to drag the sledges behind the rest of the crew. Possibly fed up by McIvers’ constant joking or tortured by the fear that he would be lost on this planet forever, Stone became a shell of himself. In the end, after McIvers discovered the corpses of the two discoverers that came before them, Wyatt and Carpenter, we can only assume that Stone’s fear and reservedness increased tremendously.

<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep> DOUBLE TROUBLE by CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees, I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] We had left the offices of Interstellar Voice three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees. Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters. As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt. This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot. Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks. Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to. He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us. <doc-sep></s>

The mining for a precious ore called Acoustix has spurred colonization of Jupiter’s eighth moon by two mining companies called Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated. There is a barren desert landscape between the mining areas of the two companies that is called the Baldric. The only plant appears to be trees that have melon-shaped tops, and the only animal is a silver parrot-like bird that is capable of imitating human speech, and also of imitating human forms in a holographic-like manner.Grannie Annie (AKA Annabella C. Flowers) is a famous science fiction writer, who is travelling to the Baldric with her martian employee, Xartal, who takes detailed drawings that are the background research for her next novel. She is travelling in a party of four: herself, Xartal, Ezra Karn (old prospector), and the narrator (called Billy-boy by Grannie).Strange happenings are known to occur in the Baldric. They encounter a silver bird that repeats English words and creates what seems like a mirage of themselves projected in the distance which disappears as it comes closer. They do not know at the time, but the parrot has created this mirage based on viewing one of the lifelike drawings that Xartal is making of the group.They happen to run into Jimmy Baker, the manager of the Larynx Incorporated mining company, who is interested in Grannie’s help sorting out the root cause of his workers coming down with “red spot fever” which causes them to leave their work and walk into the Baldric, never to return. They travel to Larynx Incorporated’s offices with Jimmy, where he learns all of the workers from Shaft Four have left their posts due to the fever. Coincidentally, that is also their most productive ore location. Jimmy, Grannie, and Xartal take off to Shaft Four via the Baldric to investigate what is going on. During their travel, they break for camp near a flock of the birds and discover their ability to imitate human forms.Antlers Karn, the manager of Interstellar Voice, turns out to be a bad guy who ambushes Grannie’s camp. He is trying to sabotage Jimmy’s company by causing the red spot fever to stop them from capitalizing on a huge deposit of Acoustix they discovered in Shaft Four. He steals Jimmy’s car and kidnaps a mirage-version of Grannie. Billy and Ezra chase them down and discover Antlers has stranded their friends in a valley thirty miles away. Grannie has independently solved the mystery of the Red Spot Fever and sending her mirage with Antlers was part of her master plan. When Billy and Ezra return to her, Jimmy is projecting ultra-violet light onto a large group of the Shaft Four workers in a deep valley gorge. This counteracts the infra-red radiation that put them into a trance-like state that caused them to wander into the desert.Grannie, Jimmy, Xartal, Billy, and Ezra are triumphantly returning the workers to Shaft Four at the close of the story.

<s>Now that the virus diseases had been licked, people hardly evergot sick any more and, when they did, it was mostly psychosomatic.Life was so well organized that there weren't even many accidentsthese days. It was a safe, orderly existence for those who fittedinto it—which accounted for more than ninety-five per cent of thepopulation. The only ones who didn't adjust were those who couldn't,like me—psi-deficients, throwbacks to an earlier era. There were nophysical cripples, because anybody could have a new arm or a new leggrafted on, but you couldn't graft psi powers onto an atavism or, ifyou could, the technique hadn't been developed yet. I feel a sense of impending doom brooding over this household, myyoungest brother remarked cheerfully as he vaulted into his chair. You always do, Timothy, my mother said, unfolding her napkin. And Imust say it's not in good taste, especially at breakfast. He reached for his juice. Guess this is a doomed household. And whatwas all that emotional uproar about? The usual, Sylvia said from the doorway before anyone else couldanswer. She slid warily into her chair. Hey, Dan, I'm here! shecalled. If anything else comes in, it comes in manually, understand? Oh, all right. Dan emerged from the kitchen with a tray of foodfloating ahead of him. The usual? Trouble with Kev? Tim looked at me narrowly. Somehow mysense of ominousness is connected with him. Well, that's perfectly natural— Sylvia began, then stopped as Mothercaught her eye. I didn't mean that, Tim said. I still say Kev's got something wecan't figure out. You've been saying that for years, Danny protested, and he's beentested for every faculty under the Sun. He can't telepath or teleportor telekinesthesize or even teletype. He can't precognize or prefix orprepossess. He can't— Strictly a bundle of no-talent, that's me, I interrupted, trying tokeep my animal feelings from getting the better of me. That was how myfamily thought of me, I knew—as an animal, and not a very lovable one,either. No, Tim said, he's just got something we haven't developed a testfor. It'll come out some day, you'll see. He smiled at me. <doc-sep>Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers. Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled. Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet. A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase. Let's look around, I said. We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of Larynx Incorporated , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel. C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are. He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene. It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them. It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone. Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too? Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much. The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements. Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen. Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there? Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever. Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando? Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague? A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room. Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos. There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it. <doc-sep> 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></s>

In the buildings of Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated, two Acoustix ore mining companies on Jupiter’s eighth moon.The Baldric - the largely deserted space between the mining grounds of Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated. It is a desert-like place with trees that are trunks with melon-shaped tops, and silver birds that can repeat English phrases as well as mimic human forms that appear like mirages. There is also a deep valley gorge within the desert and many eyries which seem similar to oases.There are several scenes aboard kite-propelled cars in the Baldric, as well as visiphone-like video feed of Jimmy’s car that is viewed from the offices of Larynx Incorporated.Shaft Four is one of the locations that Larynx Incorporated mines in on the border of the Baldric, which is talked about often, but is never actually visited by the main characters during the story.

<s>Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers. Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled. Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet. A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase. Let's look around, I said. We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of Larynx Incorporated , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel. C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are. He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene. It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them. It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone. Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too? Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much. The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements. Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen. Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there? Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever. Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando? Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague? A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room. Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos. There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it. <doc-sep>I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now thecountry began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to groupthemselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, asif to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetratethat wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths. Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert beganagain. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard asgranite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distanceblack bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm ordoorway between. I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off powerwith an exclamation of astonishment. There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it wasGrannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing. Grannie! I yelled. What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker? She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock. Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers, she said, a twinkle in her eyes.I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot oftrouble. She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you. She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deepgorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressingclose. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement. Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line ofLarynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving downthe center of the gorge toward the entrance. But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreenhad been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-likecontrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft ofbluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forthupon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian. Ultra violet, Grannie Annie explained. The opposite end of thevibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red raysthat cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they'vereached Shaft Four. Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners alwaysahead of us. Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which ifworked successfully would see Larynx Incorporated become a far morepowerful exporting concern than Interstellar Voice . Antlers Parkdidn't want that. It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynxbarracks. For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot wasresponsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman onthis Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness. Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park stroveto head her off before she reached Shaft Four. He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal intothe Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from thelens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague. Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in JimmyBaker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. <doc-sep>Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction. If I weren't a realist, I'd say that Larynx Incorporated has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them. Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously. Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear. He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass. They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip. But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said. Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us. I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move. After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of Larynx Incorporated . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn. Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric. Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely. Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked. He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding. Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there. There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down? Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights. A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch. The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings. Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said. Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of Interstellar Voice , our rival, in a year. Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory. There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items. The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp. <doc-sep></s>

Jimmy Baker is the manager of the Acoustix ore mining company called Larynx Incorporated on Jupiter’s eighth moon. Grannie Annie (AKA Annabella C. Flowers) is a famous science fiction writer, well known for her authentic background research for her novels. She is exploring the eighth moon of Jupiter for her newest novel.Jimmy has knowledge of Grannie’s work and is hoping she can help him solve the mystery of the Red Spot Fever with her excellent problem solving skills. Grannie does not appear to know Jimmy before their meeting in the Baldric. They have a cordial and collaborative relationship through the story that results in solving the mystery.

<s>When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of Lady of the Green Flames , Lady of the Runaway Planet , Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person. Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of Interstellar Voice on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo. What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book. Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of Interstellar Voice . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself. Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric. What's the Baldric? I had asked. Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged. Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself? I scowled at that; it didn't make sense. However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on. What do you mean? Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found. There are two companies here, he continued, Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric. There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble. What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour. <doc-sep> THE FROZEN PLANET By Keith Laumer [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission. Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on. There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating. Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force. Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned. This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it. Magnan drew a large folder from his desk. A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil. Magnan tapped the folder before him. I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief. <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through. I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves. I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What— Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised. The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago. At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay. You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that? Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully. What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of any kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience? Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing! But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this. He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy. I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity. One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow. Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent. No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what we did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right. <doc-sep></s>

It is a precious, lightweight ore found on at least one of Jupiter’s moons (eighth moon) that is highly valuable on Mars, but of no value on Earth. Martians are able to speak out loud as Earthlings do by supersonically amplifying their thoughts. As Martians grow beyond middle age, they are no longer able to do this amplification without the assistance of the Acoustix ore. Thus, it is highly valuable to them.The ore is the only reason for colonization of Jupiter’s moons, and there are two main companies that mine it - Interstellar Voice, Larynx Incorporated. It becomes a source of greed, which causes the manager of Interstellar Voice (Antlers Karn) to attempt sabotage against the other company, serving as the main climax of the story.

<s>Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images. The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings? Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied. Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park. Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank. Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again. Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs. That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever? On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady. Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks. Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds. Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping. The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window. Look here, he said. Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work. All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men. I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator: Turn it on! The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice. <doc-sep> DOUBLE TROUBLE by CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees, I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] We had left the offices of Interstellar Voice three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees. Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters. As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt. This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot. Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks. Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to. He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us. <doc-sep>Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction. If I weren't a realist, I'd say that Larynx Incorporated has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them. Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously. Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear. He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass. They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip. But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said. Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us. I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move. After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of Larynx Incorporated . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn. Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric. Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely. Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked. He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding. Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there. There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down? Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights. A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch. The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings. Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said. Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of Interstellar Voice , our rival, in a year. Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory. There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items. The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp. <doc-sep></s>

The symptoms of the fever are described as “garrulousness” followed by the victims leaving their post and walking into the Baldric desert.The fever is brought on by infra-red rays from Jupiter’s great spot. Normally, people on this moon aren’t coming down with the fever from their regular activities. However, a lens-like device mounted in the window of the worker barracks at Larynx Incorporated projects the infra-red rays from the great spot around the room onto the sleeping workers which puts them into this trance-like state.Antlers Karn is responsible for causing the Red Spot Fever by having the devices installed in his competitors' barracks. He also claims to have developed an antitoxin that would reverse the fever, however, it is implied that this was only a lie to cover up his actions.

<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON 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.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep></s>

Purnie, an animal, is going to see the ocean on his fifth birthday. He has heard stories about this place, and experiencing it firsthand is surreal for him. Purnie is careful not to disturb the animals he sees along the way because he has frozen time, and everything must resume normally when he unfreezes it. He knows that time-stopping is forbidden for animals his age, but he chooses to believe that his family will be proud of his bravery. Finally, he sees the ocean in front of him, and he resumes time. He does a head-stand and feels weak and dizzy. These feelings are a result of the time-stop, and he knows it. Purnie approaches some humans on the beach. A man named Forbes is in the middle of explaining to his captain, Benson, that he has found 17 planets to claim as his own. Forbes is hellbent on raising his FORBES flag as soon as possible. He is eager to stake his claim to the land and says that his mission is much bigger than real estate alone. Benson retorts that yes, his mission is bigger than just real estate because his paperwork says that Forbes will own all of the inhabitants of the planets he claims as well as the land. The crew members use a special machine and find radiation emanating from Purnie. Forbes demands that they put the animal in a box. Benson protests and reminds Forbes that it’s against Universal Law, but Forbes insists. Purnie experiences his first-ever impulse to run away with fear when a noose comes towards him. He goes back to pick up his fruit, and Forbes shoots him in the leg. When the man throws the noose again, Purnie involuntarily stops time. He drags himself up the knoll where he originally came from. The humans are astonished when time resumes and Purnie is not where he was a split second ago. They spot him up on top of a pile of petrified logs, and suddenly the logs fall down the hill and pin the men down. Purnie is shocked and regretful. The whole thing was an accident. He deliberately stops time and uses all of his remaining strength to lift the logs off of the humans. Purnie begins to lose consciousness, and he knows that he must resume time or he will die. After pouring all of his strength into this action, time does begin again. The humans resume life and feel as though they have gone mad. They know that they were just facing death by drowning, and now they are free. The logs were so heavy that it would have taken superhuman strength to move them. Forbes, in particular, has really gone mad, and he laughs to himself uncontrollably. Benson believes that Purnie was responsible for moving the logs, but of course that seems physically impossible. Purnie stares off at the beautiful ocean views and watches the men leave in their vehicle as he dies.

<s>His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomachand pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled overPurnie as sounds came from the animal. What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!What's happening? I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're eithercrazy or those damn logs are alive! It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,we're both cracking. I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they'repiled up over there! Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? CaptainBenson! Are you men all right? Yes sir, but— Who saw exactly what happened? I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs— I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up theothers and get out of here while time is on our side. But what happened, Captain? Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so oldthey're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It wouldtake super-human energy to move one of those things. I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are sobusy eating seaweed— All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can'twalk. Where's Forbes? He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Orlaughing. I can't tell which. We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You allright? Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'lldo anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see thatlittle trick with the rocks? Ho-ho! See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or oneof us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be alongshortly. Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsiblefor this. Hee-hee! <doc-sep>The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels. All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home. Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich! Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim. Bah! Bunch of damn children. As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away. He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response. Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach. Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now. There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve. Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque. All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow! <doc-sep>When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing. My God, he's—he's gone. Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him? The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone. Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he? Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him? Well, I'll be damned! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way. Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun! Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria. The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand. I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout. The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf. <doc-sep></s>

Forbes is the head of the expedition to claim planets, and Benson is the Captain of the crew. Forbes provides all of the money to make the trips possible, and he pays Benson’s and the other mens’ salaries. Captain Benson is responsible for keeping all of the men safe and making sure the trip goes smoothly. Although Forbes is Benson’s superior, Benson does feel the need to speak his mind to Forbes. When Forbes demands that Benson’s crew stop dawdling and hurry up and put his FORBES flag up, Benson tells Forbes that they are only humans. Of course they are interested in the new environment and want to take a moment to look around. He is not afraid to tell Forbes that capturing Purnie or injuring him is against Universal Laws. Benson does not want to take part in illegal activities, and he scoffs at Forbes’ remarks that he is a pioneer and not a real estate developer. He openly tells Forbes that he knows he will triple his money after claiming these planets, so it’s not like he’s doing it for the greater good of humanity. Benson also asks Forbes if he’s going to take his 17 new planets back home with him to San Diego. It’s clear that Benson has little respect for Forbes and the way he conducts his business, but at the same time, he needs a job and Forbes is providing him with an incredible opportunity to survey all sorts of different planets.Benson has to face Forbes’ wrath when Purnie goes missing after Forbes shoots him and they attempt to put a noose around his neck. After Purnie unfreezes time, the men are confused as to what they just saw. Forbes turns to Benson and tells him that he is holding him responsible for this mishap even though there is zero evidence that Benson did anything wrong.After the logs fall on the men and Purnie uses all of his remaining strength to save their lives, Forbes is completely out of his mind. Benson finds it a bit humorous, especially since he has an inkling that Purnie, the bug-eyed creature, was behind the whole thing. He does not respect Forbes and thinks his disconnect to reality and repetitive laughter is what he deserves for the way he treated Purnie, himself, and the crew.

<s>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath. Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me? I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown! Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving? The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water— Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head. Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop. Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore. It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke. Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him. At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim. He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time. Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below. Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened. His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe. He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no urging time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other. Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand.... <doc-sep> BEACH SCENE By MARSHALL KING Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It was a fine day at the beach for Purnie's game—but his new friends played very rough! Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last. When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time. On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were. His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi. With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean. If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean. He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five! I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off. <doc-sep>Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation. He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself. He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun. Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some? The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs. Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun! There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up. The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time. The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand. As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position. Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals. Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty. <doc-sep></s>

The unnamed planet where the story takes place is breathtaking, colorful, and lively with all sorts of fauna and flora unknown to Earth. There is blue moss on the forest floors, bubbling streams, and orange pools of water. There are also bees, purple clouds, petrified logs by the ocean, and three-legged animals who eat seaweed. The orange ocean waves crash against the sand, and two moons hover in the sky. Humans have never touched this land, so Purnie is surprised that he has never heard his brothers or parents talk about the two-legged animals who make strange sounds. He does not understand that they have just landed their ship here and are experiencing the land for the first time.

<s> BEACH SCENE By MARSHALL KING Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It was a fine day at the beach for Purnie's game—but his new friends played very rough! Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last. When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time. On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were. His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi. With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean. If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean. He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five! I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off. <doc-sep>Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation. He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself. He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun. Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some? The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs. Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun! There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up. The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time. The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand. As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position. Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals. Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty. <doc-sep>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath. Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me? I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown! Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving? The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water— Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head. Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop. Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore. It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke. Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him. At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim. He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time. Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below. Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened. His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe. He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no urging time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other. Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand.... <doc-sep></s>

Although Purnie is an animal and not a human, he plays a very important role in the story. Through his understanding of the world, we learn that he has never felt real fear before. This makes sense because although he has been warned about stopping time, and he has explicitly been told that it could lead to his death, he decides to go ahead with his birthday plan anyway and stop time and see the ocean. When the humans throw a noose at him in an attempt to capture him, he is shocked to find that his body instinctively runs from it. He doesn’t really experience the fear because he wants to play with them and has no interest in leaving the fun, but his natural impulses as an animal save his life at this moment. Humans have never before visited his planet, so this means that no other animal Purnie has come in contact with has made his body react this way. Purnie also demonstrates how evil Forbes is for trying to capture and kill such an innocent and caring animal. When Benson reminds Forbes that it’s illegal to shoot or capture Purnie, Forbes does not care at all. He wants the animal that is emitting radiation because he believes he can make a profit off of him. The value of Purnie’s life means nothing to him. However, as soon as Purnie feels as though his “friends” are in danger, he is willing to risk his own life by stopping time to help them. Purnie feels guilt, regret, and sorrow when he accidentally causes the petrified logs to fall on the men, yet Forbes has none of those feelings when he shoots Purnie in the leg and causes him pain.

<s>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath. Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me? I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown! Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving? The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water— Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head. Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop. Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore. It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke. Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him. At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim. He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time. Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below. Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened. His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe. He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no urging time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other. Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand.... <doc-sep>When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing. My God, he's—he's gone. Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him? The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone. Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he? Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him? Well, I'll be damned! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way. Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun! Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria. The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand. I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout. The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf. <doc-sep>Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation. He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself. He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun. Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some? The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs. Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun! There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up. The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time. The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand. As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position. Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals. Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty. <doc-sep></s>

Forbes believes he can control anyone and anything he comes in contact with. His first order of business upon landing on the gorgeous planet is to put up his flag emblazoned with his name. When Benson reminds him that the crew members are interested in taking a moment to look around, Forbes reprimands him for suggesting that they have the right to waste his money. He believes that putting up his flag is a symbol of defeat, and he is incredibly eager to take over a planet he literally just landed on and knows almost nothing about. He incessantly talks about the 17 other planets he has already conquered, and he calls himself a pioneer. Although Forbes definitely makes a lot of money by claiming these planets, he is more interested in the control and fame it brings him than the money he will inevitably make. The first time that Purnie freezes time to escape the noose after Forbes shoots him in the leg, Forbes is incredibly confused but willing to blame the glitch on Benson. He shot Purnie after explicitly being told not to, so he assumes that Benson secretly managed to aid Purnie in getting away. He is furious at this act because capturing the animal emitting radiation is very important to him. He doesn't care if it’s illegal or immoral. He wants control of the planet, the animal, and the crew. The second time that Purnie freezes time, Forbes cannot simply ignore it. He knows that he saw the petrified logs falling down the hill, he knows that he saw several crew members pinned under the logs, about to drown, and he knows that he himself was in a near-death situation one second and saved in the next. There is simply no explanation in his mind for what occurred, and his brain can’t compute the mysterious event. He laughs hysterically because he can’t process the information that his brain receives. He was about to die, and now he is perfectly fine, and he has no explanation for the chain of events.