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<s>She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway intothe big circular room, she cut her laugh short. A second later, as I came along, I saw why. There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and hadthat hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electricclubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides. I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know theykept looking at me. Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to theexit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,tracking us. I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into mysmile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see heragain—but of course I didn't dare. III I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go intothem, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a pingpong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made tofeel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum. I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closingtime. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours thefollowing morning. In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work attheoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of trampingaround. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously andgot up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was adrama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners tothe forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southempolitical prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere ofMars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, ledby our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thickerthan water. Standard. There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitlessforests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, ina green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put upwith the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet. And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security forthe nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewherein the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewherebeyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to gothere.... Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of averse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People hadunwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) Thepoem went: Wherever I go, I go too, And spoil everything. That was it. The story of mankind. I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but Ididn't sleep for a long, long time. Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voiceagain. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voiceout of my unconscious. You have taken the first step , she said. You are on your wayto freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness ofconformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the onlyanswer.... <doc-sep>He lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring at the car's plush ceiling.It's a great system, isn't it, Joe? A true democracy. Even a jerk likeyou is free to do what he wants, as long as it's legal. I think it's a lousy, filthy system. Joe's head was still tinglingwith pain and he felt suffocated. The CPA was everywhere, only now itwas also inside his head, telling him he couldn't do this, couldn't dothat. All his life it had been telling him he couldn't do things hewanted to do and now .... Hendricks laughed. You'll change your opinion. We live in a clean,wonderful world, Joe. A world of happy, healthy people. Except forfreaks like yourself, criminals are— Let me out! Joe grabbed at the door and was on the sidewalk, slammingthe door behind him before the car stopped completely. He stared at the car as it pulled away from the curb and glided intothe stream of traffic again. He realized he was a prisoner ... aprisoner inside his own body ... made a prisoner by a world that hatedhim back. He wanted to spit his contempt, but the increasingly familiar pain andvoice prevented him. It was unlawful to spit on a sidewalk. <doc-sep>Forty miles to the south, Hap Arnold Field was a blaze of light. Theairmen tumbled out of their quarters and dayrooms at the screech ofthe alert siren, and behind them their wives and children stretchedand yawned and worried. An alert! The older kids fussed and complainedand their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any alert scheduledfor tonight; no, they didn't know where Daddy was going; no, the kidscouldn't get up yet—it was the middle of the night. And as soon as they had the kids back in bed, most of the mothersstruggled into their own airwac uniforms and headed for the briefingarea to hear. They caught the words from a distance—not quite correctly. Riot!gasped an aircraftswoman first-class, mother of three. The wipes! I told Charlie they'd get out of hand and—Alys, we aren't safe. Youknow how they are about GI women! I'm going right home and get a cluband stand right by the door and— Club! snapped Alys, radarscope-sergeant, with two childrenquerulously awake in her nursery at home. What in God's name is theuse of a club? You can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head. You'dbetter come along to Supply with me and draw a gun—you'll need itbefore this night is over. But the airmen themselves heard the briefing loud and clear over thescramble-call speakers, and they knew it was not merely a matter oftrouble in the wipe quarters. The Jug! The governor himself had calledthem out; they were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-suchlevels on such-and-such flight circuits around the prison. The rockets took off on fountains of fire; and the jets took off with awhistling roar; and last of all, the helicopters took off ... and theywere the ones who might actually accomplish something. They took uptheir picket posts on the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiersin each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below. They were ready for the breakout. But there wasn't any breakout. The rockets went home for fuel. The jets went home for fuel. Thehelicopters hung on—still ready, still waiting. The rockets came back and roared harmlessly about, and went away again.They stayed away. The helicopter men never faltered and never relaxed.The prison below them was washed with light—from the guard posts onthe walls, from the cell blocks themselves, from the mobile lights ofthe guard squadrons surrounding the walls. North of the prison, on the long, flat, damp developments of reclaimedland, the matchbox row houses of the clerical neighborhoods showedlights in every window as the figgers stood ready to repel invasionfrom their undesired neighbors to the east, the wipes. In the crowdedtenements of the laborers' quarters, the wipes shouted from window towindow; and there were crowds in the bright streets. The whole bloody thing's going to blow up! a helicopter bombardieryelled bitterly to his pilot, above the flutter and roar of thewhirling blades. Look at the mobs in Greaserville! The first breakoutfrom the Jug's going to start a fight like you never saw and we'll beright in the middle of it! He was partly right. He would be right in the middle of it—for everyman, woman and child in the city-state would be right in the middle ofit. There was no place anywhere that would be spared. No mixing. Thatwas the prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm ina family fight—and aren't all mechanics a family, aren't all laborersa clan, aren't all clerks and office workers related by closer tiesthan blood or skin? But the declassed cons of the Jug were the dregs of every class; andonce they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. Thebreakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had everknown. But he was also partly wrong. Because the breakout wasn't seeming tocome. <doc-sep></s>

There is a gravely sick girl on a spaceship near Mars and the crew argues what to do. Roberds decides to pilot the ship to Earth breaking the command due to an emergency. Rat argues with him and wants to pilot the ship himself, which leads to him being forced to leave. Roberds and Peterson then explain to nurse Gray, who is looking after the sick girl, that Rat left his post once and therefore didn't warn anyone about the Sansan massacre, so now he is out of favor. The nurse, nevertheless, visits Rat in secret and asks to pilot the ship. She says the sick wants him to and Rat takes Judith, the sick girl covered in blankets, and the nurse to the hammocks on his wings. The girls then wait for him to return with another sick man who was injured after finding and saving the crashed girls in the past. Judith feels bad for breaking the law and causing so much trouble by leaving Earth, now her appendix hurts and they have to take charge of the ship and travel to a hospital on Earth. Rat returns with sick Gladney and learns that Judith and Patti Gray were attacked during their cruise to space, which is the reason they got to Mars. The trip begins, soon everyone gets thirsty and hot, Gray is hurt when the ship moves between a meteor rain, she is devastated with suffering. Rat refuses to brake and is going to make the trip in six days instead of eight. He then tells his part of the story about the Sansan massacre - he left the post to save a sick man but nobody believed it back then.

<s>Whew! Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all toofamiliar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force itscrowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear.She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, herface tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. TheCentaurian was grinning at her. Do you always leave in a hurry? she demanded, and instantly wishedshe hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign. Long-time sleep, he announced. Four, five hours maybe. The cheststrap was lying loose at his side. That long! she was incredulous. I'm never out more than threehours! Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the controlpanel. Not taking time, he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shookher head and looked at the others. That isn't doing either of them any good! Rat nodded unhappily. What's her matter—? pointing. Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thingitself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient diesin a week unless it is taken out. Don't know it, he said briefly. Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix? she demanded. Rat folded his arms and considered this. Don't know. Maybe yes, maybeno. Where's it hurt? Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this furtherand drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered hiseyes that night ... only last night ... in the office. Peterson hadrefused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it. No, he waved. No appendix. Never nowhere appendix. Then Mother Nature has finally woke up! she exclaimed. But why doCentaurians rate it exclusively? Rat ignored this and asked one of her. What you and her doing upthere? He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars. You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came overin a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy tohandle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship becauseof an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know. So you? So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Orwill be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking forwork. She shivered. Cold? he inquired concernedly. On the contrary, I'm too warm. She started to remove the blanket. Ratthrew up a hand to stop her. Leave on! Hot out here. But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off! No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold,yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See? Gray stared at him. I never thought of it that way before. Why ofcourse! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect fromanother. Isn't it silly of me not to know that? Heat pressing on herface accented the fact. What is your name? she asked. Your real one I mean. He grinned. Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas andbottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does. His eyesswept the panel and flashed back to her. Your name Gray. Have a frontname? Patti. Pretty, Patti. No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system? Damn punk, he said. This crate for surface work. No space. Coolingsystem groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here. And ... she followed up, it will get warmer as we go out? Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignoredher. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring. But how about water? she demanded next. Is there enough? He faced about. For her— nodding to Judith, and him— to Gladney,yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe. Back to Gray. You,me ... twice a day. Too bad. His eyes drifted aft to the tank ofwater. She followed. One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, toobad. We get thirsty I think. <doc-sep>Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time,watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attemptedto sit up. Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me! When're you going to start braking ,Rat? I hear you. He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. Lie down. Yousick. I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion!We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking? Not brake, Rat answered sullenly. No, not brake. Not brake? Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumpedfor him. Are you crazy, you skinny rat? Gray secured a hold on hisshoulders and forced him down. You gotta brake! Don't you understandthat? You have to, you vacuum-skull! Gray was pleading with him toshut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. He's gotta brake! Makehim! He has a good point there, Rat, she spoke up. What about thishalf-way line? He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. Wepassed line. Three days ago, maybe. A shrug of shoulders. Passed! Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison. You catch on quick, Rat nodded. This six day, don't you know? Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.Getting your figures mixed, aren't you? Rat shook his head and said nothing. But Roberds said eight days, and he— —he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days.Now only six. He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.Six days, no brake. No. I see your point, and appreciate it, Gray cut in. But now what? Thisdeceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but somethings I do! Rat refused the expected answer. Land tonight, I think. Never been toEarth before. Somebody meet us, I think. You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us! Gladney cried.Gray turned to him. The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for you ! He laughed with real satisfaction. Oh yes, Rat, they'll besomebody waiting for us all right. And then he added: If we land. Oh, we land. Rat confided, glad to share a secret. Yeah, Gladney grated. But in how many little pieces? I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think. Patti Gray caughtsomething new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticedit, too. The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in thevacated position. Earth! she shouted. Quite. Nice. Do me a favor? Just name it! Not drink long time. Some water? Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, thetension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at lastshe appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry. There isn't any left, Rat. Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. Tasted punk, he grinned ather. She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face. Rat, she said presently, I want to ask you something, ratherpersonal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about yourrecord. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack wascoming, did you? He grinned again and waggled his head at her. No. Who tell Rat?Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. Rat a.w.o.l., goout to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time sendcall through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen. But why didn't you explain? He grinned again. Who believe? Sick man die soon after. Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. You'reright, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now.You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon asyou get out of the ship. They can't! cried Patti Gray. They can't hurt him after what he'sdone now. The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way. Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earthpretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat. Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: Say, I get it ... you're— Shut up! Rat cut him off sharply. You talk too much. He cast aglance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney. <doc-sep>Existence dragged. Paradoxically, time dropped away like a cloak asthe sense of individual hours and minutes vanished, and into its placecrept a slow-torturing substitute. As the ship revolved, monotonously,first the ceiling and then the floor took on dullish, maddeningaspects, eyes ached continuously from staring at them time and againwithout surcease. The steady, drumming rockets crashed into the mindand the walls shrieked malevolently on the eyeballs. Dull, throbbingsameness of the poorly filtered air, a growing taint in the nostrils.Damp warm skin, reeking blankets. The taste of fuel in the mouth forrefreshment. Slowly mounting mental duress. And above all the drummingof the rockets. Once, a sudden, frightening change of pitch in the rockets and a wild,sickening lurch. Meteor rain. Maddening, plunging swings to the farright and left, made without warning. A torn lip as a sudden lurchtears the faucet from her mouth. A shattered tooth. Sorry! Rat whispered. Shut up and drive! she cried. Patti ... Judith called out, in pain. Peace of mind followed peace of body into a forgotten limbo of lostthings, a slyly climbing madness directed at one another. Waspishwords uttered in pain, fatigue and temper. Fractiousness. A hot,confined, stale hell. Sleep became a hollow mockery, as bad waterand concentrated tablets brought on stomach pains to plague them.Consciousness punctured only by spasms of lethargy, shared to someextent by the invalids. Above all, crawling lassitude and incalescenttempers. Rat watched the white, drawn face swing in the hammock beside him. Andhis hands never faltered on the controls. Never a slackening of the terrific pace; abnormal speed, gruellingdrive ... drive ... drive. Fear. Tantalizing fear made worse becauseRat couldn't understand. Smothered moaning that ate at his nerves.Grim-faced, sleep-wracked, belted to the chair, driving! How many days? How many days! Gray begged of him thousands of timesuntil the very repetition grated on her eardrums. How many days?His only answer was an inhuman snarl, and the cruel blazing of thoseinhuman eyes. She fell face first to the floor. I can't keep it up! she cried. Thesound of her voice rolled along the hot steel deck. I cant! I cant! A double handful of tepid water was thrown in her face. Get up! Ratstood over her, face twisted, his body hunched. Get up! She stared athim, dazed. He kicked her. Get up! The tepid water ran off her faceand far away she heard Judith calling.... She forced herself up. Ratwas back in the chair. <doc-sep></s>

Patti Gray is Judith's nurse, governess, guard and everything of that kind. Judith is only seventeen and they are pretty close with Patti. The least watches over the sick, reports her condition and fulfills the girl's request like asking Rat to pilot the ship. Judith relies on her nurse, she calls for her when in pain and tells her how sorry she is for causing trouble. Judith's call makes Patti get up even when she herself is in pain. She is anxious for the girl not making it to the hospital. The two stick together as they crashed together after an attack on their spaceship and have to return to Earth together.

<s>Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time,watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attemptedto sit up. Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me! When're you going to start braking ,Rat? I hear you. He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. Lie down. Yousick. I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion!We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking? Not brake, Rat answered sullenly. No, not brake. Not brake? Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumpedfor him. Are you crazy, you skinny rat? Gray secured a hold on hisshoulders and forced him down. You gotta brake! Don't you understandthat? You have to, you vacuum-skull! Gray was pleading with him toshut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. He's gotta brake! Makehim! He has a good point there, Rat, she spoke up. What about thishalf-way line? He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. Wepassed line. Three days ago, maybe. A shrug of shoulders. Passed! Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison. You catch on quick, Rat nodded. This six day, don't you know? Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.Getting your figures mixed, aren't you? Rat shook his head and said nothing. But Roberds said eight days, and he— —he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days.Now only six. He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.Six days, no brake. No. I see your point, and appreciate it, Gray cut in. But now what? Thisdeceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but somethings I do! Rat refused the expected answer. Land tonight, I think. Never been toEarth before. Somebody meet us, I think. You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us! Gladney cried.Gray turned to him. The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for you ! He laughed with real satisfaction. Oh yes, Rat, they'll besomebody waiting for us all right. And then he added: If we land. Oh, we land. Rat confided, glad to share a secret. Yeah, Gladney grated. But in how many little pieces? I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think. Patti Gray caughtsomething new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticedit, too. The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in thevacated position. Earth! she shouted. Quite. Nice. Do me a favor? Just name it! Not drink long time. Some water? Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, thetension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at lastshe appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry. There isn't any left, Rat. Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. Tasted punk, he grinned ather. She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face. Rat, she said presently, I want to ask you something, ratherpersonal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about yourrecord. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack wascoming, did you? He grinned again and waggled his head at her. No. Who tell Rat?Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. Rat a.w.o.l., goout to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time sendcall through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen. But why didn't you explain? He grinned again. Who believe? Sick man die soon after. Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. You'reright, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now.You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon asyou get out of the ship. They can't! cried Patti Gray. They can't hurt him after what he'sdone now. The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way. Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earthpretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat. Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: Say, I get it ... you're— Shut up! Rat cut him off sharply. You talk too much. He cast aglance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney. <doc-sep>When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair. Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself? True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny! Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door. Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just might be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be! The nurse came out of the door. How is she? Roberds asked. Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking.... We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock. I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take? Eight days, in that ship. Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney. Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked. We call him Rat, Roberds said. She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record? Peterson opened his mouth. Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell. Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre? Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that? Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL. As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here. But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution. The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him. The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation. Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson. They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright. Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed. Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air. Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses! Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they? I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled. <doc-sep>Whew! Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all toofamiliar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force itscrowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear.She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, herface tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. TheCentaurian was grinning at her. Do you always leave in a hurry? she demanded, and instantly wishedshe hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign. Long-time sleep, he announced. Four, five hours maybe. The cheststrap was lying loose at his side. That long! she was incredulous. I'm never out more than threehours! Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the controlpanel. Not taking time, he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shookher head and looked at the others. That isn't doing either of them any good! Rat nodded unhappily. What's her matter—? pointing. Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thingitself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient diesin a week unless it is taken out. Don't know it, he said briefly. Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix? she demanded. Rat folded his arms and considered this. Don't know. Maybe yes, maybeno. Where's it hurt? Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this furtherand drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered hiseyes that night ... only last night ... in the office. Peterson hadrefused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it. No, he waved. No appendix. Never nowhere appendix. Then Mother Nature has finally woke up! she exclaimed. But why doCentaurians rate it exclusively? Rat ignored this and asked one of her. What you and her doing upthere? He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars. You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came overin a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy tohandle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship becauseof an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know. So you? So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Orwill be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking forwork. She shivered. Cold? he inquired concernedly. On the contrary, I'm too warm. She started to remove the blanket. Ratthrew up a hand to stop her. Leave on! Hot out here. But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off! No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold,yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See? Gray stared at him. I never thought of it that way before. Why ofcourse! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect fromanother. Isn't it silly of me not to know that? Heat pressing on herface accented the fact. What is your name? she asked. Your real one I mean. He grinned. Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas andbottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does. His eyesswept the panel and flashed back to her. Your name Gray. Have a frontname? Patti. Pretty, Patti. No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system? Damn punk, he said. This crate for surface work. No space. Coolingsystem groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here. And ... she followed up, it will get warmer as we go out? Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignoredher. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring. But how about water? she demanded next. Is there enough? He faced about. For her— nodding to Judith, and him— to Gladney,yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe. Back to Gray. You,me ... twice a day. Too bad. His eyes drifted aft to the tank ofwater. She followed. One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, toobad. We get thirsty I think. <doc-sep></s>

From the very beginning Patti is keen one Rat. When their gazes first meet she almost smiles back. She has to hide her goodwill as Rat is despised by the crew of the ship. The nurse is interested in his background and asks Roberds and Peterson. After learning about him leaving the post she wonders why he wasn't executed and feel sympathy for Rat. She visits him in secret to ask to pilot the ship, because her and the sick girl need to get to Earth as fast as possible and believe he can help. Rat does everything in a fast and well-organized way and plans to reach Earth in six days without brakes. He instructs Patti to cover herself in blankets not to get too hot and decides how the water will be distributed. He also tells about trying to save a man being the reason for him leaving the post and Patti feels even more sympathy. Nevertheless, during the journey they have a fight when she starts panicking and demanding water and Rat beats her. He tries to enforce his rules on the ship and others ask him to brake, Patti hurts herself during Rat's manoeuvres between the meteorites but she stands it.

<s>Feet first, she swung through the window, clutching a small bag in herhands. She never touched ground. Rat whispered Hold tight! in herear and the wind was abruptly yanked from her! The ground fell awayin a dizzy rush, unseen but felt, in the night! Her feet scraped onsome projection, and she felt herself being lifted still higher. Windreturned to her throat, and she breathed again. I'm sorry, she managed to get out, gaspingly. I wasn't expectingthat. I had forgotten you— —had wings, he finished and chuckled. So likewise Greaseball. Thepale office lights dropped away as they sped over the field. On the farhorizon, a tinge of dawn crept along the uneven terrain. Oh, the bag! she gasped. I've dropped it. He chuckled again. Have got. You scare, I catch. She didn't see the ship because of the wind in her eyes, but withoutwarning she plummeted down and her feet jarred on the lip of the lock.Inside. No noise, no light. Easy. But in spite of his warning shetripped in the darkness. He helped her from the floor and guided her tothe hammocks. Judith? she asked. Here. Beside you, trussed up so tight I can hardly breathe. No talk! Rat insisted. Much hush-hush needed. Other girl shipshape.You make likewise. Forcibly he shoved her into a hammock. Wrap uptight. Straps tight. When we go, we go fast. Bang! And he left her. Hey! Where are you going now? To get Gladney. He sick too. Hush hush! His voice floated back. Where has he gone? Judith called. Back for another man. Remember the two miners who found us when wecrashed? The burly one fell off a rock-bank as they were bringing usin. Stove in his ribs pretty badly. The other has a broken arm ...happened once while you were out. They wouldn't let me say anything forfear of worrying you. <doc-sep>Her heart was beating faster as she walked down the hall. She felt avery strong probe flooding over her brain casually, palping with mildinterest the artificial memories she supplied: Escapades with officersin the combat areas. Reprimands. Demotion and transfer. Her deceptionof Gorph. Her anticipation of meeting a real Viscount and hoping hewould let her dance for him. The questing probe withdrew as idly as it had come, and she breatheda sigh of relief. She could not hope to deceive a suspicious telepathfor long. Perat was merely amused at her lie to his under-supervisor.He had accepted her at her own face value, as supplied by her falsememories. She opened the door to the balcony and saw a man leaning moodily on thebalustrade. He gave no immediate notice of her presence. The five hundred and sixth heir of Tharn was of uncertain age, as weremost of the men of both globes. Only the left side of his face could beseen. It was gaunt and leathery, and a deep thin scar lifted the cornerof his mouth into a satanic smile. A faint paunch was gathering at hisabdomen, as befitted a warrior turned to boring paper work. His closelycut black hair and the two sparkling red-gemmed rings—apparentlyidentical—on his right hand seemed to denote a certain fastidiousnessand unconscious superiority. To Evelyn the jeweled fingers bespoke anunnatural contrast to the past history of the man and were symptomaticof a personality that could find stimulation only in strange and cruelpleasures. In alarm she suddenly realized that she had inadvertently let herappraisal penetrate her uncovered conscious mind, and that this probewas there awaiting it. You are right, he said coldly, still staring into the court below.Now that the long battle is over, there is little left to divert me. He pushed the Faeg across the coping toward her. Take this. He had not as yet looked at her. She crossed the balcony, simultaneously grasping the pistol he offeredher and looking down into the courtyard. There seemed to be nearlytwenty Terrans lying about, in pools of their own blood. Only one man, a Terran officer of very high rank—was left standing.His arms were folded somberly across his chest, and he studied thekiller above him almost casually. But when the woman came out, theireyes met, and he started imperceptibly. Evelyn Kane felt a horrid chill creeping over her. The man's hair waswhite, now, and his proud face lined with deep furrows, but there couldbe no mistake. It was Gordon, Lord Kane. Her father. The sweat continued to grow on her forehead, and she felt for a momentthat she needed only to wish hard enough, and this would be a dream.A dream of a big, kind, dark-haired man with laugh-wrinkles about hiseyes, who sat her on his knee when she was a little girl and readbedtime stories to her from a great book with many pictures. An icy, amused voice came through: Our orders are to kill allprisoners. It is entertaining to shoot down helpless men, isn't it? Itwarms me to know that I am cruel and wanton, and worthy of my trust. Even in the midst of her horror, a cold, analytical part of her wasexplaining why the Commandant had called her to the balcony. Becauseall captured Terrans had to be killed, he hated his superiors, his ownmen, and especially the prisoners. A task so revolting he could notrelegate to his own officers. He must do it himself, but he wanted hisunderlings to know he loathed them for it. She was merely a symbol ofthat contempt. His next words did not surprise her. It is even more stimulating to require a shuddering female to killthem. You are shuddering you know? She nodded dumbly. Her palm was so wet that a drop of sweat droppedfrom it to the floor. She was thinking hard. She could kill theCommandant and save her father for a little while. But then theproblem of detonating the pile remained, and it would not be solvedmore quickly by killing the man who controlled the pile area. On thecontrary if she could get him interested in her— So far as our records indicate, murmured Perat, the man down thereis the last living Terran within The Defender . It occurred to me thatour newest clerk would like to start off her duties with a bang. TheFaeg is adjusted to a needle-beam. If you put a bolt between the man'seyes, you may dance for me tonight, and perhaps there will be othernights— The woman seemed lost in thought for a long time. Slowly, she liftedthe ugly little weapon. The doomed Terran looked up at her peacefully,without expression. She lowered the Faeg, her arm trembling. Gordon, Lord Kane, frowned faintly, then closed his eyes. She raisedthe gun again, drew cross hairs with a nerveless wrist, and squeezedthe trigger. There was a loud, hollow cough, but no recoil. The Terranofficer, his eyes still closed and arms folded, sank to the ground,face up. Blood was running from a tiny hole in his forehead. The man leaning on the balustrade turned and looked at Evelyn, at firstwith amused contempt, then with narrowing, questioning eyes. Come here, he ordered. The Faeg dropped from her hand. With a titanic effort she activated herlegs and walked toward him. He was studying her face very carefully. She felt that she was going to be sick. Her knees were so weak that shehad to lean on the coping. With a forefinger he lifted up the mass of golden curls that hungover her right forehead and examined the scar hidden there, where thementors had cut into her frontal lobe. The tiny doll they had createdfor her writhed uneasily in her waist-purse, but Perat seemed to bethinking of something else, and missed the significance of the scarcompletely. He dropped his hand. I'm sorry, he said with a quiet weariness. Ishouldn't have asked you to kill the Terran. It was a sorry joke.Then: Have you ever seen me before? No, she whispered hoarsely. His mind was in hers, verifying the fact. Have you ever met my father, Phaen, the old Count of Tharn? No. Do you have a son? No. His mind was out of hers again, and he had turned moodily back,surveying the courtyard and the dead. Gorph will be wondering whathappened to you. Come to my quarters at the eighth metron tonight. Apparently he suspected nothing. Father. Father. I had to do it. But we'll all join you, soon. Soon. III Perat lay on his couch, sipping cold purple terif and following thethinly-clad dancer with narrowed eyes. Music, soft and subtle, floatedfrom his communications box, illegally tuned to an officer's clubsomewhere. Evelyn made the rhythm part of her as she swayed slowly ontiptoe. For the last thirty nights—the hours allotted to rest and sleep—ithad been thus. By day she probed furtively into the minds of theoffice staff, memorizing area designations, channels for officialmessages, and the names and authorizations of occupational field crews.By night she danced for Perat, who never took his eyes from her, norhis probe from her mind. While she danced it was not too difficult toelude the probe. There was an odd autohypnosis in dancing that blottedout memory and knowledge. Enough for now, he ordered. Careful of your rib. When he had first seen the bandages on her bare chest, that firstnight, she had been ready with a memory of dancing on a freshly waxedfloor, and of falling. Perat seemed to be debating with himself as she sat down on her owncouch to rest. He got up, unlocked his desk, and drew out a tiny reelof metal wire, which Evelyn recognized as being feed for an amateurstereop projector. He placed the reel in a projector that had beeninstalled in the wall, flicked off the table luminar, and both of themwaited in the dark, breathing rather loudly. Suddenly the center of the room was bright with a ball of light sometwo feet in diameter, and inside the luminous sphere were an old man, awoman, and a little boy of about four years. They were walking througha luxurious garden, and then they stopped, looked up, and waved gaily. Evelyn studied the trio with growing wonder. The old man and the boywere complete strangers. But the woman—! That is Phaen, my father, said Perat quietly. He stayed at homebecause he hated war. And that is a path in our country estate onTharn-R-VII. The little boy I fail to recognize, beyond a generalresemblance to the Tharn line. But— can you deny that you are the woman ? The stereop snapped off, and she sat wordless in the dark. There seemed to be some similarity— she admitted. Her throat wassuddenly dry. Yet, why should she be alarmed? She really didn't knowthe woman. The table luminar was on now, and Perat was prowling hungrily about theroom, his scar twisting his otherwise handsome face into a snarlingscowl. Similarity! Bah! That loop of hair over her right forehead hid a scaridentical to yours. I have had the individual frames analyzed! Evelyn's hands knotted unconsciously. She forced her body to relax, buther mind was racing. This introduced another variable to be controlledin her plan for destruction. She must make it a known quantity. Did your father send it to you? she asked. The day before you arrived here. It had been en route for months, ofcourse. What did he say about it? He said, 'Your widow and son send greetings. Be of good cheer, andaccept our love.' What nonsense! He knows very well I'm not married andthat—well, if I have ever fathered any children, I don't know aboutthem. Is that all he said? That's all, except that he included this ring. He pulled one of theduplicate jewels from his right middle finger and tossed it to her.It's identical to the one he had made for me when I entered on mymajority. For a long time it was thought that it was the only stone ofits kind on all the planets of the Tharn suns, a mineralogical freak,but I guess he found another. But why should I want two of them? Evelyn crossed the room and returned the ring. Existence is so full of mysteries, isn't it? murmured Perat.Sometimes it seems unfortunate that we must pass through a sentientphase on our way to death. This foolish, foolish war. Maybe the oldcount was right. You could be courtmartialed for that. Speaking of courtmartials, I've got to attend one tonight—an appealfrom a death sentence. He arose, smoothed his hair and clothes, andpoured another glass of terif . Some fool inquisitor can't showproper disposition of a woman prisoner. Evelyn's heart skipped a beat. Indeed? The wretch insists that he could remember if we would just let himalone. I suppose he took a bribe. You'll find one now and then whotries for a little extra profit. She must absolutely not be seen by the condemned inquisitor. Thestimulus would almost certainly make him remember. I'll wait for you, she said indifferently, thrusting her arms out ina languorous yawn. Very well. Perat stepped to the door, then turned and looked back ather. On the other hand, I may need a clerk. It's way after hours, andthe others have gone. Beneath a gesture of wry protest, she swallowed rapidly. Perhaps you'd better come, insisted Perat. She stood up, unloosed her waist-purse, checked its contents swiftly,and then followed him out. This might be a very close thing. From the purse she took a bottle ofperfume and rubbed her ear lobes casually. Odd smell, commented Perat, wrinkling his nose. Odd scent, corrected Evelyn cryptically. She was thinking aboutthe earnest faces of the mentors as they instructed her carefully inthe use of the perfume. The adrenalin glands, they had explained,provided a useful and powerful stimulant to a man in danger. Adrenalinslowed the heart and digestion, increased the systole and bloodpressure, and increased perspiration to cool the skin. But therecould be too much of a good thing. An overdose of adrenalin, they hadpointed out, caused almost immediate edema. The lungs filled rapidlywith the serum and the victim ... drowned. The perfume she possessedover-stimulated, in some unknown way, the adrenals of frightenedpersons. It had no effect on inactive adrenals. The question remained—who would be the more frightened, she or thecondemned inquisitor? She was perspiring freely, and the blonde hair on her arms and neck wasstanding stiffly when Perat opened the door for her and they enteredthe Zone Provost's chambers. <doc-sep>The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over theship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past theopen lock. I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I? she asked aloud, finally.This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of foolstunts! I just didn't realize until now the why of that law. Don't talk so much, the nurse admonished. A lot of people have foundout the why of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, andlived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world,humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stayright at home. How about these men that live and work here? They never get here until they've been through the mill first.Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without. Well, Judith said. I've certainly learned my lesson! Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came asound remarkably resembling a snort. Gray? Judith asked fearfully. Yes? Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time? Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar thatshook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in hisarms. The burden groaned. Gladney! Nurse Gray exclaimed. I got. Rat confirmed. Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney. But how? she demanded. What of Roberds and Peterson? Trick, he sniggered. I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in.Very simple. He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snappedbuckles. And Peterson? she prompted. Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him. Fan him? I don't understand. Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized. Rat finished upand was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wingsas he padded away. He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago.Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang ofbullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centauriansnapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leapedfor the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping. You've been hurt! Gray cried. A small panel light outlined hisfeatures. She tried to struggle up. Lie still! We go. Boss get wise. With lightning fingers he flickedseveral switches on the panel, turned to her. Hold belly. Zoom! Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes. Rat unlocked the master level and shoved! <doc-sep></s>

The crashing of the ship brings Judith and Patti to Mars where they meet two miners and then the whole crew of the spaceship including Rat. Judith wouldn't get that sick and lose the means to return to Earth if the ship didn't crash. The miners wouldn't suffer after helping the girls. Therefore, Judith wouldn't learn the lesson of breaking the law and leaving Earth. The crashing also leads to the necessity of Rat piloting the ship and all the party suffering from heat and thirst. The whole situation of danger and limitless occurs because the ship crashed and the girl gets sick on Mars, so she needs to get to Earth immediately.

<s>Whew! Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all toofamiliar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force itscrowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear.She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, herface tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. TheCentaurian was grinning at her. Do you always leave in a hurry? she demanded, and instantly wishedshe hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign. Long-time sleep, he announced. Four, five hours maybe. The cheststrap was lying loose at his side. That long! she was incredulous. I'm never out more than threehours! Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the controlpanel. Not taking time, he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shookher head and looked at the others. That isn't doing either of them any good! Rat nodded unhappily. What's her matter—? pointing. Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thingitself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient diesin a week unless it is taken out. Don't know it, he said briefly. Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix? she demanded. Rat folded his arms and considered this. Don't know. Maybe yes, maybeno. Where's it hurt? Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this furtherand drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered hiseyes that night ... only last night ... in the office. Peterson hadrefused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it. No, he waved. No appendix. Never nowhere appendix. Then Mother Nature has finally woke up! she exclaimed. But why doCentaurians rate it exclusively? Rat ignored this and asked one of her. What you and her doing upthere? He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars. You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came overin a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy tohandle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship becauseof an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know. So you? So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Orwill be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking forwork. She shivered. Cold? he inquired concernedly. On the contrary, I'm too warm. She started to remove the blanket. Ratthrew up a hand to stop her. Leave on! Hot out here. But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off! No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold,yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See? Gray stared at him. I never thought of it that way before. Why ofcourse! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect fromanother. Isn't it silly of me not to know that? Heat pressing on herface accented the fact. What is your name? she asked. Your real one I mean. He grinned. Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas andbottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does. His eyesswept the panel and flashed back to her. Your name Gray. Have a frontname? Patti. Pretty, Patti. No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system? Damn punk, he said. This crate for surface work. No space. Coolingsystem groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here. And ... she followed up, it will get warmer as we go out? Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignoredher. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring. But how about water? she demanded next. Is there enough? He faced about. For her— nodding to Judith, and him— to Gladney,yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe. Back to Gray. You,me ... twice a day. Too bad. His eyes drifted aft to the tank ofwater. She followed. One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, toobad. We get thirsty I think. <doc-sep>Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time,watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attemptedto sit up. Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me! When're you going to start braking ,Rat? I hear you. He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. Lie down. Yousick. I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion!We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking? Not brake, Rat answered sullenly. No, not brake. Not brake? Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumpedfor him. Are you crazy, you skinny rat? Gray secured a hold on hisshoulders and forced him down. You gotta brake! Don't you understandthat? You have to, you vacuum-skull! Gray was pleading with him toshut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. He's gotta brake! Makehim! He has a good point there, Rat, she spoke up. What about thishalf-way line? He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. Wepassed line. Three days ago, maybe. A shrug of shoulders. Passed! Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison. You catch on quick, Rat nodded. This six day, don't you know? Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.Getting your figures mixed, aren't you? Rat shook his head and said nothing. But Roberds said eight days, and he— —he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days.Now only six. He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.Six days, no brake. No. I see your point, and appreciate it, Gray cut in. But now what? Thisdeceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but somethings I do! Rat refused the expected answer. Land tonight, I think. Never been toEarth before. Somebody meet us, I think. You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us! Gladney cried.Gray turned to him. The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for you ! He laughed with real satisfaction. Oh yes, Rat, they'll besomebody waiting for us all right. And then he added: If we land. Oh, we land. Rat confided, glad to share a secret. Yeah, Gladney grated. But in how many little pieces? I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think. Patti Gray caughtsomething new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticedit, too. The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in thevacated position. Earth! she shouted. Quite. Nice. Do me a favor? Just name it! Not drink long time. Some water? Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, thetension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at lastshe appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry. There isn't any left, Rat. Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. Tasted punk, he grinned ather. She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face. Rat, she said presently, I want to ask you something, ratherpersonal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about yourrecord. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack wascoming, did you? He grinned again and waggled his head at her. No. Who tell Rat?Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. Rat a.w.o.l., goout to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time sendcall through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen. But why didn't you explain? He grinned again. Who believe? Sick man die soon after. Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. You'reright, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now.You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon asyou get out of the ship. They can't! cried Patti Gray. They can't hurt him after what he'sdone now. The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way. Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earthpretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat. Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: Say, I get it ... you're— Shut up! Rat cut him off sharply. You talk too much. He cast aglance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney. <doc-sep>When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair. Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself? True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny! Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door. Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just might be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be! The nurse came out of the door. How is she? Roberds asked. Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking.... We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock. I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take? Eight days, in that ship. Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney. Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked. We call him Rat, Roberds said. She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record? Peterson opened his mouth. Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell. Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre? Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that? Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL. As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here. But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution. The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him. The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation. Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson. They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright. Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed. Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air. Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses! Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they? I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled. <doc-sep></s>

The story starts with Patti looking after the sick girl. She hears the dispute of the crew about the future steps and gets involved. She learns out about Rat's past and the mistake of leaving his post which led to a massacre. Nevertheless, she and the girl decide to ask him to pilot the ship, hoping it will help the sick get on Earth in time. Patti gets sympathetic towards Rat from the beginning and keeps trying to talk to him. She keeps being by Judith. Rat bring her to the hammocks on his wings and she is frightened for a second. She follows his orders and advices until her suffering gets intense. During the trip with Rat as a pilot she has to drink only twice a day to keep water and she feels extremely thirsty. She also hurts herself when the ship suddenly moves from one side to another. Water tastes like fuel to her and she gets mad at Rat for not naming the amount of days. Then she learns about Rat's point of view on the past situation with the massacre and becomes even more sympathetic towards him.

<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> 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> 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>

The story starts with Karl Allen, a Second System colonist, and Joe dragging their raft from the water, hoping that they will make it in time to put their names on the list. Later we learned that the list is used to pair up the females that are coming to their colony – planet – as husbands and wives. After Karl and Joe Hill finish, they still have about two hours left before the rocket lands at Landing City. On their way towards the Landing City, Karl caught himself wondering about the trip back with a girl whom he will be paired with. Apparently, they have never seen an Earthwoman, but tales seems to cherish them as hardworking and beautiful. The speaker announces that it’s time to draw their numbers. Karl draws 53. Later, Joe and Karl agrees to meet later to see if they want to trade the girls that has their numbers. MacDonald and Claude Escher meet to discuss matters regarding the ratios between male and female at the colonies. Currently, there are not as many females on the colonized planets. From the beginning of the colonization, there were more adventuresome males than females, they headed for the new world but most of the females stayed behind. Thus, there are five females for every three males on Earth, while the colonies have more males. Thus those girls needs to be brought from their original planet, in this case the Earth, to colonies for those males there. Another problem, states MacDonald, is the number of men applying for emigration to colonized planets have been dropping. MacDonald considers this reasonable since it seems illogical for a male to move away from a place that has more females than males. Escher then disregards the qualification for colonization and decides to focus on making the people that don’t want to colonize to colonize, whether it is through convincing or forcing. Phyllis Hanson is a thirty years old woman who desires a husband. The government’s supplement offering cannot replace a husband and family. Then in her mail today, she gets a poster that tells her to come to the colonies. Though she admires the man on the poster, she thought the poster is a violation of privacy. Then we see Ruby Johnson stealing a beautiful gown from the store and then getting caught. Ruby thinks that she will simply face a small fine along with a few weeks or months in detention and that’s it. She seems to have shoplifted many times that she even knows the information that the officers want. However, to her surprised, she will be charged with a 10,000 dollar fine along with ten years in prison, or she can choose to go to a colony planet and get a five-hundred-dollar bonus. She was shocked, but chooses the latter. Similarly, Suzanne is given a similar choice between shipping out to the colony or going to jail. She also chooses the colony planet.

<s>Albuquerque, New Mexico June 15 Dear Joe: I had tremendous difficulty getting a letter off to you this time.My process—original with myself, by the way—is to send out feelervibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then Iestablish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without hisknowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes myletter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what hehas done. My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of anindividual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, butI fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tellyou about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I haveaccomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent. In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind ofsleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out.Anyway, I grew overnight to the size of an average person here. As I said before, floods of impressions are driving into my xzbyl ...my brain ... from various nerve and sense areas and I am having a hardtime classifying them. My one idea was to get to a chemist and acquirethe stuff needed for the destruction of these people. Sunrise came as I expected. According to my catalog of information, theimpressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioningfor me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficientmechanism I inhabit. I gazed about me at the mixture of lights, forms and impressions.It was strange and ... now I know ... beautiful. However, I hurriedimmediately toward the nearest chemist. At the same time I looked upand all about me at the beauty. Soon an individual approached. I knew what to do from my information. Isimply acted natural. You know, one of your earliest instructions wasto realize that these people see nothing unusual in you if you do notlet yourself believe they do. This individual I classified as a female of a singular variety here.Her hair was short, her upper torso clad in a woolen garment. Shewore ... what are they? ... oh, yes, sneakers. My attention wasdiverted by a scream as I passed her. I stopped. The woman gesticulated and continued to scream. People hurried fromnearby houses. I linked my hands behind me and watched the scene withan attitude of mild interest. They weren't interested in me, I toldmyself. But they were. I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that youunfortunately do not have—invisibility. I lay there and listened. He was stark naked, the girl with the sneakers said. A figure I recognized as a police officer spoke to her. Lizzy, you'll just have to keep these crackpot friends of yours out ofthis area. But— No more buck-bathing, Lizzy, the officer ordered. No more speechesin the Square. Not when it results in riots at five in the morning. Nowwhere is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him. That was it—I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to thisoversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressionsthat assault it. I must retire now and get them all classified. Beauty,pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. Imust feel each, become accustomed to it. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information Ihave been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe.What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission isimpaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can writeyou with more enlightenment. Glmpauszn <doc-sep>Breakfast was finally over and the rest of my family dispersed to theirvarious jobs. Father simply took his briefcase and disappeared—he wasa traveling salesman and he had a morning appointment clear across thecontinent. The others, not having his particular gift, had to takethe helibus to their different destinations. Mother, as I said, was apsychiatrist. Sylvia wrote advertising copy. Tim was a meteorologist.Dan was a junior executive in a furniture moving company and expected apromotion to senior rank as soon as he achieved a better mental grip onpianos. Only I had no job, no profession, no place in life. Of course therewere certain menial tasks a psi-negative could perform, but my parentswould have none of them—partly for my sake, but mostly for the sake oftheir own community standing. We don't need what little money Kev could bring in, my father alwayssaid. I can afford to support my family. He can stay home and takecare of the house. And that's what I did. Not that there was much to do except call atechno whenever one of the servomechanisms missed a beat. True enough,those things had to be watched mighty carefully because, if they brokedown, it sometimes took days before the repair and/or replacementrobots could come. There never were enough of them because ours was aconstructive society. Still, being a machine-sitter isn't very much ofa career. And every function that wasn't the prerogative of a machinecould be done ten times more quickly and efficiently by some member ofmy family than I could do it. If I went ahead and did something anyway,they would just do it all over again when they got home. So I had nothing to do all day. I had a special dispensation totake books out of the local Archives, because I was a deficient andcouldn't receive the tellie programs. Almost everybody on Earth wastelepathic to some degree and could get the amplified projections evenif he couldn't transmit or receive with his natural powers. But I gotnothing. I had to derive all my recreation from reading, and you canget awfully tired of books, especially when they're all at least ahundred years old and written by primitives. I could borrow soundtapes, but they also bored me after a while. I thought maybe I could develop a talent for composing or painting,which would classify me as a telesensitive—artistic ability beingconsidered as the oldest, if least important, psi power—but I couldn'teven do anything like that. About all there was left for me was to take long walks. Athletics wereout of the question; I couldn't compete with psi-boys and they didn'twant to compete with me. All the people in the neighborhood knew meand were nice to me, but I didn't need to be a 'path to tell what theywere saying to one another when I hove into sight. There's that oldestFaraday boy. Pity, such a talented family, to have a defective. I didn't have a girl, either. Although some of them were sort ofattracted to me—I could see that—they could hardly go out with mewithout exposing themselves to ridicule. In their sandals, I would havedone the same thing, but that didn't stop me from hating them. <doc-sep>He almost squeezed my arm when I got to the time Mom and Pop were blownup in a surfacing boat. Well, after the funeral, there was a little money, so Sis decided wemight as well use it to migrate. There was no future for her on Earth,she figured. You know, the three-out-of-four. How's that? The three-out-of-four. No more than three women out of every four onEarth can expect to find husbands. Not enough men to go around. Wayback in the Twentieth Century, it began to be felt, Sis says, what withthe wars and all. Then the wars went on and a lot more men began to dieor get no good from the radioactivity. Then the best men went to theplanets, Sis says, until by now even if a woman can scrounge a personalhusband, he's not much to boast about. The stranger nodded violently. Not on Earth, he isn't. Those busybodyanura make sure of that. What a place! Suffering gridniks, I had abellyful! He told me about it. Women were scarce on Venus, and he hadn't beenable to find any who were willing to come out to his lonely littleislands; he had decided to go to Earth where there was supposed to be asurplus. Naturally, having been born and brought up on a very primitiveplanet, he didn't know it's a woman's world, like the older boys inschool used to say. The moment he landed on Earth he was in trouble. He didn't know he hadto register at a government-operated hotel for transient males; hethrew a bartender through a thick plastic window for saying somethingnasty about the length of his hair; and imagine !—he not onlyresisted arrest, resulting in three hospitalized policemen, but hesassed the judge in open court! Told me a man wasn't supposed to say anything except through femaleattorneys. Told her that where I came from, a man spoke his piecewhen he'd a mind to, and his woman walked by his side. What happened? I asked breathlessly. Oh, Guilty of This and Contempt of That. That blown-up brinosaur tookmy last munit for fines, then explained that she was remitting therest because I was a foreigner and uneducated. His eyes grew dark fora moment. He chuckled again. But I wasn't going to serve all thosefancy little prison sentences. Forcible Citizenship Indoctrination,they call it? Shook the dead-dry dust of the misbegotten, God forsakenmother world from my feet forever. The women on it deserve their men.My pockets were folded from the fines, and the paddlefeet were lookingfor me so close I didn't dare radio for more munit. So I stowed away. <doc-sep></s>

First, Joe takes some furs that could help cover the girl, and Joe hopes that she will appreciate it. However, Hill believes that they should give less to the girls. Because the less you give, the less they will expect, and if they are spoiled, the men has to do all the farming and family raising yourself, which is all that they have to do. Joe thought of the girl as somebody he can talk to, somebody that can help him with the farm. Hill suggests for his wife to have a garden, but Karl doesn’t think she will have the time for a garden. However, it is important to note that the girls were considered as objects since Karl and Joe mentions trading them. In particular, Earthwomen are expected to be beautiful, sophisticated, glamorous, and hardworking. Moreover, Escher is thinking about persuading and forcing the girls to colonize while forgetting about the moral codes. The governments seems to expect the women without husbands to be satisfied with bridge games and benefits and lectures.

<s>He turned back to the window. And all because a pirate named DevilGarrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power! You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose thatthis planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'! She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, andtugging at her mouth. Yes, there ought to be a reason, she murmured.Star wavered. She was so darn close. After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. Star, howsoon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean,how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world youdescribed? Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why? Not half quick enough, she murmured happily, but it'll have to do,Star. Laughing, she turned her face up to his. Have you ever thoughtthat planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon? <doc-sep>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction. He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. ' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —' The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him. It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death. The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen. Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered? She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft! Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess,though? Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy— A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light. Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , becauseit's being plated right now! Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance. By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and— It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is? That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway— Chip! Look out! <doc-sep>Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to theproper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards throughthe glowlit corridors. N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, veryhigh-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. Therewas an information desk in the center of the room. I looked that way and my heart went into free fall. There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractivegirl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and herfeatures were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she hadsomething else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a senseof life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. Itseemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, whicheven a tunic could not hide, from everything about her. And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name. I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then commonsense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with thisthing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassmentsand discomforts. It had to be done. I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I couldhave sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like theshadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parkstopside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I feltsuddenly and disturbingly pleased. What information is desired? she asked. Her voice was standard—orwas it? Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth. I used colloquial. I want to get the dope on State Serialdesignations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how theymight be changed. She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, Name? Address? Post? I froze. I stood there and stared at her. She looked up and said, Well? I—er—no post at present. N/P status. Her fingers moved on the steno. I gave her my address and she recorded that. Then I paused again. She said, And your name? I took a deep breath and told her. I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but Icouldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide andnoticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mousecolor. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but morethan that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing anddashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at thetop of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and lookingstupid, meeting her stare— <doc-sep></s>

Phyllis Hanson has been wanting a husband and a family for almost three years. She does not think that the bridge games and benefits and lectures can replace a husband and family. However, in her mail today, she gets a poster that tells her to come to the colonies. This is clearly a violation of her privacy. However, the man on the poster is very handsome, and she looks at it again and again. Though she admires the man on the poster, she still writes a letter reporting it. Then Ruby Johnson also goes through something strange. She steals a beautiful gown from the store and then gets caught. She knows that she will simply face a small fine along with a few weeks or months in detention because she was caught stealing dress from the . However, to her surprised, she is told that she be charged with a 10,000 dollar fine along with ten years in prison, or she can choose to go to a colony planet and get a five-hundred-dollar bonus. She is shocked, but chooses the latter. Similarly, Suzanne is given a similar choice between shipping out to the colony or going to jail after receiving a phone call telling her to get to a specific place. She also chooses the colony planet.

<s> Going straight meant crooked planning. He'd never make it unless he somehow managed to PICK A CRIME By RICHARD R. SMITH Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The girl was tall, wide-eyed and brunette. She had the right curves inthe right places and would have been beautiful if her nose had beensmaller, if her mouth had been larger and if her hair had been wavyinstead of straight. Hank said you wanted to see me, she said when she stopped besideJoe's table. Yeah. Joe nodded at the other chair. Have a seat. He reached into apocket, withdrew five ten-dollar bills and handed them to her. I wantyou to do a job for me. It'll only take a few minutes. The girl counted the money, then placed it in her purse. Joe noticeda small counterfeit-detector inside the purse before she closed it.What's the job? Tell you later. He gulped the remainder of his drink, almost pouringit down his throat. Hey. You trying to make yourself sick? Not sick. Drunk. Been trying to get drunk all afternoon. As theliquor settled in his stomach, he waited for the warm glow. But theglow didn't come ... the bartender had watered his drink again. Trying to get drunk? the girl inquired. Are you crazy? No. It's simple. If I get drunk, I can join the AAA and get free roomand board for a month while they give me a treatment. It was easy enough to understand, he reflected, but a lot harder to do.The CPA robot bartenders saw to it that anyone got high if they wanted,but comparatively few got drunk. Each bartender could not only mixdrinks but could also judge by a man's actions and speech when he wason the verge of drunkenness. At the proper time—since drunkenness wasillegal—a bartender always watered the drinks. Joe had tried dozens of times in dozens of bars to outsmart them, buthad always failed. And in all of New York's millions, there had beenonly a hundred cases of intoxication during the previous year. The girl laughed. If you're that hard up, I don't know if I shouldtake this fifty or not. Why don't you go out and get a job likeeveryone else? As an answer, Joe handed her his CPA ID card. She grunted when shesaw the large letters that indicated the owner had Dangerous CriminalTendencies. <doc-sep>It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'dalso expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him toexpect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil soundedvery much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter andfull of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, andclapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so muchmore gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than wasgood for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go alongon the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer. They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road toManfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffeeand Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but hemerely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana. There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been theremany times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognizedhim. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was asif he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world. At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but hesaid, I haven't danced with my girl Rhona. His tongue was thick, hismind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on herface—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritualof flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were goingto be sick. So let's rock, he said and stood up. They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,mechanical dancing doll. The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,Beddy-bye time. Hank said, First one dance with my loving wife. He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waitedfor her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.Because while she put herself against him, there was something in herface—no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes—that made him knowshe was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time whenthe music ended, he was ready to go home. They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear ofPhil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his oldself. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self withthe First One. They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, andPhil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen andlooked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fenceparalleling the road. Hey, he said, pointing, do you know why that'sthe most popular place on earth? Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made alittle sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on awhile longer, not yet aware of his supposed faux pas . You know why? he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughterrumbling up from his chest. You know why, folks? Rhona said, Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at— Hank said, No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth? Phil said, Because people are— And then he caught himself and wavedhis hand and muttered, I forgot the punch line. Because people are dying to get in, Hank said, and looked through thewindow, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleetingtombstones. The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have beennothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. Maybe you shouldlet me out right here, Hank said. I'm home—or that's what everyoneseems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe thatwould satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula oranother monster from the movies. Edith said, Oh, Hank, don't, don't! The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went fourblocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night. Hedidn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone pathand entered the house. <doc-sep>When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair. Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself? True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny! Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door. Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just might be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be! The nurse came out of the door. How is she? Roberds asked. Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking.... We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock. I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take? Eight days, in that ship. Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney. Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked. We call him Rat, Roberds said. She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record? Peterson opened his mouth. Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell. Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre? Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that? Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL. As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here. But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution. The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him. The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation. Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson. They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright. Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed. Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air. Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses! Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they? I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled. <doc-sep></s>

The story first sets next to the river on Midplanet. The road connecting the river to the Landing City goes from forest to grassland, multiple small trails connects to the large one, leading towards the city. The Landing City is not really that big, especially comparing to Altair. The battered shack and headquarters building appears as they reach the Landing City. There is a grassy lot next to the landing field. The landing field is decorated with bunting and welcome signs. There is a table with government pamphlets as well as tables for luncheon food. Inside Mr. Eescher’s room, there is an intercom switch, some seats, and on his desk, there was also a drawer. Phyllis’ in an office that has a typewriter which is put inside a drawer. There is a washroom along with a mirror where she notices her worry lines. She owns a small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, in the bathroom there’s a mirror. She is on the sofa reading a book when she throws it across the room. There’s also a mail slot where she finds the odd poster. Rudy is in shop, and there’s a dress laying on the counter. In a courtroom in the detention building, there’s a judge and he has a ledger with him. Suzanne’s apartment has needle shower with perfume dispenser, build-in soft-drink bar in the library, as well as all-communications set and electrical massager. There is also a telephone, and her bedroom has a hat box. She arrives at a brownstone office building, there’s a buzzer and a then a young man appears in the doorway. There are bright lights inside the room, and there was a battery of chairs against one side of the room where the girls are sitting.

<s>It was quiet as Karl guided his mount along the dimly marked trailand he caught himself thinking of the return trip he would be makingthat night. It would be nice to have somebody new to talk to. And itwould be good to have somebody to help with the trapping and tanning,somebody who could tend the small vegetable garden at the rear of hisshack and mend his socks and wash his clothes and cook his meals. And it was time, he thought soberly, that he started to raise a family.He was mid-twenty now, old enough to want a wife and children. You going to raise a litter, Joe? Hill started. Karl realized that he had probably been thinking of thesame thing. One of these days I'll need help around the sawmill, Hill answereddefensively. Need some kids to cut the trees, a couple more to polethem down the river, some to run the mill itself and maybe one to sellthe lumber in Landing City. Can't do it all myself. He paused a moment, thinking over something that had just occurred tohim. I've been thinking of your plans for a garden, Karl. Maybe I ought tohave one for my wife to take care of, too. Karl chuckled. I don't think she'll have the time! They left the leafy expanse of the forest and entered the grasslandsthat sloped toward Landing City. He could even see Landing City itselfon the horizon, a smudge of rusting, corrugated steel shacks, muddystreets, and the small rocket port—a scorched thirty acres or sofenced off with barbed wire. Karl looked out of the corner of his eye at Hill and felt a vague waveof uneasiness. Hill was a big, thick man wearing the soiled clothes andbristly stubble of a man who was used to living alone and who likedit. But once he took a wife, he would probably have to keep himself inclean clothes and shave every few days. It was even possible that thewoman might object to Hill letting his yllumph share the hut. The path was getting crowded, more of the colonists coming onto themain path from the small side trails. Hill broke the silence first. I wonder what they'll be like. Karl looked wise and nodded knowingly. They're Earthwomen, Joe. Earth! It was easy to act as though he had some inside information, but Karlhad to admit to himself that he actually knew very little about it. Hewas a Second System colonist and had never even seen an Earthwoman.He had heard tales, though, and even discounting a large percentageof them, some of them must have been true. Old Grundy at the rocketoffice, who should know about these things if anybody did, seemeddisturbingly lacking on definite information, though he had hintedbroadly enough. He'd whistle softly and wink an eye and repeat thestories that Karl had already heard; but he had nothing definite tooffer, no real facts at all. Some of the other colonists whom they hadn't seen for the last fewmonths shouted greetings, and Karl began to feel some of the carnivalspirit. There was Jenkins, who had another trapping line fifty milesfarther up the Karazoo; Leonard, who had the biggest farm on Midplanet;and then the fellow who specialized in catching and breaking inyllumphs, whose name Karl couldn't remember. They say they're good workers, Hill said. Karl nodded. Pretty, too. They threaded their way through the crowded and muddy streets. LandingCity wasn't big, compared to some of the cities on Altair, where he hadbeen raised, but Karl was proud of it. Some day it would be as big asany city on any planet—maybe even have a population of ten thousandpeople or more. Joe, Karl said suddenly, what's supposed to make women from Earthbetter than women from any other world? Hill located a faint itch and frowned. I don't know, Karl. It's hardto say. They're—well, sophisticated, glamorous. Karl absorbed this in silence. Those particular qualities were, hethought, rather hard to define. The battered shack that served as rocket port office and headquartersfor the colonial office on Midplanet loomed up in front of them. Therewas a crowd gathered in front of the building and they forced their waythrough to see what had caused it. We saw this the last time we were here, Hill said. I know, Karl agreed, but I want to take another look. He wasanxious to glean all the information that he could. It was a poster of a beautiful woman leaning toward the viewer. Theedges of the poster were curling and the colors had faded during thelast six months, but the girl's smile seemed just as inviting as ever.She held a long-stemmed goblet in one hand and was blowing a kiss toher audience with the other. Her green eyes sparkled, her smile wasprovocative. A quoted sentence read: I'm from Earth ! There wasnothing more except a printed list of the different solar systems towhich the colonial office was sending the women. She was real pretty, Karl thought. A little on the thin side, maybe,and the dress she was wearing would hardly be practical on Midplanet,but she had a certain something. Glamour, maybe? A loudspeaker blared. All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers!All colonists.... There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidlymoving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out littleblue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tellthem some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had agreat imagination, nothing else. Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside thelanding field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcomesigns for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with governmentpamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl wentover and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set outand were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women inthe community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wonderinghow the girls from Earth would compare with them. He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be likewho had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when itlanded, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, ofcourse, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of gettingacquainted. He'd have to get back to his trapping lines and he imaginedthat Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to theirfarms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way,till it was too late. Sandwich, mister? Pop? Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, andwandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still tenminutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himselfstraining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flickerof exhaust flame. The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation. ... never knew one myself, but let me tell you.... ... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment's restafterward.... ... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture.... ... I'd give a lot to know the girl who's got number twenty-five.... Let's meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers, Hillsaid. Maybe we could trade. Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was justas good as depending on first impressions. There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze rivetedoverhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle offire. He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushedaside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn't hurt to try to lookhis best. The twinkling fire came nearer. II A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher. Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch. Please send him right in. That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would comein whether Escher wanted him to or not. The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual andEscher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problemwas going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps. MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes,just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychologyby heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective inbrowbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster. He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn'teasy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he wasthe head of the department. Escher gave in first. Okay, Mac, what's the trouble? What do we havetossed in our laps now? You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we firststarted to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male populationtook to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers,the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, toget away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresomethan the female; the men left—but the women didn't. At least, not innearly the same large numbers. Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth isnow something like five to three. If you don't know what that means,ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn'tjust a pleasant pastime on Earth. It's an earnest cutthroat businessand I'm not just using a literary phrase. He threw a paper on Escher's desk. You'll find most of the statisticsabout it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar towomen. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It'squite a list. You'll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, alot of which wouldn't have bothered the courts before. In fact, theywouldn't even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now? Escher shook his head blankly. Most of the girls in the past who didn't catch a husband, MacDonaldcontinued, grew up to be the type of old maid who's dedicated toimproving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We'vegot more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have moresilly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in thepokey for things like violating a woman's privacy—whatever thatmeans—and she's the one who decides whether what you say or do is aviolation or not. Escher looked bored. Not to mention the new prohibition whichforbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hairtonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you'll pardon theexpression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know thesolution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize. MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair. But it won't be easy, and that's why it's been given to us. It's yourbaby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing's impossible, you know. Perpetual motion machines are, Escher said quietly. And pullingyourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless,women just don't want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why shouldthey give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modernconveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexploredplanet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and playfootsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin themalive as not? What do you advise I do, then? MacDonald demanded. Go back to theBoard and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can't think ofanything? Escher looked hurt. Did I say that? I just said it wouldn't be easy. The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will payoff. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but notnecessarily the spirit. When do they have to have a solution? As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time thesituation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what willhappen then won't be good. All right, by then we'll have the answer. MacDonald stopped at the door. There's another reason why they want itworked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board foremigration to the colony planets is falling off. How come? MacDonald smiled. On the basis of statistics alone, would you want toemigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three? When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idlytapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the ColonizationBoard worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealisticlevel where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 percent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on thatlevel, they went to Escher and MacDonald's department. The coal minelevel. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if itdidn't work, you took the lumps, too. He rummaged around in his drawer and found a list of the qualificationsset up by the Board for potential colonists. He read the list slowlyand frowned. You had to be physically fit for the rigors of spacetravel, naturally, but some of the qualifications were obviously silly.You couldn't guarantee physical perfection in the second generation,anyway. He tore the qualification list in shreds and dropped it in the disposalchute. That would have to be the first to go. There were other things that could be done immediately. For one thing,as it stood now, you were supposed to be financially able to colonize.Obviously a stupid and unappealing law. That would have to go next. He picked up the sheet of statistics that MacDonald had left and readit carefully. The Board could legalize polygamy, but that was nosolution in the long run. Probably cause more problems than it wouldsolve. Even with women as easy to handle as they were nowadays, one wasstill enough. Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people tocolonize who didn't want to colonize. The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The secondpoint was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not. No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all—provided you held your nose,silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there wassuch a thing as a moral code. III Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked thecorrespondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about tobegin. She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redidher face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paintaway the faint crow's-feet around her eyes. She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what youwould call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compactmirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn'teven what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose afraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly—but notpretty, either. Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in thecorner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically arace apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed. Going out tonight, Phyl? She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth.The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought shewould sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank. I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinseout. The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. Sure, Phyl,I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us—waiting for the phoneto ring. Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully notingthe girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hardsort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure.Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside atheatre. At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she strippedand took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself infront of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether youshould keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up andlet yourself go. She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, andwent through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up onthe sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety—scientificallywritten with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly describedlove affairs to hold anybody's interest. It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room,getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered tothe floor. What was the use of kidding herself any longer, of trying to livevicariously and hoping that some day she would have a home and ahusband? She was thirty now; the phone hadn't rung in the last threeyears. She might as well spend this evening as she had spent so manyothers—call up the girls for a bridge game and a little gossip, thoughheaven knew you always ended up envying the people you were gossipingabout. Perhaps she should have joined one of the organizations at the officethat did something like that seven nights out of every seven. A bridgegame or a benefit for some school or a talk on art. Or she could havejoined the Lecture of the Week club, or the YWCA, or any one of theother government-sponsored clubs designed to fill the void in a woman'slife. But bridge games and benefits and lectures didn't take the place of ahusband and family. She was kidding herself again. She got up and retrieved the battered book, then went over to the mailslot. She hadn't had time to open her mail that morning; most of thetime it wasn't worth the effort. Advertisements for book clubs, lectureclubs, how to win at bridge and canasta.... Her fingers sprang the metal tabs on a large envelope and she took outthe contents and spread it wide. She gasped. It was a large poster, about a yard square. A man was onit, straddling a tiny city and a small panorama of farms and forestsat his feet. He was a handsome specimen, with wavy blond hair and blueeyes and a curly mat on his bare chest that was just enough to beattractive without being apelike. He held an axe in his hands and waseyeing her with a clearly inviting look of brazen self-confidence. It was definitely a privacy violator and she should notify theauthorities immediately! Bright lettering at the top of the poster shrieked: Come to theColonies, the Planets of Romance! Whoever had mailed it should be arrested and imprisoned! Preyingon.... The smaller print at the bottom was mostly full of facts and figures.The need for women out on the colony planets, the percentage of men towomen—a startling disproportion—the comfortable cities that weren'tnearly as primitive as people had imagined, and the recently reducedqualifications. She caught herself admiring the man on the poster. Naturally, it was anartist's conception, but even so.... And the cities were far in advance of the frontier settlements, whereyou had to battle disease and dirty savages. It was all a dream. She had never done anything like this and shewouldn't think of doing it now. And had any of her friends seen theposter? Of course, they probably wouldn't tell her even if they had. But the poster was a violation of privacy. Whoever had sent it hadtaken advantage of information that was none of their business. It wasup to her to notify the authorities! <doc-sep>The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, itwas no more than fair to pay transportation. He said, How much does the freight cost? Broderick told him. It may seem high, said the Earthman, but remember that Earth issixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of themerchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, consideringthe cost of operating an interstellar spaceship. Impossible, said Zotul drably. Not I and all my brothers togetherhave so much money any more. You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer youcredit! What is that? asked Zotul skeptically. It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of therich, said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of theinvolutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles thatmight have had a discouraging effect. On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. What must I doto get credit? Just sign this paper, said Broderick, and you become part of ourEasy Payment Plan. Zotul drew back. I have five brothers. If I took all these things formyself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue. Here. Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. Have eachof your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That isall there is to it. It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotulwrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won. I will talk it over with them, he said. Give me the total so I willhave the figures. The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotulpointed this out politely. Interest, Broderick explained. A mere fifteen per cent. After all,you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to bepaid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble. I see. Zotul puzzled over it sadly. It is too much, he said. Ourplant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments. I have a surprise for you, smiled Broderick. Here is a contract. Youwill start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certainparts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage localmanufacture to help bring prices down. We haven't the equipment. We will equip your plant, beamed Broderick. It will require onlya quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrialcompany. <doc-sep>He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words. I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage. This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe.... In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships. Your guess happens to be the precise truth. At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed. She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth. Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored. Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe. But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely. Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers. Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few. Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born. <doc-sep></s>

They are meeting because currently, there are not as many females on the colonized planets. And this is a huge problem. From the beginning of the colonization, there were more adventuresome males than females, thus they headed for the new world but most of the females stayed behind. The disproportional rate in the genders that gone to colonies lead to five females for every three males on Earth, while the colonies have the opposite. Hence, those girls needs to be shipped from their original planet, in this case the Earth, to colony planets for those males there. However, not many girls are applying to go. Another problem, states MacDonald, is the number of men applying for emigration to colonized planets have been dropping. MacDonald considers this reasonable since it seems illogical for a male to move away from a place that has more females than males. Escher then disregards the qualification for colonization and decides to focus on making the people that don’t want to colonize to colonize, whether it is through convincing or forcing.

<s> Bridge Crossing BY DAVE DRYFOOS Illustrated by HARRISON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He knew the city was organized for his individual defense, for it had been that way since he was born. But who was his enemy? In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again. But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning. He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof. But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight. And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. Thesoldiers don't— I'm not a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight? Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject. A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted. Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse. Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking. Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck. It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver. <doc-sep>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>He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck. She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time? Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report! There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees. Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours. He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder. Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that. The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet. Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily. Molly stepped in front of him. You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes. Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor. <doc-sep></s>

An army ship lands near a settlement, and people look out their windows, grumbling about its presence because they want no contact with the army. A soldier disembarks and stands at attention facing the settlement, and the people assume he must be proud, ornery, or drunk. Eventually, a resident named Bob Rossel goes out to see what the soldier wants. The soldier identifies himself as Captain Dylan, explaining that he has a message from Fleet Headquarters for the person in charge. Rossel takes the envelope since they don’t have anyone in charge. A young man inside the ship tosses Dylan a bottle, asks if he can leave, and tells him he’ll be back that night. Rossel is appalled that the younger soldier appears drunk and throws Dylan a bottle of liquor. Dylan tells Rossel to read the message because they don’t have much time and starts walking toward the settlement as the ship takes off. Man’s first contact with aliens had occurred at the Lupus V Colony in 2360, which aliens destroyed. When the army came to investigate, it found 31 of the 70 colonists dead, with the rest, including women and children, missing. Buildings had burned, and all technical equipment was missing. The security bomb, one of which was planted in each colony to be detonated in such an emergency, had failed to go off—the detonating wire had been dug up where it was buried 12 inches deep and cut. Because there had been 500 years of peace and people were conditioned to be anti-war, the army was small and lacked respect. So the army couldn’t take the time to find out exactly what had happened but just spread the news to other colonies, most of which evacuated before they were attacked. The message Dylan delivers is that the aliens are attacking again; this settlement needs to evacuate. A big gloomy man named Rush demands help from the army fleet, but Dylan informs him that the army is too weak to help. Dylan tells them that Lt. Bossio is warning Planet Three and returning that night to pick him up. Everyone must be gone by then. Dylan digs up the detonator wire and finds it has been cut. Rossel tells him their ship will only hold 60 of their 40 colonists and asks Dylan to take the rest on the army ship. Dylan offers to ask Bossio and then shows Rossel the cut wire. They discuss whether a colonist or an animal could have cut it. Dylan splices the wire as Rossel leaves. Meanwhile, an alien is hiding nearby, watching the humans prepare to leave. He presses a button that disables their ship. Rossel has been trying to reach Planet Three and can’t get an answer; Dylan realizes the colony there is dead, so Bossio is, too. People strip their clothes to reduce their weight and take on more people. Forty-six are able to board. When the ship tries to lift off, it can’t get off the ground.

<s> Bridge Crossing BY DAVE DRYFOOS Illustrated by HARRISON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He knew the city was organized for his individual defense, for it had been that way since he was born. But who was his enemy? In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again. But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning. He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof. But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight. And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. Thesoldiers don't— I'm not a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight? Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject. A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted. Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse. Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking. Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck. It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver. <doc-sep>He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck. She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time? Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report! There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees. Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours. He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder. Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that. The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet. Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily. Molly stepped in front of him. You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes. Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor. <doc-sep> SOLDIER BOY By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's one thing to laugh at a man because his job is useless and outdated—another to depend on him when it suddenly isn't. In the northland, deep, and in a great cave, by an everburning firethe Warrior sleeps. For this is the resting time, the time of peace,and so shall it be for a thousand years. And yet we shall summon himagain, my children, when we are sore in need, and out of the north hewill come, and again and again, each time we call, out of the dark andthe cold, with the fire in his hands, he will come. — Scandinavian legend Throughout the night, thick clouds had been piling in the north; inthe morning, it was misty and cold. By eight o'clock a wet, heavy,snow-smelling breeze had begun to set in, and because the crops wereall down and the winter planting done, the colonists brewed hot coffeeand remained inside. The wind blew steadily, icily from the north. Itwas well below freezing when, some time after nine, an army ship landedin a field near the settlement. There was still time. There were some last brief moments in which thecolonists could act and feel as they had always done. They thereforegrumbled in annoyance. They wanted no soldiers here. The few who hadconvenient windows stared out with distaste and a mild curiosity, butno one went out to greet them. After a while a rather tall, frail-looking man came out of the shipand stood upon the hard ground looking toward the village. He remainedthere, waiting stiffly, his face turned from the wind. It was a sillything to do. He was obviously not coming in, either out of pride orjust plain orneriness. Well, I never, a nice lady said. What's he just standing there for? another lady said. And all of them thought: well, God knows what's in the mind of asoldier, and right away many people concluded that he must be drunk.The seed of peace was deeply planted in these people, in the childrenand the women, very, very deep. And because they had been taught, oh socarefully, to hate war they had also been taught, quite incidentally,to despise soldiers. The lone man kept standing in the freezing wind. <doc-sep></s>

The story takes place on an unnamed planet some time after an alien attack in the year 2360. Colonists settled the planet and have built a village consisting of several houses and a radio shack. Presumably, this is where the colonists contact other colonies. It is also where the detonator for the security bomb is located, with the wire buried under 12 inches of dirt. The atmosphere is Earth-like. There are thick clouds overnight, and the morning is misty and cold. The breeze carries the smell of snow, and later in the day, the snow arrives. The planet is suitable for agriculture because the colonists have already harvested their warmer weather crops and planted their winter crops. The colonists have advanced technology because they have machines that plant and harvest and automatically run their factories. The temperature is below freezing, so people are staying in their houses and drinking coffee. A sister planet colony on Planet Three is much like this colony. The two colonies maintain contact via radios, and mailships make regular runs between the settlements on the different planets. Every settlement is equipped with a security bomb to be detonated in the event of an alien attack. The purpose of discharging the bomb is to prevent hostile aliens from learning important information about humans, including their technology and body chemistry.Another setting mentioned in the story is the Lupus V colony attacked by aliens late in the year 2360. Lupus V had 70 registered colonists, including men, women, and children. It also had technical equipment, radios, guns, machines, and books. When the army arrived after the alien attack, everything had been taken, along with 39 women and children; 31 people died in the attack or the subsequent fire that the aliens set with their heat ray. The security bomb had not been detonated because the wire to it had been cut, even though it was buried 12 inches under the soil.

<s>An obscenely cheerful expression upon his gaunt, not too well shavenface, Captain Dylan perched himself upon the edge of a table andlistened, one long booted leg swinging idly. One by one the colonistswere beginning to understand. War is huge and comes with greatsuddenness and always without reason, and there is inevitably a wait,between acts, between the news and the motion, the fear and the rage. Dylan waited. These people were taking it well, much better than thosein the cities had taken it. But then, these were pioneers. Dylangrinned. Pioneers. Before you settle a planet you boil it and bakeit and purge it of all possible disease. Then you step down gingerlyand inflate your plastic houses, which harden and become warm andimpregnable; and send your machines out to plant and harvest; and setup automatic factories to transmute dirt into coffee; and, without everhaving lifted a finger, you have braved the wilderness, hewed a homeout of the living rock and become a pioneer. Dylan grinned again. Butat least this was better than the wailing of the cities. This Dylan thought, although he was himself no fighter, no man at allby any standards. This he thought because he was a soldier and anoutcast; to every drunken man the fall of the sober is a happy thing.He stirred restlessly. By this time the colonists had begun to realize that there wasn't muchto say, and a tall, handsome woman was murmuring distractedly: Lupus,Lupus—doesn't that mean wolves or something? Dylan began to wish they would get moving, these pioneers. It was verypossible that the aliens would be here soon, and there was no need fordiscussion. There was only one thing to do and that was to clear thehell out, quickly and without argument. They began to see it. But, when the fear had died down, the resentment came. A number ofwomen began to cluster around Dylan and complain, working up theiranger. Dylan said nothing. Then the man Rossel pushed forward andconfronted him, speaking with a vast annoyance. See here, soldier, this is our planet. I mean to say, this is our home . We demand some protection from the fleet. By God, we've beenpaying the freight for you boys all these years and it's high time youearned your keep. We demand.... It went on and on while Dylan looked at the clock and waited. He hopedthat he could end this quickly. A big gloomy man was in front of himnow and giving him that name of ancient contempt, soldier boy. Thegloomy man wanted to know where the fleet was. There is no fleet. There are a few hundred half-shot old tubs thatwere obsolete before you were born. There are four or five new jobs forthe brass and the government. That's all the fleet there is. <doc-sep>Eventually, because even a soldier can look small and cold andpathetic, Bob Rossel had to get up out of a nice, warm bed and go outin that miserable cold to meet him. The soldier saluted. Like most soldiers, he was not too neat and nottoo clean and the salute was sloppy. Although he was bigger thanRossel he did not seem bigger. And, because of the cold, there weretears gathering in the ends of his eyes. Captain Dylan, sir. His voice was low and did not carry. I have amessage from Fleet Headquarters. Are you in charge here? Rossel, a small sober man, grunted. Nobody's in charge here. If youwant a spokesman I guess I'll do. What's up? The captain regarded him briefly out of pale blue, expressionless eyes.Then he pulled an envelope from an inside pocket, handed it to Rossel.It was a thick, official-looking thing and Rossel hefted it idly. Hewas about to ask again what was it all about when the airlock of thehovering ship swung open creakily. A beefy, black-haired young manappeared unsteadily in the doorway, called to Dylan. C'n I go now, Jim? Dylan turned and nodded. Be back for you tonight, the young man called, and then, grinning,he yelled Catch and tossed down a bottle. The captain caught it andput it unconcernedly into his pocket while Rossel stared in disgust. Amoment later the airlock closed and the ship prepared to lift. Was he drunk ? Rossel began angrily. Was that a bottle of liquor ? The soldier was looking at him calmly, coldly. He indicated theenvelope in Rossel's hand. You'd better read that and get moving. Wehaven't much time. He turned and walked toward the buildings and Rossel had to follow. AsRossel drew near the walls the watchers could see his lips moving butcould not hear him. Just then the ship lifted and they turned to watchthat, and followed it upward, red spark-tailed, into the gray spongyclouds and the cold. After a while the ship went out of sight, and nobody ever saw it again. <doc-sep>Dylan wanted to go on about that, to remind them that nobody had wantedthe army, that the fleet had grown smaller and smaller ... but this wasnot the time. It was ten-thirty already and the damned aliens might becoming in right now for all he knew, and all they did was talk. He hadrealized a long time ago that no peace-loving nation in the historyof Earth had ever kept itself strong, and although peace was a nobledream, it was ended now and it was time to move. We'd better get going, he finally said, and there was quiet.Lieutenant Bossio has gone on to your sister colony at Planet Three ofthis system. He'll return to pick me up by nightfall and I'm instructedto have you gone by then. For a long moment they waited, and then one man abruptly walked off andthe rest followed quickly; in a moment they were all gone. One or twostopped long enough to complain about the fleet, and the big gloomy mansaid he wanted guns, that's all, and there wouldn't nobody get him offhis planet. When he left, Dylan breathed with relief and went out tocheck the bomb, grateful for the action. Most of it had to be done in the open. He found a metal bar in theradio shack and began chopping at the frozen ground, following thewire. It was the first thing he had done with his hands in weeks, andit felt fine. Dylan had been called up out of a bar—he and Bossio—and told what hadhappened, and in three weeks now they had cleared four colonies. Thiswould be the last, and the tension here was beginning to get to him.After thirty years of hanging around and playing like the town drunk,a man could not be expected to rush out and plug the breach, just likethat. It would take time. He rested, sweating, took a pull from the bottle on his hip. Before they sent him out on this trip they had made him a captain.Well, that was nice. After thirty years he was a captain. For thirtyyears he had bummed all over the west end of space, had scraped his wayalong the outer edges of Mankind, had waited and dozed and patrolledand got drunk, waiting always for something to happen. There were a lotof ways to pass the time while you waited for something to happen, andhe had done them all. Once he had even studied military tactics. He could not help smiling at that, even now. Damn it, he'd been green.But he'd been only nineteen when his father died—of a hernia, of acrazy fool thing like a hernia that killed him just because he'd workedtoo long on a heavy planet—and in those days the anti-war conditioningout on the Rim was not very strong. They talked a lot about guardiansof the frontier, and they got him and some other kids and a broken-downdoctor. And ... now he was a captain. He bent his back savagely, digging at the ground. You wait and you waitand the edge goes off. This thing he had waited for all those damn dayswas upon him now and there was nothing he could do but say the hellwith it and go home. Somewhere along the line, in some dark corner ofthe bars or the jails, in one of the million soul-murdering insultswhich are reserved especially for peacetime soldiers, he had lost thecore of himself, and it didn't particularly matter. That was the point:it made no particular difference if he never got it back. He owednobody. He was tugging at the wire and trying to think of somethingpleasant from the old days, when the wire came loose in his hands. Although he had been, in his cynical way, expecting it, for a moment itthrew him and he just stared. The end was clean and bright. The wirehad just been cut. <doc-sep></s>

Captain Dylan is in the Fleet army and travels with Lieutenant Bossio to colonies on different planets with the message that an alien attack is imminent and the colonists must evacuate. He has become a drunk, which is not uncommon in the army because soldiers were outcasts. For the past three weeks, he and Bossio have been evacuating colonies—the current one is their fifth and last. Prior to this mission, he has spent the last 30 years hanging around, getting drunk, and waiting for something to happen. He was made a captain just before this mission. Looking back, he finds it humorous that he used to study military tactics as if he would need to know them. After his father died of a hernia that he developed from working too long on a heavy planet, he joined the army. Dylan was lured by the army’s recruiting advertisements calling itself guardians of the frontier. When he enlisted, anti-war conditioning wasn’t as strong as it is now, so people weren’t as resentful and disrespectful of soldiers then. Dylan feels that along the way, after all the time he spent in bars and jails, he lost his core. He also believes it doesn’t matter whether he makes it back home: he has no connections and doesn’t owe anybody anything. Drinking has become a way of life, and while he digs for the wire to the bomb, he takes a drink, but after he finds the wire has been cut, he reaches for his bottle but for the first time in a long time, stops before taking a drink. When the colonists start looking to him for help and answers, Dylan is somewhat pleased because now they are showing him respect, but he is annoyed, too, since it is only because they are scared and need help. When Dylan learns that Planet Three hasn’t answered any radio calls, he connects that to the fact he hasn’t been able to reach Bossio and concludes that the colonists and Bossio are dead. He knows this means he will have to stay behind on the planet when the colonists leave, but that doesn’t bother him. What does bother him is that Bossio is dead only because they had come to help these people—people who wanted nothing to do with them until their lives were threatened. Bossio was his best friend, and Dylan mourns his loss. Even though Dylan resents the people for their disregard for him and the army, he has sympathy for them. He doesn’t want to watch their pain when the women have to leave their men behind, and he is touched when an old woman offers him coffee and a mackinaw to help him stay warm. As he watches Rossel and other men saying goodbye to their wives and children, Dylan begins losing the shell the last 30 years had created around him and begins to feel that these people are his people.

<s> SOLDIER BOY By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's one thing to laugh at a man because his job is useless and outdated—another to depend on him when it suddenly isn't. In the northland, deep, and in a great cave, by an everburning firethe Warrior sleeps. For this is the resting time, the time of peace,and so shall it be for a thousand years. And yet we shall summon himagain, my children, when we are sore in need, and out of the north hewill come, and again and again, each time we call, out of the dark andthe cold, with the fire in his hands, he will come. — Scandinavian legend Throughout the night, thick clouds had been piling in the north; inthe morning, it was misty and cold. By eight o'clock a wet, heavy,snow-smelling breeze had begun to set in, and because the crops wereall down and the winter planting done, the colonists brewed hot coffeeand remained inside. The wind blew steadily, icily from the north. Itwas well below freezing when, some time after nine, an army ship landedin a field near the settlement. There was still time. There were some last brief moments in which thecolonists could act and feel as they had always done. They thereforegrumbled in annoyance. They wanted no soldiers here. The few who hadconvenient windows stared out with distaste and a mild curiosity, butno one went out to greet them. After a while a rather tall, frail-looking man came out of the shipand stood upon the hard ground looking toward the village. He remainedthere, waiting stiffly, his face turned from the wind. It was a sillything to do. He was obviously not coming in, either out of pride orjust plain orneriness. Well, I never, a nice lady said. What's he just standing there for? another lady said. And all of them thought: well, God knows what's in the mind of asoldier, and right away many people concluded that he must be drunk.The seed of peace was deeply planted in these people, in the childrenand the women, very, very deep. And because they had been taught, oh socarefully, to hate war they had also been taught, quite incidentally,to despise soldiers. The lone man kept standing in the freezing wind. <doc-sep>The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien raceoccurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way fromhome. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alienforce attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage andthe dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for thearmy. When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists,thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children,were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines,even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so werethe bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had,nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldierfinally stumbled on something. For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the mainbuildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to beburied in the center of each colony, because it was important to blowa whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learnvital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bombat Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. Thedetonating wire had been cut. In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches ofearth, the wire had been dug up and cut. The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After fivehundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small,weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spreadthe news, and Man began to fall back. In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-wonstars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most ofthe colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, diedin fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in thoseships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of asociety which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the onlydefense Earth had. This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earthwith a bottle on his hip. <doc-sep> Bridge Crossing BY DAVE DRYFOOS Illustrated by HARRISON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He knew the city was organized for his individual defense, for it had been that way since he was born. But who was his enemy? In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again. But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning. He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof. But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight. And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. Thesoldiers don't— I'm not a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight? Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject. A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted. Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse. Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking. Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck. It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver. <doc-sep></s>

The army has no respect from the colonists; they don’t want anything to do with it because they associate it with war. The people at this time have been conditioned to despise war and anything to do with it. When they see Captain Dylan standing by his ship and facing the village, they think he is ridiculous or possibly drunk. Rossel noticed that Dylan appeared like a typical soldier: not very neat and not very clean, and his salute lacked proper military precision. And when Lt. Bossio tosses Dylan a bottle of liquor, Rossel isn’t surprised because of the reputation soldiers have for being drunks; in fact, Rossel is disgusted by the liquor and Bossio’s drunkenness. When aliens attacked Lupus V in 2360, the army found the destruction and dead and discovered why their security bomb hadn’t detonated. There was little the army could do about the alien attack because the army had become so small and weak. There had been peace for 500 years when people didn’t need the army, so its equipment was old, and many of the soldiers were from the bottom of society: drinkers and gamblers. So the army is just notifying other colonies of the attack and warning them to evacuate. When the colonists learn that they have to evacuate due to the threat of an alien attack, Rossel demands that the fleet defend them, and another man named Rush asks where the army fleet is, expecting it to come to their defense. When Dylan explains there is no fleet, just a few hundred obsolete ships, he is tempted to tell them that no one wants an army until it is needed. Dylan himself has been in the army for 30 years and has never seen any action. And when Rossel realizes the colony’s ship won’t hold all of the colonists, he asks if any fleet ships are within radio distance that they could summon to help with their evacuation, hoping that the army is near enough to be of help. Ironically, the army that they despise now offers their only hope.

<s>She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight. Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But he was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long. Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move! There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on. Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction. Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead. He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary. They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours. <doc-sep>The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien raceoccurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way fromhome. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alienforce attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage andthe dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for thearmy. When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists,thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children,were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines,even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so werethe bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had,nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldierfinally stumbled on something. For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the mainbuildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to beburied in the center of each colony, because it was important to blowa whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learnvital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bombat Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. Thedetonating wire had been cut. In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches ofearth, the wire had been dug up and cut. The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After fivehundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small,weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spreadthe news, and Man began to fall back. In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-wonstars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most ofthe colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, diedin fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in thoseships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of asociety which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the onlydefense Earth had. This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earthwith a bottle on his hip. <doc-sep>Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock. It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly. Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one. To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out. Soon there would be nothing left of the Private Property Keep Out that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender. And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say. Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them. He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong. Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane. As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam. Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing. <doc-sep></s>

When the army investigates the destruction of Lupus V, it discovers that the wire to the bomb that would blow up the community had been cut. The wire was hidden 12 inches under the ground, so it would not have been easy to find. Since the wire was cut, the bomb didn’t explode, enabling the aliens to take the women and children, along with all the technology, from the planet. The purpose of the bomb was to prevent the aliens from gaining knowledge of human technology and body chemistry; presumably, aliens would be able to use this information against humans in the future. Because Dylan knows of the cut wire on Lupus V, he checks the wire for the bomb on the planet he has come to evacuate. When he discovers the wire is cut here, too, he notes that the ends are clean, so someone made the cut recently. The ground over the wire was packed down, so whoever cut it also wanted to hide that it had been tampered with. Rossel assumes one of the colonists must have cut the wire, possibly thinking it was dangerous for the colonists and just a silly government rule. After Dylan tells him about the wire being cut on Lupus V, Rossel plans to question everyone. Dylan wonders if the aliens could have cut it by telepathy of one of the colonists but rules that out because if they could control one human, they could control all of them. Dylan then wonders if an alien has done it. No one knows what the aliens look like, but for them to have intelligence, they would need a large brain, making the alien about the size of a large dog. Dylan knows all the animals on the planet had been vetted before the colony was settled. When he tells the others his suspicion, Rush says the only animal they’ve seen nearby is a viggle, which is something like a monkey with four legs. The viggle passed Biology’s screening, so the viggle is ruled out. Although Dylan doesn’t discover the alien hidden in its electric cocoon, he is convinced that aliens cut the wire. He is also convinced that the alien attack is imminent.

<s> Butterfly 9 By DONALD KEITH Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage! I At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles. You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper. This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill. Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many? I need something. I'm sure losing my grip. Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet. <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>

Jeff Elliott and his wife Ann meet a peculiar stranger, Mr. Snader, at a restaurant in the year 1957 as they are discussing Jeff’s desire to go 5 years into the past to buy a building for $2000 that would’ve changed his luck entirely. The stranger had been listening to their conversation and was seeking someone with Jeff’s credentials (color television engineer) to complete an illegal job he’d been hired for. Jeff and Ann have no idea that Mr. Snader is on such a job, but entertain his quirky conversation.Mr. Snader has a friendly and persuasive personality, narrowly convincing Jeff and Ann to follow him to his time travel station and take a free trip to see if they like it. The Elliots do not perceive the situation as dangerous, and continue choosing to trust him at each step. Ultimately, the Elliots are escorted six years back in time through a time travelling process that appears like stepping through a screen, but their past is nothing like they remember. It is a different place entirely, and though they are frightened, their excitement and perhaps also their complete reliance on Mr. Snader to get them back home, causes them to keep following him even though he has become mean with them. Mr. Snader takes the Elliotts to an apartment house to meet Septo Kersey and Dumont Bullen, the general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine. It’s revealed that Mr. Snader tricked the Elliots, and brought them to Mr. Bullen who had illegally sought Jeff’s services as a color engineer to profit his own interests by creating color television that did not yet exist in their time. Jeff was furious, and totally helpless.Jeff and Ann were allowed to leave, because their captors were certain that they could not actually escape them. They had no idea how to leave this timeline, and had no way of finding justice being illegally present with no work permits. When Jeff and Ann stop for lunch and try to pay with the money in their pockets (which appears as illegal tender), they are approached by an officer and find out they are in a place called Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Everyone in the interaction is deeply confused, because time travel is not understood to be possible by the public - Jeff and Ann look crazy. Both are escorted to separate jail cells in a prison.One of Mr. Bullen's barmen, a lawyer, was sent to arrange Jeff’s release, if he was willing to cooperate and go work for Mr. Bullen. The lawyer has to explain to Jeff the concept of time travelling before he can get any cooperation, and so says that time travel is entering a different dimension, not moving along a linear timeline. Things look so different to Jeff in the past because he didn’t travel back a linear path to exactly the way things were when he experienced these things six years ago. The story ends during their discussion.

<s> Butterfly 9 By DONALD KEITH Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage! I At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles. You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper. This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill. Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many? I need something. I'm sure losing my grip. Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet. <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>Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. No fog about this!You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract,but you do what I say! Why, the man thinks he owns you. Ann laughed shakily. You'll find my barmen know their law, Bullen said. This isn't theway I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with yourknowledge. Kersey said politely, You are here illegally, with no immigratepermit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullenhas taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you canmake a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for youto live in. You are really very luxe, do you see? Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. Hewondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strangestreets. But he put on a bold front. I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to workfor you, he said. My wife and I are walking out right now. Try andstop us, legally or any other way. Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullenchuckled deep in his throat. Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Goon, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask forBullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrowpre-noon. Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann. When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. We made it.For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go? No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers. Helooked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there wasno sign of pursuit. It's a long time since supper. <doc-sep></s>

The story takes place on Earth, in the year 1957. It opens in a restaurant, and quickly transitions to Mr. Snader’s 4-D TRAVEL BEURO time travel station, inside of a “middle-sized, middle-cost home in a good neighborhood.” They could hear traffic dimly in the station and see mountains out the windows on the horizon. The time travelling room appears like a doctor's waiting room, with chair lined walls. There is a station sign - 701 - that hangs on the ceiling and two movie screens on the far ends of the room. Stepping through one screen would take them forwards in time, and one backwards in time. The Elliotts go to station 725, which Mr. Snader tells them is six years in the past.The past is very unfamiliar, more industrialized with more highways than they remember. After travelling in a limousine, they transition to a 6th floor apartment house of a building with heavy carpets and soft lighting.The final settings are a lunch counter, with unfamiliar food to the Elliotts, and finally their jail cells.

<s> Butterfly 9 By DONALD KEITH Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage! I At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles. You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper. This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill. Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many? I need something. I'm sure losing my grip. Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet. <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>While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness. In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope. Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out? As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading. Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release. Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible! The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating. She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt. Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be in the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave? By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy. And see what's written on it, she added. They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words: Going down! <doc-sep></s>

Time travel is suggested as a way to solve troubles. To fix regrets. Ironically, it is not this at all, because the way time travel works is not linear. Thus, it’s not possible to go back to an exact moment in your past and make a different decision.Jeff is very impatient about the time they are spending with Mr. Snader, but continues to be roped into one thing and the next by convincing himself that they are in no real danger. There is a kind of tension between Jeff feeling like he is wasting time, but then allowing time to run on as their involvement with Mr. Snader deepens further and further until they lose 6 years of time completely.

<s> Butterfly 9 By DONALD KEITH Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage! I At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles. You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper. This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill. Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many? I need something. I'm sure losing my grip. Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet. <doc-sep>Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. No fog about this!You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract,but you do what I say! Why, the man thinks he owns you. Ann laughed shakily. You'll find my barmen know their law, Bullen said. This isn't theway I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with yourknowledge. Kersey said politely, You are here illegally, with no immigratepermit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullenhas taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you canmake a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for youto live in. You are really very luxe, do you see? Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. Hewondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strangestreets. But he put on a bold front. I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to workfor you, he said. My wife and I are walking out right now. Try andstop us, legally or any other way. Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullenchuckled deep in his throat. Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Goon, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask forBullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrowpre-noon. Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann. When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. We made it.For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go? No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers. Helooked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there wasno sign of pursuit. It's a long time since supper. <doc-sep>Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. I haven't finished eating. Let'schat with the gent. She added in an undertone to Jeff, Must be apsycho—but sort of an inspired one. The man said to Ann, You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people.I join you. He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table withan easy grace that was almost arrogant. You are unhappy in 1957, he went on. Discouraged. Restless. Why nottake trip to another time? Why not? Ann said gaily. How much does it cost? Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe wetalk money. He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance. Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read: 4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent Mr. Snader's bureau is different, Jeff said to his wife. He evenspells it different. Snader chuckled. I come from other time. We spell otherwise. You mean you come from the future? Just different time. I show you. You come with me? Come where? Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The mandidn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor andforce. Come on little trip to different time, invited Snader. He addedpersuasively, Could be back here in hour. It would be painless, I suppose? Jeff gave it a touch of derision. Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips everyday. I look damaged? As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar andhis nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeffpolitely agreed that he did not look damaged. Ann was enjoying this. Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your timetravel work? Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Toocomplicated. He flashed his white teeth. You think time travel notpossible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather. Ann said, Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips. Invite many people, Snader said quickly. Not expensive. You knowMissing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They gowith me to other time. Many stay. Oh, sure, Jeff said. But how do you select the ones to invite? Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape. <doc-sep></s>

Jeff and Ann Elliott are a married couple. Ann is supportive of Jeff, and assures him that with their youth he will be able to rebuild his failed business. She reassures him throughout the story, even at points where it ultimately leads them into deeper trouble - such as when she tells him it wouldn’t hurt to try Mr. Snader’s time travel. Jeff is protective of Ann on several occasions, like at the start of the story suggesting he would start a brawl at the restaurant if the stranger was interested in Ann’s beauty. He is also upset enough with his business struggles that he needs to take sleeping pills, of which Ann is concerned about the amount.They remain together in the story until they are held in separate jail cells. They do not have any major disagreements in the story, and seem to enjoy their time together, only hoping to improve their lot by trying a risky time travel adventure.

<s>A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted themheartily. Solid man, Greet! he exclaimed. You're a real scratcher! And is thisour sharp? He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look. Just what you order, Snader said proudly. His name—Jeff Elliott.Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. AnnElliott. The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. Prime! I wish joy, hesaid to Ann and Jeff. I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting. He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking outon the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, andin it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunteda perfunctory Wish joy when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyesstudied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs. Snader did not sit down, however. No need for me now, he said, andmoved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann. Bullen nodded. You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out. Here, wait a minute! Jeff called. But Snader was gone. Sit still, Bullen growled to Jeff. You understand radioptics? The blood went to Jeff's head. My business is television, if that'swhat you mean. What's this about? Tell him, Kersey, the big man said, and stared out the window. Kersey began, You understand, I think, that you have come back intime. About six years back. That's a matter of opinion, but go on. I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr.Dumont Bullen. He nodded toward the big man. Chromatics have notyet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are wellunderstood in your time, are they not? What's chromatics? Color television? Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think. Jeff nodded. So what? The old man beamed at him. You are here to work for our company. Youwill enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave. Jeff stood up. Don't tell me who I'll work for. <doc-sep>Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. I haven't finished eating. Let'schat with the gent. She added in an undertone to Jeff, Must be apsycho—but sort of an inspired one. The man said to Ann, You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people.I join you. He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table withan easy grace that was almost arrogant. You are unhappy in 1957, he went on. Discouraged. Restless. Why nottake trip to another time? Why not? Ann said gaily. How much does it cost? Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe wetalk money. He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance. Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read: 4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent Mr. Snader's bureau is different, Jeff said to his wife. He evenspells it different. Snader chuckled. I come from other time. We spell otherwise. You mean you come from the future? Just different time. I show you. You come with me? Come where? Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The mandidn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor andforce. Come on little trip to different time, invited Snader. He addedpersuasively, Could be back here in hour. It would be painless, I suppose? Jeff gave it a touch of derision. Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips everyday. I look damaged? As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar andhis nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeffpolitely agreed that he did not look damaged. Ann was enjoying this. Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your timetravel work? Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Toocomplicated. He flashed his white teeth. You think time travel notpossible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather. Ann said, Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips. Invite many people, Snader said quickly. Not expensive. You knowMissing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They gowith me to other time. Many stay. Oh, sure, Jeff said. But how do you select the ones to invite? Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape. <doc-sep>Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name wasElliott? Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. Mr. Snader, youheard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a goodchance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into thepast and correct mistakes they've made? They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them. Don't you wish it were true? she sighed to Jeff. You afraid to believe, said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in hisrestless eyes. Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station.Very near here. Ann jumped up. It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, ifanything. Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night'smadness—a yearning to forget his troubles. Okay, just for kicks. Butwe go in my car. Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-likegrace of his short, broad body. This is no ordinary oddball, Jeff told Ann. He's tricky. He's gotsome gimmick. First I just played him along, to see how loony he was, Ann said.Now I wonder who's kidding whom. She concluded thoughtfully, He'skind of handsome, in a tough way. II Snader's station proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in agood neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear thewhisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warmdusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful. Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a finemetal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with aflourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back. 'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,' she murmured toJeff. This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den. No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much, he said.There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' forsome daffy religious sect. They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snadersaid, Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau. The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward thenext room, after a glance at Snader's key. The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shutafter them. The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along thewalls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middleof the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant televisionscreens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room. The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, anarrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word Ante , and tothe right with the word Post . Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. Oneappeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats likea railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the leftwall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-linedcorridor moved toward him from that direction. Somebody worked hard on this layout, he said to Snader. What's itfor? Time travel, said Snader. You like? Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream oftime, I suppose? <doc-sep></s>

Initially, the Elliotts find Mr. Snader to be peculiar with his mustache, facial scar, traces of a broken nose, and accented speech. Jeff is not interested in engaging with him, but Ann continues to deepen their conversation with him at the restaurant thinking that Mr. Snader is insane and she will humor his ideas.Mr. Snader shows hints of being forceful to the Elliots throughout the story. His persuasiveness to come to his time travel station is forceful at times, he takes their arms to escort them into the future portal (as if he wants to ensure their compliance), and once they are roaming the city in the future Mr. Snader largely drops the act and stops being nice to the Elliots altogether (ignoring their requests for him to drive safely, and being curt with them to get them into his drop off spot with Mr. Bullen).The Elliots are captivated by the silliness of Mr. Snader’s story at first, believing it is a magic trick right up until they travel into the past, and then seem largely blinded by their curiosity and excitement to think critically about how much danger they are really in. They acknowledge Mr. Snader is being deceitful at times, like when Jeff asks for his questions to be answered, but become so reliant on Mr. Snader’s support to get them back home that they remain with him. When Mr. Snader’s plan is revealed - that he has delivered the Eliotts into the past to be forced into labor to create a color television company - they feel betrayed by Mr. Snader.

<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> TROUBLE ON TYCHO By NELSON S. BOND Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of the Moon Station's existence. But there came the day when his comrades found that the worth of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc. Hummm? he said absent-mindedly. The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared. Report ready, Jones? Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get anything right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese— Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all. That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—? It was all , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: Cond. ofObs. He noted the proper figures under the headings Sun Spots : MaxFreq. — Min. Freq. ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet. This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing. Weather forecast for Terra , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds. The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking. O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on! I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice. Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously. Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped. You , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize— The Dome Commander's niece giggled. That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice. It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go. That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar. Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work. South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible. <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>

Isobar Jones’ first call of the day was from Dome Commander Colonel Eagon telling him to deliver his weather reports to Riley Sparks, the Terra contact, ASAP. He works diligently but is soon called again, this time by Eagon’s niece who wants to know about the weather in a certain sector. Shyly, he answers then quickly finished his work. Sparks calls him and asks him to bring his reports to him, as well as informing him that Roberts and Browns were sent Outside for repair work. Sparks makes fun of Isobar’s bagpipes. In Sparks’ office, Isobar delivers his work then waits for him to make the call. Once he’s delivered the report, Sparks asks the Earthman to turn his microphone around. As he does so, the video changes from his face to that of Earth, beautiful trees, and green grass. Isobar is grateful to Sparks and tells him so. They talk about Isobar’s homesickness until Colonel Eagon walks in to hear them discussing the Outisde. He quickly shuts it down and informs Isobar that it is now forbidden for him to play his bagpipe, due to the horrendous noise. Beyond frustrated, Isobar runs back to his rooms, grabs his bagpipes, and sneaks his way Outside by tricking the patrolman. Once he’s breathing in the thin air, he calms down and makes his way two miles out from the gate. Suddenly, he hears the sound of a gun and is brought back to reality. Roberts and Brown rush into view, both injured but grateful to see him, thinking he answered their distress call. However, he didn’t bring an armored tank with him, only a pair of bagpipes. A dozen Granniebacks run behind them, so Isobar helps Roberts and Brown climb a tree to escape. The Grannies are unable to climb trees due to their significant size, but they can tear it down. As they pull and heave on the trunk, Isobar has the idea to play his bagpipes so the Dome will hear it and come looking for them. Roberts thinks it’s a good idea, so he begins to play, and slowly the Grannies all relax and lay down on the ground. They’re all amazed, but when Isobar stops playing, one of the Grannies starts to move again. He plays his entire repertoire and more before the armored tank arrives. The men from the dome reveal that the Grannies are dead, and the sound of the bagpipes must be what killed them. Isobar saved the team.

<s> TROUBLE ON TYCHO By NELSON S. BOND Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of the Moon Station's existence. But there came the day when his comrades found that the worth of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc. Hummm? he said absent-mindedly. The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared. Report ready, Jones? Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get anything right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese— Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all. That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—? It was all , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: Cond. ofObs. He noted the proper figures under the headings Sun Spots : MaxFreq. — Min. Freq. ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet. This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing. Weather forecast for Terra , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds. The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking. O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on! I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice. Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously. Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped. You , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize— The Dome Commander's niece giggled. That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice. It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go. That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar. Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work. South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible. <doc-sep> INNOCENT AT LARGE By POUL AND KAREN ANDERSON Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] A hayseed Martian among big-planet slickers ... of course he would get into trouble. But that was nothing compared to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble! The visiphone chimed when Peri had just gotten into her dinner gown.She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp oftranslucence which had set the president of Antarctic Enterprise—orhad it been the chairman of the board?—back several thousand dollars.Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checkedwith a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe looselyon top and tight around the hips. After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important. She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. Hello-o, there,she said automatically. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was justtaking a bath and—Oh. It's you. Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. Holy Success, he whisperedin awe. You sure the wires can carry that much voltage? Well, hurry up with whatever it is, snapped Peri. I got a datetonight. I'll say you do! With a Martian! <doc-sep> My Lady Greensleeves By FREDERIK POHL Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This guard smelled trouble and it could be counted on to come—for a nose for trouble was one of the many talents bred here! I His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy. And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R. He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in. He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell? The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie! O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the CivilService Guide to Prison Administration : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book. She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop. The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is— Shut up, Sodaro. <doc-sep></s>

The bagpipes are Isobar’s one relief and a reminder of home. Isobar Jones hates his new job and position on Luna III and plays the bagpipes as a form of therapy. When they are taken away from him, he quickly revolts and rushes Outside to play once more. Though the bagpipes are initially only significant to Isobar, they quickly become the savior of the whole story. After Roberts and Brown run into Isobar, followed by Grannies, they climb a tree and hope for the best. Isobar plays the bagpipes as a way to alert those in the dome that they are outside, seeing as the air conditioning valve was near. However, as it turns out, the Grannies are able to hear, and the sound of the bagpipes slowly but surely killed them. The bagpipes saved Isobar’s life in multiple ways, as well as that of Roberts and Brown. They also proved to be a scientific breakthrough, as they are the only thing to ever kill a Grannie.

<s>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>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>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>

Granitebacks are huge creatures that live on Luna III. Their immense size, hulking form, and impenetrable body make them practically indestructible. As of the beginning of this story, no Grannie had ever been killed. It was also believed that they were unable to hear, lacking ear canals, and potentially intelligence. Their exoskeleton or carapace was impenetrable, even harder than diamond or steel. Each weapon the Earthman devised to use against the Grannies failed. However, at the end of the story, it’s revealed that Grannies can, in fact, hear and are deeply affected by the sounds of the bagpipe. Isobar’s playing kills them all within 10 minutes and allows him and his companions to escape safe and sound.

<s> TROUBLE ON TYCHO By NELSON S. BOND Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of the Moon Station's existence. But there came the day when his comrades found that the worth of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc. Hummm? he said absent-mindedly. The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared. Report ready, Jones? Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get anything right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese— Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all. That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—? It was all , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: Cond. ofObs. He noted the proper figures under the headings Sun Spots : MaxFreq. — Min. Freq. ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet. This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing. Weather forecast for Terra , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds. The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking. O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on! I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice. Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously. Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped. You , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize— The Dome Commander's niece giggled. That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice. It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go. That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar. Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work. South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible. <doc-sep> My Lady Greensleeves By FREDERIK POHL Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This guard smelled trouble and it could be counted on to come—for a nose for trouble was one of the many talents bred here! I His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy. And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R. He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in. He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell? The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie! O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the CivilService Guide to Prison Administration : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book. She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop. The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is— Shut up, Sodaro. <doc-sep>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></s>

Trouble on Tycho takes place on Luna III, a new frontier for space technology. The planet itself is lush and green, with a beautiful network of trees and greenery. However, it is inhabited by Granitebacks, an unbeatable foe known to kill any Earthmen who dare cross their path. So, the new inhabitants of Luna III built a giant dome to keep themselves safe from the Grannies, at least until they devised a way to beat them. The dome allows its residents to see out but makes it very difficult for them to escape. The inhabitants are there to provide Earth with news from space as well as other meteorological forecasts. The dome has air-conditioning and thick glass walls, so there’s no fresh air or real sunlight, only the meager, filtered kind.

<s> TROUBLE ON TYCHO By NELSON S. BOND Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of the Moon Station's existence. But there came the day when his comrades found that the worth of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc. Hummm? he said absent-mindedly. The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared. Report ready, Jones? Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get anything right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese— Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all. That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—? It was all , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: Cond. ofObs. He noted the proper figures under the headings Sun Spots : MaxFreq. — Min. Freq. ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet. This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing. Weather forecast for Terra , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds. The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking. O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on! I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice. Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously. Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped. You , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize— The Dome Commander's niece giggled. That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice. It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go. That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar. Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work. South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible. <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>Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report,entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, anddictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then: That is all, he concluded. O.Q., verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, proddedRiley's shoulder. Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him! Oh, cut jets, will you? snapped Sparks. The Terra operator lookedstartled. How's that? I didn't say a word— Don't be a dope, said Sparks, you dope! I wasn't talking to you.I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do mea favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out awindow? What? Why—why, yes, but— Without buts, said Sparks grumpily. Yours not to reason why; yoursbut to do or don't. Will you do it? Well, sure. But I don't understand— The silver platter which hadmirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled theinconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spunbriefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthlylandscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... greentrees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ...people.... Enough? asked Sparks. Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly henodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the otherradioman, O.Q., pal, he said. Cut! Cut! agreed the other. The plate blanked out. Thanks, Sparks, said Isobar. Nothing, shrugged Riley He twisted the mike; not me. But—how comeyou always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open,Jonesy? Homesick? Sort of, admitted Isobar guiltily. Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another sixmonths at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd onlymake you feel worse to see Earth. It ain't Earth I'm homesick for, explained Isobar. It's—well, it'sthe things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers andtrees. Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin. We've got them right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window,Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest,greenest little valley you ever saw. I know, complained Isobar. And that's what makes it even worse. Allthat pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go outin it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to— To, interrupted a crisp voice, what? Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome CommanderEagan. He squirmed. N-nothing, sir. I was only saying— I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir!It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases ofabsolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts togo, for example— Any word from them yet, sir? asked Sparks eagerly. Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones!Where are you going? Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir. That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there? Isobar said stubbornly, Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for awhile— I thought that, too. And with what , pray, Jones? With the only dratted thing, said Isobar, suddenly petulant, thatgives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe. <doc-sep></s>

Isobar Jones, real name Horatio, has been living on Luna III for six long months now. Working as a meteorologist for Earth and radio operator, he spends his days locked in the Experimental Dome of Luna meant to protect them from the Grannies, the indestructible creatures in the Outside. His only relief comes from playing his bagpipes, but his weariness, homesickness, and blues were catching up to him. After sending out his forecasts to Earth, Isobar reveals his deep desire to escape the dome and venture Outside. Caught by Colonel Eagon, he is punished by a new commandment stating that no musical instrument can be played as it disturbs the rest of the dome. An ardent player of the bagpipes, he is heartily disappointed and upset by the news. His weariness or weltschmertz as Dr. Loesch called it makes Isobar take his bagpipes Outside the dome so he can play in peace. He tricks the junior station manning the door and slips out once he’s out of sight. After walking for a long time through the beautiful scenery, he hears the sound of a gun firing. Knowing what this means, fear quickly strikes deep inside him. Roberts and Brown come towards him, followed by a dozen Grannies. Isobar helps them climb a tree while explaining that he doesn’t actually have the armored tank they called for. Once there, he explains his idea to them about playing his bagpipes so that the Dome would hear them and come to their rescue. The air conditioning valve was nearby, so the sound would carry. As he begins to play, the Grannies fall to the ground and remain there. Supposedly resting, Isobar keeps playing until backup arrives. They are shocked to find that Isobar’s playing didn’t just put the Grannies to sleep, it actually killed them. Isobar made a huge scientific discovery and rescued his companions.

<s>We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic Rhapsody of TheStars . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his Zloomph —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing. But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front. Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out? John Smith nodded. Unusual. Hummm, I thought again. Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John? He pointed. Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages. Even there, he said softly,even there.... There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana. It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play. Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo. At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup? He shook his head. Then maybe a Venusian fizz? His grunt was negative. Then some old-fashioned beer? He smiled. Yes, I like beer. I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool. John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night. John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan. Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot. He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled. It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages. His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor. He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue: No, I don't ... care much ...about playing. What do you like to do, John? His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan. Oh Lord, that plan again! I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It must be interesting. He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand. Oh, oh , I thought. But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat. Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe. Holes? I kept a straight face. Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes! I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat. His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is— But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you? He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what! I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John? He was speaking rapidly againnow. I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the Zloomph to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through. I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it? Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped, just my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited. His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it. Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one. He nodded. But it can't be toofar away. I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us— Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to you . You understand. Thank heaven! <doc-sep> He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!... The Holes and John Smith By Edward W. Ludwig Illustration by Kelly Freas <doc-sep>From the entrance of TheSpace Room came a thumpingand a grating and a banging. Suddenly,sweeping across the dancefloor like a cold wind, was a bassfiddle, an enormous black monstrosity,a refugee from a pawnbroker'sattic. It was queerly shaped. It wastoo tall, too wide. It was more likea monstrous, midnight-black hour-glassthan a bass. The fiddle was not unaccompaniedas I'd first imagined. Behindit, streaking over the floor in awaltz of agony, was a little guy, ananimated matchstick with a flat,broad face that seemed to havebeen compressed in a vice. His sandcoloredmop of hair reminded meof a field of dry grass, the longstrands forming loops that flankedthe sides of his face. His pale blue eyes were watery,like twin pools of fog. His tightfittingsuit, as black as the bass,was something off a park bench. Itwas impossible to guess his age. Hecould have been anywhere betweentwenty and forty. The bass thumped down uponthe bandstand. Hello, he puffed. I'm JohnSmith, from the Marsport union.He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as ifanxious to conclude the routine ofintroductions. I'm sorry I'm late,but I was working on my plan. A moment's silence. Your plan? I echoed at last. How to get back home, hesnapped as if I should have knownit already. Hummm, I thought. My gaze turned to the dancefloor. Goon-Face had his eyes onus, and they were as cold as six Indiansgoing South. We'll talk about your plan atintermission, I said, shivering.Now, we'd better start playing.John, do you know On An AsteroidWith You ? I know everything , said JohnSmith. I turned to my piano with ashudder. I didn't dare look at thathorrible fiddle again. I didn't darethink what kind of soul-chillingtones might emerge from its ancientdepths. And I didn't dare look again atthe second monstrosity, the onenamed John Smith. I closed myeyes and plunged into a four-barintro. Hammer-Head joined in onvibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet,and then— My eyes burst open. A shivercoursed down my spine like giganticmice feet. The tones that surged from thatmonstrous bass were ecstatic. Theywere out of a jazzman's Heaven.They were great rolling clouds thatseemed to envelop the entire universewith their vibrance. Theyheld a depth and a volume and arichness that were astounding, thatwere like no others I'd ever heard. First they went Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom ,and then, boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom ,just like the tones of all bassfiddles. But there was something else, too.There were overtones, so that Johnwasn't just playing a single note,but a whole chord with each beat.And the fullness, the depth of thoseincredible chords actually set myblood tingling. I could feel thetingling just as one can feel the vibrationof a plucked guitar string. I glanced at the cash customers.They looked like weary warriorsgetting their first glimpse of Valhalla.Gap-jawed and wide-eyed,they seemed in a kind of ecstatichypnosis. Even the silent, bland-facedMartians stopped sippingtheir wine-syrup and nodded theirdark heads in time with the rhythm. I looked at The Eye. The transformationof his gaunt featureswas miraculous. Shadows of gloomdissolved and were replaced bya black-toothed, crescent-shapedsmile of delight. His eyes shone likethose of a kid seeing Santa Claus. We finished On An Asteroid WithYou , modulated into Sweet Sallyfrom Saturn and finished with Tighten Your Lips on Titan . We waited for the applause ofthe Earth people and the shrillingof the Martians to die down. ThenI turned to John and his fiddle. If I didn't hear it, I gasped,I wouldn't believe it! And the fiddle's so old, too!added Hammer-Head who, althoughsober, seemed quite drunk. Old? said John Smith. Ofcourse it's old. It's over five thousandyears old. I was lucky to findit in a pawnshop. Only it's not afiddle but a Zloomph . This is theonly one in existence. He pattedthe thing tenderly. I tried the holein it but it isn't the right one. I wondered what the hell he wastalking about. I studied the black,mirror-like wood. The aperture inthe vesonator was like that of anybass fiddle. Isn't right for what? I had toask. He turned his sad eyes to me.For going home, he said. Hummm, I thought. <doc-sep></s>

The setting is primarily at an event space called the Space Room. Jimmie Stanley and his band perform there. They are sitting in the cocktail lounge waiting for the replacement for their fiddle player to arrive. Their boss, Ke-teeli, is upset that the fiddle player is not yet there. He is threatening to not let them play at the venue anymore. Eventually, their replacement player arrives at the venue. However, Jimmie has serious doubts that man will be able to play well because his instrument does not look like a fiddle and he appears disheveled. When the band does play with the new member, John Smith, he and his instrument – the Zloomph – sounds amazing. The audience shows a good reception as does the boss. Jimmie wants John to join the band, but John has other concerns. He continuously mentions holes and seems obsessed over finding holes. Eventually, Jimmie learns why John is interested in holes. John claims that he accidentally went through a hole and left his time dimension. He is in search of holes in order to find his original time dimension. Jimmie attempts to play along with John’s claims and even offers to let John stay at his apartment in order to entice him to join the band. John continues to drink beer and talk about holes during the story. One night, Jimmie returns back to his apartment and finds John drunk on the floor. He takes John, and the instrument, outside to calm John down. When they go outside, John and his instrument fall through a hole and are not seen again. Jimmie and the rest of the band assume that John managed to find his way back to his own time zone.

<s>We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic Rhapsody of TheStars . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his Zloomph —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing. But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front. Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out? John Smith nodded. Unusual. Hummm, I thought again. Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John? He pointed. Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages. Even there, he said softly,even there.... There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana. It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play. Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo. At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup? He shook his head. Then maybe a Venusian fizz? His grunt was negative. Then some old-fashioned beer? He smiled. Yes, I like beer. I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool. John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night. John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan. Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot. He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled. It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages. His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor. He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue: No, I don't ... care much ...about playing. What do you like to do, John? His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan. Oh Lord, that plan again! I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It must be interesting. He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand. Oh, oh , I thought. But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat. Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe. Holes? I kept a straight face. Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes! I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat. His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is— But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you? He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what! I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John? He was speaking rapidly againnow. I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the Zloomph to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through. I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it? Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped, just my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited. His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it. Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one. He nodded. But it can't be toofar away. I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us— Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to you . You understand. Thank heaven! <doc-sep> He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!... The Holes and John Smith By Edward W. Ludwig Illustration by Kelly Freas <doc-sep>All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider: What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what? Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life. It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment. John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying. John! I cried. You're drunk! His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared! But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory. His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter. Then what is it, John? It's my body. It's— Yes, what about your body?Are you sick? His face was white with terror.No, my— my body's full of holes .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is? He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation. I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now. We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the Zloomph , and I. I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the Zloomph —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street. Then—he was gone. John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit. —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it. John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed.... <doc-sep></s>

John Smith is interested in holes because he wants to go back to his own time dimension. He explains to Jimmie that his colleagues did not believe that before the tapes, instruments that played music existed. He further details that on his way back to the University with his instrument, the Zloomph, he fell through a hole and out of his own time dimension. He states that a researcher is to blame for not securing a force field over the hole to prevent someone from falling through. John Smith is interested in holes because he believes that any hole could potentially bring him back to his own time dimension so that he can prove that this theory was credit. He does not want people to think that he was wrong.

<s>We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic Rhapsody of TheStars . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his Zloomph —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing. But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front. Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out? John Smith nodded. Unusual. Hummm, I thought again. Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John? He pointed. Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages. Even there, he said softly,even there.... There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana. It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play. Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo. At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup? He shook his head. Then maybe a Venusian fizz? His grunt was negative. Then some old-fashioned beer? He smiled. Yes, I like beer. I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool. John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night. John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan. Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot. He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled. It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages. His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor. He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue: No, I don't ... care much ...about playing. What do you like to do, John? His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan. Oh Lord, that plan again! I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It must be interesting. He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand. Oh, oh , I thought. But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat. Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe. Holes? I kept a straight face. Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes! I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat. His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is— But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you? He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what! I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John? He was speaking rapidly againnow. I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the Zloomph to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through. I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it? Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped, just my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited. His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it. Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one. He nodded. But it can't be toofar away. I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us— Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to you . You understand. Thank heaven! <doc-sep> He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!... The Holes and John Smith By Edward W. Ludwig Illustration by Kelly Freas <doc-sep>All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider: What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what? Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life. It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment. John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying. John! I cried. You're drunk! His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared! But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory. His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter. Then what is it, John? It's my body. It's— Yes, what about your body?Are you sick? His face was white with terror.No, my— my body's full of holes .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is? He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation. I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now. We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the Zloomph , and I. I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the Zloomph —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street. Then—he was gone. John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit. —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it. John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed.... <doc-sep></s>

The Goon has many names and is also referred to as Ke-teeli and The Face. Ke-teeli is the boss of the three current members of the band, one member is out because he is injured. Ke-teeli owns an establishment that the band performs at. However, Ke-teeli repeatedly expresses his frustration and distaste over the band’s music. Jimmie Stanley believes that Ke-teeli is really more unhappy with the lack of money that his establishment, The Space Room, is earning. When John Smith joins the band with his Zloomph instrument, The Goon seems to respond well. More cash is flowing into the business as the audience agrees with the music. However, The Goon will not let the bandmates sign a contract with him for their unemployment unless they can guarantee that John Smith and his Zloomph instrument will join them.

<s>We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic Rhapsody of TheStars . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his Zloomph —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing. But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front. Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out? John Smith nodded. Unusual. Hummm, I thought again. Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John? He pointed. Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages. Even there, he said softly,even there.... There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana. It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play. Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo. At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup? He shook his head. Then maybe a Venusian fizz? His grunt was negative. Then some old-fashioned beer? He smiled. Yes, I like beer. I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool. John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night. John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan. Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot. He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled. It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages. His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor. He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue: No, I don't ... care much ...about playing. What do you like to do, John? His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan. Oh Lord, that plan again! I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It must be interesting. He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand. Oh, oh , I thought. But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat. Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe. Holes? I kept a straight face. Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes! I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat. His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is— But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you? He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what! I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John? He was speaking rapidly againnow. I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the Zloomph to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through. I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it? Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped, just my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited. His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it. Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one. He nodded. But it can't be toofar away. I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us— Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to you . You understand. Thank heaven! <doc-sep>All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider: What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what? Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life. It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment. John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying. John! I cried. You're drunk! His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared! But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory. His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter. Then what is it, John? It's my body. It's— Yes, what about your body?Are you sick? His face was white with terror.No, my— my body's full of holes .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is? He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation. I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now. We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the Zloomph , and I. I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the Zloomph —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street. Then—he was gone. John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit. —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it. John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed.... <doc-sep> He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!... The Holes and John Smith By Edward W. Ludwig Illustration by Kelly Freas <doc-sep></s>

Jimmie’s friend, Hammer-Head talks about the black puts of Neptune as a place that he and the rest of the band will likely go to if they do not secure a contract with The Goon. The black pits of Neptune is a place for musicians that are past their prime. The Goon does not enjoy the band’s music and threatens to not let them play at his establishment anymore. However, The Goon likes the music when John Smith plays with the band and especially the reception of the audience when John Smith is playing with the band. The Goon says that he will give the band a contract as long as John Smith agrees to join with his Zloomph. It is important to Jimmie for John to continue playing with the band so that they can get an employment contract from The Goon.

<s>We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic Rhapsody of TheStars . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his Zloomph —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing. But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front. Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out? John Smith nodded. Unusual. Hummm, I thought again. Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John? He pointed. Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages. Even there, he said softly,even there.... There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana. It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play. Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo. At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup? He shook his head. Then maybe a Venusian fizz? His grunt was negative. Then some old-fashioned beer? He smiled. Yes, I like beer. I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool. John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night. John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan. Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot. He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled. It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages. His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor. He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue: No, I don't ... care much ...about playing. What do you like to do, John? His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan. Oh Lord, that plan again! I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It must be interesting. He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand. Oh, oh , I thought. But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat. Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe. Holes? I kept a straight face. Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes! I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat. His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is— But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you? He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what! I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John? He was speaking rapidly againnow. I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the Zloomph to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through. I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it? Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped, just my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited. His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it. Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one. He nodded. But it can't be toofar away. I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us— Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to you . You understand. Thank heaven! <doc-sep> He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!... The Holes and John Smith By Edward W. Ludwig Illustration by Kelly Freas <doc-sep>All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider: What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what? Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life. It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment. John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying. John! I cried. You're drunk! His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared! But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory. His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter. Then what is it, John? It's my body. It's— Yes, what about your body?Are you sick? His face was white with terror.No, my— my body's full of holes .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is? He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation. I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now. We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the Zloomph , and I. I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the Zloomph —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street. Then—he was gone. John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit. —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it. John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed.... <doc-sep></s>

John Smith is a human from Earth that is described as a very shot guy with a broad face and light blue eyes. He works with the Marsport union. When he enters the Space Room establishment, he is dressed in a tight black suit and is carrying his instrument, the Zloomph. John states that the Zloomph that he carries is an instrument that is over five thousand years old. He excitedly states that he found it in a pawn shop and that it’s the only one in existence. The Zloomph itself is described as being incredibly large, and very black. The tones that emitted from it were jazz-like and received well by the band, the audience, and The Goon.

<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>They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking. It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto. He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings. The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally. Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal. He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal. You loved her? Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her. He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it. '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....' He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back. They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene? Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that. They entered the city. <doc-sep>Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head fromshoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk andthe golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternalwar. A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see noenemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath. You hunt too near the lake, called a voice. The demons of the waterwill trap you. Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingledwith that of a strange Zuran. He squatted. It's Noork, he grunted. Why do I not see you? I have stolen the skin of a demon, answered the invisible man. Go toGurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Onescan be trapped and skinned. Why you want their skins? Ud scratched his hairy gray skull. Go to save Gurn's ... and here Noork was stumped for words. To savehis father's woman woman, he managed at last. Father's woman womancalled Sarna. And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now themarshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from thejungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lakeof Uzdon. To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage junglefastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew thatthe giant bird had carried him from some other place that his batteredbrain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that mencould live elsewhere than in a jungle valley. But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depthsof Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And theother bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon thegolden-skinned girl, was from another world also. The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the landof sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from thesame valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird andperhaps then he could remember better who he had been. So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory wasgone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, lastof the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-hairedyoung American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hiddenvalley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbledstructure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in thesecond of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on thislittle blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk. The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientistpreferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of thelifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, butDietrich's spacer had crashed. Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasadshad slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, itscrystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb. <doc-sep></s>

Michael and Mary were sent to look for another planet for humans to live on. After looking for two thousand years, their Milky Way expedition had failed to find an alternative, but humans were desperate because Earth was scorched and not easily liveable. The President is taken aback by the news, and his council looked at some footage from the expedition, watching ships explode and seeing dangerous atmospheres that would not sustain human life. A thousand people were grown from cultured scar tissue only to die violent deaths, so people yelled for the video to be shut off. President Davis explains that violent death is an unfamiliar thing to the contemporary humans, so he decided to lie to the public about the expedition details. Michael had promised Mary they would stay on Earth, but the government lying to the public was hard--Mary suggests that Michael can still leave, but he doesn't want to go without her, and she wants to stay on the planet she came from, even if it means a difficult life on Earth. They remember their lockets, that give them the option of a quick death in case they had gotten trapped in a dangerous situation, but they don't want to threaten to kill themselves either. Mary admits she's pregnant, which is surprising because humans in this day are cultured from scar tissue. With heavy hearts, they looked out onto the city where the large TV screens were promising the public an idyllic planet that would one day be recovered again, through a different mission, which is disheartening because their own mission had turned into a lie. They went back into the council chambers and sat again. Michael and Mary were told they'd be kept in solitary confinement to protect the public, which was ironic since Mary wanted to stay on Earth to avoid loneliness. Michael reminds the President of the lockets he and his wife have, and there is panic--what is there to do? The President demanded they hand over the lockets, but Michael and Mary stay strong and ask to be let outside of the city's protective barrier so that they can experience a natural death. The President conceded, so that he didn't have to look at them anymore, and gave them the car that they asked for. They have supplies to last a year, but don't know where to go or what to do. They get out of their car and take their shoes off to walk around, experiencing quiet for the first time in memory. To their surprise, they found three blades of grass, and run to a hill to see other patches of green in the area, some animals, and a small spring. They have hope: they can build a house, have a child, and eventually they can show the ones in the city that there is hope much closer than they realized.

<s>It was night. The city had been lost beyond the dead mounds of Earththat rolled away behind them, like a thousand ancient tombs. Theground car sat still on a crumbling road. Looking up through the car's driving blister, they saw the stars sunkinto the blue black ocean of space; saw the path of the Milky Wayalong which they had rushed, while they had been searching franticallyfor the place of salvation. If any one of the other couples had made it back, said Mary, do youthink they'd be with us? I think they'd either be with us, he said, or out in spaceagain—or in prison. She stared ahead along the beam of headlight that stabbed out into thenight over the decaying road. How sorry are you, she said quietly, coming with me? All I know is, if I were out in space for long without you, I'd killmyself. Are we going to die out here, Michael? she said, gesturing towardthe wall of night that stood at the end of the headlight, with theland? He turned from her, frowning, and drove the ground car forward,watching the headlights push back the darkness. They followed the crumbling highway all night until light crept acrossthe bald and cracked hills. The morning sun looked down upon thedesolation ten feet above the horizon when the car stopped. They satfor a long time then, looking out upon the Earth's parched andinflamed skin. In the distance a wall of mountains rose like a greatpile of bleached bones. Close ahead the rolling plains were motionlesswaves of dead Earth with a slight breeze stirring up little swirls ofdust. I'm getting out, she said. I haven't the slightest idea how much farther to go, or why, saidMichael shrugging. It's all the same. Dirt and hills and mountainsand sun and dust. It's really not much different from being out inspace. We live in the car just like in a space ship. We've enoughconcentrated supplies to last for a year. How far do we go? Why?When? They stepped upon the Earth and felt the warmth of the sun andstrolled toward the top of the hill. The air smells clean, he said. The ground feels good. I think I'll take off my shoes. She did.Take off your boots, Michael. Try it. Wearily he pulled off his boots, stood in his bare feet. It takes meback. Yes, she said and began walking toward the hilltop. He followed, his boots slung around his neck. There was a roadsomewhere, with the dust between my toes. Or was it a dream? I guess when the past is old enough, she said, it becomes a dream. He watched her footprints in the dust. God, listen to the quiet. I can't seem to remember so much quiet around me. There's always beenthe sound of a space ship, or the pumps back in the cities. He did not answer but continued to watch her footsteps and to feel thedust squishing up between his toes. Then suddenly: Mary! She stopped, whirling around. He was staring down at her feet. She followed his gaze. It's grass! He bent down. Three blades. She knelt beside him. They touched the green blades. They're new, he said. They stared, like religious devotees concentrating upon some sacredobject. He rose, pulling her up with him. They hurried to the top of the hilland stood very still, looking down into a valley. There were tinypatches of green and little trees sprouting, and here and there, apale flower. The green was in a cluster, in the center of the valleyand there was a tiny glint of sunlight in its center. Oh! Her hand found his. They ran down the gentle slope, feeling the patches of green touchtheir feet, smelling a new freshness in the air. And coming to thelittle spring, they stood beside it and watched the crystal water thattrickled along the valley floor and lost itself around a bend. Theysaw a furry, little animal scurry away and heard the twitter of a birdand saw it resting on a slim, bending branch. They heard the buzz of abee, saw it light on a pale flower at their feet and work at thesweetness inside. Mary knelt down and drank from the spring. It's so cool. It must come from deep down. It does, he said. There were tears in his eyes and a tightness inhis throat. From deep down. We can live here, Michael! Slowly he looked all around until his sight stopped at the bottom of ahill. We'll build our house just beyond those rocks. We'll dig andplant and you'll have the child. Yes! she said. Oh yes! And the ones back in the city will know the Earth again. Sometimewe'll lead them back here and show them the Earth is coming alive. Hepaused. By following what we had to do for ourselves, we've found away to save them. They remained kneeling in the silence beside the pool for a long time.They felt the sun on their backs and looked into the clean depth ofthe water deeply aware of the new life breathing all around them andof themselves absorbing it, and at the same time giving back to it thelife that was their own. There was only this quiet and breathing and warmth until Michael stoodand picked up a rock and walked toward the base of the hill where hehad decided to build the house. ... THE END <doc-sep>Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with thefaces of the council looking across it like defenders. The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet. The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed toset himself as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one. Michael and Mary, he said, his voice struggling against a tightness,we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with youand the report you brought back to us from the galaxy. He tookanother swallow of water. To protect the sanity of the people, we'vechanged your report. We've also decided that the people must beprotected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you didat the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll beisolated. All comforts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you are heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it hasbeen in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until thetime when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel thathope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sentout. It may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able totake your place in our society. He paused. Is there anything you wish to say? Yes, there is. Proceed. Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, heraised his hand to the tiny locket at his throat. Perhaps you remember, he said, the lockets given to every member ofthe expedition the night before we left. I still have mine. He raisedit. So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantlyand painlessly if he were ever faced with pain or a terror he couldn'tendure. The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade ofdesks. We can't endure the city, went on Michael, or its life and the waysof the people. He glanced along the line of staring faces. If what I think you're about to say is true, said the President in ashaking voice, it would have been better if you'd never been born. Let's face facts, Mr. President. We were born and haven'tdied—yet. A pause. And we can kill ourselves right here before youreyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would behorrible convulsions and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted andtorn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happeneda long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at thesight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see. The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirringand muttering and a jumping up along the desks. Voices cried out, inanger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped andunclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a pell mell rushingaround the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each otherby the shoulders, turned away and back again, and then suddenly becamevery still. Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, thePresident leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gatheringaround them in a wide half circle. Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. Thehalf circle of people, with the President at its center was movingcloser and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry whiteones and hands were raised to seize them. Michael put his arm around Mary's waist. He felt the trembling in herbody and the waiting for death. Stop! he said quietly. They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back. If you want to see us die—just come a step closer.... And rememberwhat'll happen to you. The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone ofmuttering and whispering. A ghastly thing.... Instant.... Nothing todo.... Space's broken their minds.... They'll do it.... Eyes'remad.... What can we do?... What?... The sweaty faces, the cold whiteones, the flushed hot ones: all began to turn to the President, whowas staring at the two before him like a man watching himself die in amirror. I command you, he suddenly said, in a choked voice, to—to give methose—lockets! It's your—duty! We've only one duty, Mr. President, said Michael sharply. Toourselves. You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you. We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! Now! The President's body sagged. What—what is it you want? Michael threw the words. To go beyond the force fields of the city.To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then todie a natural death. The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered andwhispered again. In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminateus.... Like animals.... Get them out of here.... Let them befinished.... Best for us all.... And them.... There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting himforward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standingthere close together, as though attached. Haltingly he said, Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth—to die. You will die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city oryour people again. We want a ground car, said Michael. And supplies. A ground car, repeated the President. And—supplies.... Yes. You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first rangeof mountains. There will be no escort, said the President firmly. No one has beenallowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundredsof years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear thesight of it. He took a step back. And we can't bear the sight of youany longer. Go now. Quickly! Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched thehalf circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses thatshould sink to the floor. <doc-sep>They both saw it at the same time. And they watched, without speaking,both knowing what was in the other's mind and heart. They watched thegiant four dimensional screens all through the city. A green, lushplanet showed bright and clear on them and there were ships standingamong the trees and men walking through the grass, that moved gentlylike the swells on a calm ocean, while into their minds came thethoughts projected from the screen: This will be your new home. It was found and then lost. But anotherexpedition will be sent out to find it again. Be of good hope.Everything will be all right. Michael turned from the window. So there's our evidence. Two thousandyears. All the others killed getting it. And with a simple twist, itbecomes a lie. Mary sat down and buried her face in her hands. What a terrible failure there's been here, said Michael. Theneglect and destruction of a whole planet. It's like a family lettingtheir home decay all around them, and living in smaller and smallerrooms of it, until at last the rooms are all gone, and since theycan't find another home, they all die in the ruins of the last room. I can't face dying, Mary said quietly, squeezed in with all thesepeople, in this tomb they've made around the seas. I want to have theopen sky and the quiet away from those awful pounding pumps when Idie. I want the spread of the Earth all around and the clean air. Iwant to be a real part of the Earth again. Michael barely nodded in agreement. He was standing very still now. And then there was the sound of the door opening. They both rose, like mourners at a funeral, and went into the councilchambers. <doc-sep></s>

Michael and Mary are two humans who were sent on an expedition to find a habitable planet elsewhere in the solar system after humans destroyed their own planet during the Atomic Wars, and continued to drive it into the ground through their own greed for resources. Three thousand years after the Wars, the expedition was sent out (so five thousand years have passed in total since the Wars). Michael and Mary are the only two people who survived, and their return was two thousand years after they left Earth. They are married, though contemporary relationships do not involve much physical touching as compared to the twenty-first century, in a few ways. When Michael hugs Mary to comfort her, he mentions that it is a custom of the past. In their society, it is illegal to have children through sexual intercourse, so it is a surprise at the end of the story when Mary admits that she might be pregnant. They have endured a lot together on their mission in outer space, and have had to watch a lot of people die. It was very isolating to be in space, living on a ship, and this is part of their other major discussion: what to do when their mission was over. Michael had some desire to stay in space and not return to the scorched planet. However, Mary wanted to return to Earth, and the two of them wanted to stay together no matter what. This turned out to work in their favor: staying on Earth but wanting to stay alive is what gave them the opportunity to find the patches of life they found at the end of the story.

<s>It was night. The city had been lost beyond the dead mounds of Earththat rolled away behind them, like a thousand ancient tombs. Theground car sat still on a crumbling road. Looking up through the car's driving blister, they saw the stars sunkinto the blue black ocean of space; saw the path of the Milky Wayalong which they had rushed, while they had been searching franticallyfor the place of salvation. If any one of the other couples had made it back, said Mary, do youthink they'd be with us? I think they'd either be with us, he said, or out in spaceagain—or in prison. She stared ahead along the beam of headlight that stabbed out into thenight over the decaying road. How sorry are you, she said quietly, coming with me? All I know is, if I were out in space for long without you, I'd killmyself. Are we going to die out here, Michael? she said, gesturing towardthe wall of night that stood at the end of the headlight, with theland? He turned from her, frowning, and drove the ground car forward,watching the headlights push back the darkness. They followed the crumbling highway all night until light crept acrossthe bald and cracked hills. The morning sun looked down upon thedesolation ten feet above the horizon when the car stopped. They satfor a long time then, looking out upon the Earth's parched andinflamed skin. In the distance a wall of mountains rose like a greatpile of bleached bones. Close ahead the rolling plains were motionlesswaves of dead Earth with a slight breeze stirring up little swirls ofdust. I'm getting out, she said. I haven't the slightest idea how much farther to go, or why, saidMichael shrugging. It's all the same. Dirt and hills and mountainsand sun and dust. It's really not much different from being out inspace. We live in the car just like in a space ship. We've enoughconcentrated supplies to last for a year. How far do we go? Why?When? They stepped upon the Earth and felt the warmth of the sun andstrolled toward the top of the hill. The air smells clean, he said. The ground feels good. I think I'll take off my shoes. She did.Take off your boots, Michael. Try it. Wearily he pulled off his boots, stood in his bare feet. It takes meback. Yes, she said and began walking toward the hilltop. He followed, his boots slung around his neck. There was a roadsomewhere, with the dust between my toes. Or was it a dream? I guess when the past is old enough, she said, it becomes a dream. He watched her footprints in the dust. God, listen to the quiet. I can't seem to remember so much quiet around me. There's always beenthe sound of a space ship, or the pumps back in the cities. He did not answer but continued to watch her footsteps and to feel thedust squishing up between his toes. Then suddenly: Mary! She stopped, whirling around. He was staring down at her feet. She followed his gaze. It's grass! He bent down. Three blades. She knelt beside him. They touched the green blades. They're new, he said. They stared, like religious devotees concentrating upon some sacredobject. He rose, pulling her up with him. They hurried to the top of the hilland stood very still, looking down into a valley. There were tinypatches of green and little trees sprouting, and here and there, apale flower. The green was in a cluster, in the center of the valleyand there was a tiny glint of sunlight in its center. Oh! Her hand found his. They ran down the gentle slope, feeling the patches of green touchtheir feet, smelling a new freshness in the air. And coming to thelittle spring, they stood beside it and watched the crystal water thattrickled along the valley floor and lost itself around a bend. Theysaw a furry, little animal scurry away and heard the twitter of a birdand saw it resting on a slim, bending branch. They heard the buzz of abee, saw it light on a pale flower at their feet and work at thesweetness inside. Mary knelt down and drank from the spring. It's so cool. It must come from deep down. It does, he said. There were tears in his eyes and a tightness inhis throat. From deep down. We can live here, Michael! Slowly he looked all around until his sight stopped at the bottom of ahill. We'll build our house just beyond those rocks. We'll dig andplant and you'll have the child. Yes! she said. Oh yes! And the ones back in the city will know the Earth again. Sometimewe'll lead them back here and show them the Earth is coming alive. Hepaused. By following what we had to do for ourselves, we've found away to save them. They remained kneeling in the silence beside the pool for a long time.They felt the sun on their backs and looked into the clean depth ofthe water deeply aware of the new life breathing all around them andof themselves absorbing it, and at the same time giving back to it thelife that was their own. There was only this quiet and breathing and warmth until Michael stoodand picked up a rock and walked toward the base of the hill where hehad decided to build the house. ... THE END <doc-sep>Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with thefaces of the council looking across it like defenders. The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet. The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed toset himself as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one. Michael and Mary, he said, his voice struggling against a tightness,we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with youand the report you brought back to us from the galaxy. He tookanother swallow of water. To protect the sanity of the people, we'vechanged your report. We've also decided that the people must beprotected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you didat the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll beisolated. All comforts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you are heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it hasbeen in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until thetime when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel thathope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sentout. It may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able totake your place in our society. He paused. Is there anything you wish to say? Yes, there is. Proceed. Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, heraised his hand to the tiny locket at his throat. Perhaps you remember, he said, the lockets given to every member ofthe expedition the night before we left. I still have mine. He raisedit. So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantlyand painlessly if he were ever faced with pain or a terror he couldn'tendure. The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade ofdesks. We can't endure the city, went on Michael, or its life and the waysof the people. He glanced along the line of staring faces. If what I think you're about to say is true, said the President in ashaking voice, it would have been better if you'd never been born. Let's face facts, Mr. President. We were born and haven'tdied—yet. A pause. And we can kill ourselves right here before youreyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would behorrible convulsions and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted andtorn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happeneda long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at thesight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see. The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirringand muttering and a jumping up along the desks. Voices cried out, inanger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped andunclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a pell mell rushingaround the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each otherby the shoulders, turned away and back again, and then suddenly becamevery still. Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, thePresident leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gatheringaround them in a wide half circle. Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. Thehalf circle of people, with the President at its center was movingcloser and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry whiteones and hands were raised to seize them. Michael put his arm around Mary's waist. He felt the trembling in herbody and the waiting for death. Stop! he said quietly. They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back. If you want to see us die—just come a step closer.... And rememberwhat'll happen to you. The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone ofmuttering and whispering. A ghastly thing.... Instant.... Nothing todo.... Space's broken their minds.... They'll do it.... Eyes'remad.... What can we do?... What?... The sweaty faces, the cold whiteones, the flushed hot ones: all began to turn to the President, whowas staring at the two before him like a man watching himself die in amirror. I command you, he suddenly said, in a choked voice, to—to give methose—lockets! It's your—duty! We've only one duty, Mr. President, said Michael sharply. Toourselves. You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you. We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! Now! The President's body sagged. What—what is it you want? Michael threw the words. To go beyond the force fields of the city.To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then todie a natural death. The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered andwhispered again. In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminateus.... Like animals.... Get them out of here.... Let them befinished.... Best for us all.... And them.... There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting himforward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standingthere close together, as though attached. Haltingly he said, Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth—to die. You will die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city oryour people again. We want a ground car, said Michael. And supplies. A ground car, repeated the President. And—supplies.... Yes. You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first rangeof mountains. There will be no escort, said the President firmly. No one has beenallowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundredsof years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear thesight of it. He took a step back. And we can't bear the sight of youany longer. Go now. Quickly! Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched thehalf circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses thatshould sink to the floor. <doc-sep>They both saw it at the same time. And they watched, without speaking,both knowing what was in the other's mind and heart. They watched thegiant four dimensional screens all through the city. A green, lushplanet showed bright and clear on them and there were ships standingamong the trees and men walking through the grass, that moved gentlylike the swells on a calm ocean, while into their minds came thethoughts projected from the screen: This will be your new home. It was found and then lost. But anotherexpedition will be sent out to find it again. Be of good hope.Everything will be all right. Michael turned from the window. So there's our evidence. Two thousandyears. All the others killed getting it. And with a simple twist, itbecomes a lie. Mary sat down and buried her face in her hands. What a terrible failure there's been here, said Michael. Theneglect and destruction of a whole planet. It's like a family lettingtheir home decay all around them, and living in smaller and smallerrooms of it, until at last the rooms are all gone, and since theycan't find another home, they all die in the ruins of the last room. I can't face dying, Mary said quietly, squeezed in with all thesepeople, in this tomb they've made around the seas. I want to have theopen sky and the quiet away from those awful pounding pumps when Idie. I want the spread of the Earth all around and the clean air. Iwant to be a real part of the Earth again. Michael barely nodded in agreement. He was standing very still now. And then there was the sound of the door opening. They both rose, like mourners at a funeral, and went into the councilchambers. <doc-sep></s>

Michael and Mary were on a mission to find a habitable planet after the Atomic Wars decimated Earth, making it barely habitable. It was a long journey, and the two have been gone from Earth for a long time--they had undergone reincarnation for two thousand years. However, nobody else on the expedition made it--all of the children who were created through the culturing of scar tissue died in various ways, including ships suffering violent explosions and being struck by rocks in space. This meant that a thousand other people died, and Mary wanted to keep living for the sake of these people that perished on the mission. They returned to Earth on their ship called the Milky Way with the bad news that none of the planets they encountered would have been able to sustain human life, and even if they had found one, the journey there would have been so dangerous that a vast majority of the people who attempted to travel there would never have made it alive.

<s>Michael and Mary, both staring, saw, along the line of desks, theagonized faces, some staring like white stones, others hidden inclutching fingers, as though they had been confronted by a Medusa.There was the sound of heavy breathing that mixed with the throbbingof the pumps. The President held tightly to the edges of his desk toquiet his trembling. There—there've been changes, he said, since you've been out inspace. There isn't a person on Earth who's seen a violent death forhundreds of years. Michael faced him, frowning. I don't follow you. Dying violently happened so seldom on Earth that, after a long time,the sight of it began to drive some people mad. And then one day a manwas struck by one of the ground cars and everyone who saw it wentinsane. Since then we've eliminated accidents, even the idea. Now, noone is aware that death by violence is even a possibility. I'm sorry, said Michael, we've been so close to violent death forso long.... What you've seen is part of the proof you asked for. What you showed us was a picture, said the President. If it hadbeen real, we'd all be insane by now. If it were shown to the peoplethere'd be mass hysteria. But even if we'd found another habitable planet, getting to it wouldinvolve just what we've shown you. Maybe only a tenth of the peoplewho left Earth, or a hundredth, would ever reach a destination out inspace. We couldn't tolerate such a possibility, said the Presidentgravely. We'd have to find a way around it. The pumps throbbed like giant hearts all through the stillness in thecouncil chambers. The faces along the line of desks were smoothingout; the terror in them was fading away. And yet the Earth is almost dead, said Michael quietly, and youcan't bring it back to life. The sins of our past, Mr. Nelson, said the President. The Atomicwars five thousand years ago. And the greed. It was too late a longtime ago. That, of course, is why the expedition was sent out. And nowyou've come back to us with this terrible news. He looked around,slowly, then back to Michael. Can you give us any hope at all? None. Another expedition? To Andromeda perhaps? With you the leader? Michael shook his head. We're finished with expeditions, Mr.President. There were mutterings in the council, and hastily whisperedconsultations. Now they were watching the man and woman again. We feel, said the President, it would be dangerous to allow you togo out among the people. They've been informed that your statementwasn't entirely true. This was necessary, to avoid a panic. The peoplesimply must not know the whole truth. He paused. Now we ask you tokeep in mind that whatever we decide about the two of you will be forthe good of the people. Michael and Mary were silent. You'll wait outside the council chambers, the President went on,until we have reached our decision. As the man and woman were led away, the pumps beat in the stillness,and at the edge of the shrinking seas the salt thick waters were beingpulled into the distilleries, and from them into the tier upon tier ofartificial gardens that sat like giant bee hives all around theshoreline; and the mounds of salt glistening in the sunlight behindthe gardens were growing into mountains. <doc-sep>He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body;tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing tomatch the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably manypeople who might find this one preferable. No identification in thepockets, but it wasn't necessary; he recognized the face. Not that itwas a very famous or even notorious one, but the dutchman was a carefulstudent of the wanted fax that had decorated public buildings fromtime immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that hemight one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one ofthe men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, thoughnot an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom thepolice had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capitalpunishment could not abolish the necessity for self-defense, and theman in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily,nor whom the police intended to capture easily. This might be a lucky break for me after all , the new tenant thought,as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obviousrude health, was not a very comfortable fit. I can do a lot with ahulk like this. And maybe I'm cleverer than the original owner; maybeI'll be able to get away with it. IV Look, Gabe, the girl said, don't try to fool me! I know youtoo well. And I know you have that man's—the real GabrielLockard's—body. She put unnecessary stardust on her nose as shewatched her husband's reflection in the dressing table mirror. Lockard—Lockard's body, at any rate—sat up and felt his unshavenchin. That what he tell you? No, he didn't tell me anything really—just suggested I ask youwhatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody heobviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want tosee his body spoiled. It is a pretty good body, isn't it? Gabe flexed softening musclesand made no attempt to deny her charge; very probably he was relievedat having someone with whom to share his secret. Not as good as it must have been, the girl said, turning and lookingat him without admiration. Not if you keep on the way you're coursing.Gabe, why don't you...? Give it back to him, eh? Lockard regarded his wife appraisingly.You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd be his wife then. That would benice—a sound mind in a sound body. But don't you think that's a littlemore than you deserve? I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe, she said truthfully enough, forshe hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. Of course I'dgo with you, she went on, now knowing she lied, when you got your ...old body back. Sure , she thought, I'd keep going with you to farjeen houses andthrill-mills. Actually she had accompanied him to a thrill-mill onlyonce, and from then on, despite all his threats, she had refused to gowith him again. But that once had been enough; nothing could ever washthat experience from her mind or her body. You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?she went on. You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose,does he? I don't want to know! he spat. I wouldn't want it if I could getit back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as helooked in a mirror. He swung long legs over the side of his bed.Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what ahulk I had! Oh, yes, I can, she said incautiously. You must have had a body tomatch your character. Pity you could only change one. <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>

In the earth of the future that is at the center of this story, the society has managed to reduce accidents so much that violent deaths do not happen. This happened because some people reacted with hysterics to witnessing death of this type, so efforts were made to avoid the issue entirely, which had been successful for the past few hundred years. President Davis did not want the public to hear any more details about the expedition after Michael and Mary first addressed everyone. He says that the only reason the public has not lost all sense after seeing some of the footage from the expedition is that it was visual media and stories, but not something people witnessed first-hand for themselves. However, he does not want to expose the people to the violent deaths that the people on the expedition suffered, so he claims that Michael and Mary did not tell the truth, in an effort to save face. The President considers this type of lying to be for the good of the people, who cannot handle the reality of the expedition. He also does not think that the people could handle the loss of hope for another planet to live on, which is why he plays the ad campaigns for a new expediton in a different solar system that aims to eventually find (or rediscover, in his words) another planet for humans to inhabit, perhaps in Andromeda. In this way, the President thinks it is better for his people to have false hope instead of no hope at all. The reader sees the irony in this at the end of the story when Michael and Mary find the patch of life that has started to re-establish itself outside of the boundaries of the city they ventured from.

<s>The brass exited wordlessly. Bettijean sighed noisily. Andy found hiscigarette dead and lit another. He fancied a tiny lever in his brainand he shifted gears to direct his thinking back into the properchannel. Abruptly his fatigue began to lift. He picked up the new pileof reports Bettijean had brought in. She move around the desk and sat, noting the phone book he had used,studying the names he had crossed off. Did you learn anything? sheasked. Andy coughed, trying to clear his raw throat. It's crazy, he said.From the Senate and House on down, I haven't found a singlegovernment worker sick. I found a few, she said. Over in a Virginia hospital. But I did find, Andy said, flipping through pages of his ownscrawl, a society matron and her social secretary, a whole flock ofoffice workers—business, not government—and new parents and newlyengaged girls and.... He shrugged. Did you notice anything significant about those office workers? Andy nodded. I was going to ask you the same, since I was justguessing. I hadn't had time to check it out. Well, I checked some. Practically none of my victims came from bigoffices, either business or industry. They were all out of one andtwo-girl offices or small businesses. That was my guess. And do you know that I didn't find a doctor,dentist or attorney? Nor a single postal worker. Andy tried to smile. One thing we do know. It's not a communicablething. Thank heaven for— He broke off as a cute blonde entered and put stacks of reports beforeboth Andy and Bettijean. The girl hesitated, fidgeting, fingers to herteeth. Then, without speaking, she hurried out. Andy stared at the top sheet and groaned. This may be something. Halfthe adult population of Aspen, Colorado, is down. What? Bettijean frowned over the report in her hands. It's the samething—only not quite as severe—in Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico. Writers? Mostly. Some artists, too, and musicians. And poets are among thehard hit. This is insane, Andy muttered. Doctors and dentists arefine—writers and poets are sick. Make sense out of that. Bettijean held up a paper and managed a confused smile. Here's acountry doctor in Tennessee. He doesn't even know what it's all about.Nobody's sick in his valley. Somebody in our outer office is organized, Andy said, pulling at hiscigarette. Here're reports from a dozen military installations alllumped together. What does it show? Black-out. By order of somebody higher up—no medical releases. Mustmean they've got it. He scratched the growing stubble on his chin.If this were a fifth column setup, wouldn't the armed forces be thefirst hit? Sure, Bettijean brightened, then sobered. Maybe not. The brasscould keep it secret if an epidemic hit an army camp. And they couldslap a control condition on any military area. But the panic will comefrom the general public. Here's another batch, Andy said. Small college towns undertwenty-five thousand population. All hard hit. Well, it's not split intellectually. Small colleges and small officesand writers get it. Doctors don't and dentists don't. But we can'ttell who's got it on the military bases. And it's not geographical. Look, remember those two reports fromTennessee? That place where they voted on water bonds or something,everybody had it. But the country doctor in another section hadn'teven heard of it. Andy could only shake his head. Bettijean heaved herself up from the chair and trudged back to theouter office. She returned momentarily with a tray of food. Putting apaper cup of coffee and a sandwich in front of Andy, she sat down andnibbled at her snack like an exhausted chipmunk. Andy banged a fist at his desk again. Coffee splashed over the rim ofhis cup onto the clutter of papers. It's here, he said angrily.It's here somewhere, but we can't find it. The answer? Of course. What is it that girls in small offices do or eat or drinkor wear that girls in large offices don't do or eat or drink or wear?What do writers and doctors do differently? Or poets and dentists?What are we missing? What— <doc-sep>Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with thefaces of the council looking across it like defenders. The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet. The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed toset himself as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one. Michael and Mary, he said, his voice struggling against a tightness,we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with youand the report you brought back to us from the galaxy. He tookanother swallow of water. To protect the sanity of the people, we'vechanged your report. We've also decided that the people must beprotected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you didat the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll beisolated. All comforts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you are heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it hasbeen in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until thetime when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel thathope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sentout. It may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able totake your place in our society. He paused. Is there anything you wish to say? Yes, there is. Proceed. Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, heraised his hand to the tiny locket at his throat. Perhaps you remember, he said, the lockets given to every member ofthe expedition the night before we left. I still have mine. He raisedit. So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantlyand painlessly if he were ever faced with pain or a terror he couldn'tendure. The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade ofdesks. We can't endure the city, went on Michael, or its life and the waysof the people. He glanced along the line of staring faces. If what I think you're about to say is true, said the President in ashaking voice, it would have been better if you'd never been born. Let's face facts, Mr. President. We were born and haven'tdied—yet. A pause. And we can kill ourselves right here before youreyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would behorrible convulsions and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted andtorn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happeneda long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at thesight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see. The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirringand muttering and a jumping up along the desks. Voices cried out, inanger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped andunclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a pell mell rushingaround the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each otherby the shoulders, turned away and back again, and then suddenly becamevery still. Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, thePresident leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gatheringaround them in a wide half circle. Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. Thehalf circle of people, with the President at its center was movingcloser and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry whiteones and hands were raised to seize them. Michael put his arm around Mary's waist. He felt the trembling in herbody and the waiting for death. Stop! he said quietly. They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back. If you want to see us die—just come a step closer.... And rememberwhat'll happen to you. The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone ofmuttering and whispering. A ghastly thing.... Instant.... Nothing todo.... Space's broken their minds.... They'll do it.... Eyes'remad.... What can we do?... What?... The sweaty faces, the cold whiteones, the flushed hot ones: all began to turn to the President, whowas staring at the two before him like a man watching himself die in amirror. I command you, he suddenly said, in a choked voice, to—to give methose—lockets! It's your—duty! We've only one duty, Mr. President, said Michael sharply. Toourselves. You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you. We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! Now! The President's body sagged. What—what is it you want? Michael threw the words. To go beyond the force fields of the city.To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then todie a natural death. The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered andwhispered again. In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminateus.... Like animals.... Get them out of here.... Let them befinished.... Best for us all.... And them.... There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting himforward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standingthere close together, as though attached. Haltingly he said, Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth—to die. You will die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city oryour people again. We want a ground car, said Michael. And supplies. A ground car, repeated the President. And—supplies.... Yes. You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first rangeof mountains. There will be no escort, said the President firmly. No one has beenallowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundredsof years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear thesight of it. He took a step back. And we can't bear the sight of youany longer. Go now. Quickly! Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched thehalf circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses thatshould sink to the floor. <doc-sep> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction June 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. THE VALLEY By Richard Stockham Illustrated by Ed Emsh If you can't find it countless millions of miles in space,come back to Earth. You might find it just on the other sideof the fence—where the grass is always greener. The Ship dove into Earth's sea of atmosphere like a great, silverfish. Inside the ship, a man and woman stood looking down at the expanse ofland that curved away to a growing horizon. They saw the yellow groundcracked like a dried skin; and the polished stone of the mountains andthe seas that were shrunken away in the dust. And they saw how thecity circled the sea, as a circle of men surround a water hole in adesert under a blazing sun. The ship's radio cried out. You've made it! Thank God! You've madeit! Another voice, shaking, said, President—Davis is—overwhelmed. Hecan't go on. On his behalf and on behalf of all the people—with ourhope that was almost dead, we greet you. A pause. Please come in! The voice was silent. The air screamed against the hull of the ship. I can't tell them, said the man. Please come in! said the radio. Do you hear me? The woman looked up at the man. You've got to Michael! Two thousand years. From one end of the galaxy to the other. Not onegrain of dust we can live on. Just Earth. And it's burned to acinder. A note of hysteria stabbed into the radio voice. Are you all right?Stand by! We're sending a rescue ship. They've got a right to know what we've found, said the woman. Theysent us out. They've waited so long—. He stared into space. It's hopeless. If we'd found another planetthey could live on, they'd do the same as they've done here. He touched the tiny golden locket that hung around his neck. Rightnow, I could press this and scratch myself and the whole farce wouldbe over. No. A thousand of us died. You've got to think of them. We'll go back out into space, he said. It's clean out there. I'mtired. Two thousand years of reincarnation. She spoke softly. We've been together for a long time. I've lovedyou. I've asked very little. But I need to stay on Earth. Please,Michael. He looked at her for a moment. Then he flipped a switch. Milky Way toEarth. Never mind the rescue ship. We're all right. We're coming in. <doc-sep></s>

Michael and Mary, who have both just returned from a long expedition in a spacecraft, each keep a small golden locket around their neck. They were given these when they left on their mission, as a sort of escape hatch: if they were ever caught in a dangerous situation where they would have to die painful deaths, they could scratch themselves with the locket and they would die a quick and painless death instead of suffering. This is the first hint we see at the society's growing avoidance of painful deaths. For the people on the expedition, they were a tool to be used in case of emergency for the sake of the person wearing them. In the context of the society on Earth, however, they were a tool to negotiate the terms of how Michael and Mary would live. They considered threatening using these lockets to kill themselves, which they eventually did in a discussion with the President and his council. After they used the lockets, although they would die painless deaths, it would look very painful to the witnesses as the bodies experienced shock, so President Davis didn't want his people to see this.

<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>III Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality? Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far. Not especially, sir, he mumbled. The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor. Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality. You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me. Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman. Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will. Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us. What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution. Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits. Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits? But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently. Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times.... For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face. Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow. Jack looked at him blankly. Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained. <doc-sep> Jack of No Trades By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday! I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud. Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder! I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip. I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis. Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother. Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev. Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed. Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me. How else could I tell? Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious. If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands. She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands. I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either. <doc-sep></s>

This story takes place in the year 2102 and centers around a family with powers, including telekenisis and teleportation. The narrator is Kevin, one of the sons: he is the only person in the family without powers, a psi-deficient, so he stays at home to take care of the house. The story starts at the breakfast table, where the father teleports in, the mother probes the others' thoughts, and there is grumbling about the goings-on in the household. Timothy, the youngest brother, senses turmoil in the family but is also the most hopeful--he figures that Kevin has a gift they just haven't discovered yet, which is encouraging to Kevin. After everyone else in the family leaves for their jobs, Kevin is left to think about his situation, so he goes for a long walk. Reading is his only other real source of entertainment; he doesn't have many friends because nobody wanted to play sports with someone without telepathic abilities. He couldn't explore space because other planets weren't habitable, so he wondered what would make him stand out. The reader learns that the psi powers were latent in humans and developed with exposure to nuclear energy. When he gets home from his walk, Kevin's entire family is there, processing some news. There are two inhabited planets in Alpha Centauri, and the aliens there might be preparing for war. Kevin partly hoped there would be war for a change of pace, and his mom figured people should start learning first-aid, including Kevin. He had a benefit over his sister because he couldn't sense others' pain in the same way. He met a girl named Lucy in his first-aid class who he liked, and she was a low-grade telesensitive so he didn't have to worry about his thoughts being read. Once the aliens attacked, things got hard as Kevin had to face the injured people bought to his care. This was especially shocking because injury was not common in his world. This was where Kevin finally found his power: touching the injured people healed them almost instantly. It turned out he was the only human with this power, which was invaluable -- a hospital was even built just for Kevin to work in, where Lucy became his assistant. All at once, he became the most important human on the planet, but the humans had to hide this from their alien adversaries. Lucy was jealous of Kevin but also worried about what would happen to Kevin when the war ended, which it eventually did four months later. The story ends with Kevin returning home after the Vice President informed him that his services were no longer needed.

<s>I smiled at him gratefully; he was the only member of my family whoreally seemed to like me in spite of my handicap. It won't work, Tim.I know you're trying to be kind, but— He's not saying it just to be kind, my mother put in. He means it.Not that I want to arouse false hopes, Kevin, she added with grimscrupulousness. Tim's awfully young yet and I wouldn't trust hisextracurricular prognostications too far. Nonetheless, I couldn't help feeling a feeble renewal of old hopes.After all, young or not, Tim was a hell of a good prognosticator; hewouldn't have risen so rapidly to the position he held in the WeatherBureau if he hadn't been pretty near tops in foreboding. Mother smiled sadly at my thoughts, but I didn't let that discourageme. As Danny had said, she knew but she didn't really understand .Nobody, for all of his or her psi power, really understood me. <doc-sep> Jack of No Trades By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday! I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud. Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder! I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip. I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis. Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother. Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev. Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed. Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me. How else could I tell? Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious. If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands. She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands. I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either. <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>

Tim is Kevin's youngest brother, and works as a meteorologist for the Weather Bureau. His ability is that of prognostication, meaning he is able to predict certain things about the future. This includes positive and negative things. For instance, at the beginning of the story, he feels a sense of impending doom. At the same time, he is the only one who has a positive outlook on Kevin's situation: he suspects that Kevin has a power that hasn't been discovered or isn't well-understood yet, but the rest of the family (including Kevin himself) figure that he doesn't have any special abilities at all. This is particularly contrasted with Kevin's mother, who doesn't ever speak highly of Kevin. Tim's encouragement gives Kevin hope for his own future regularly, and it helps him to know that someone is nice to him and doesn't think he is useless.

<s> Jack of No Trades By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday! I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud. Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder! I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip. I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis. Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother. Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev. Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed. Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me. How else could I tell? Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious. If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands. She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands. I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either. <doc-sep>I wonder why we never thought of healing as a potential psi-power, mymother said to me later, when I was catching a snatch of rest and shewas lighting cigarettes and offering me cups of coffee in an attempt tomake up twenty-six years of indifference, perhaps dislike, all at once.The ability to heal is recorded in history, only we never paid muchattention to it. Recorded? I asked, a little jealously. Of course, she smiled. Remember the King's Evil? I should have known without her reminding me, after all the old books Ihad read. Scrofula, wasn't it? They called it that because the touchof certain kings was supposed to cure it ... and other diseases, too, Iguess. She nodded. Certain people must have had the healing power and that'sprobably why they originally got to be the rulers. In a very short time, I became a pretty important person. All the otherdeficients in the world were tested for the healing power and all ofthem turned out negative. I proved to be the only human healer alive,and not only that, I could work a thousand times more efficiently andeffectively than any of the machines. The government built a hospitaljust for my work! Wounded people were ferried there from all over theworld and I cured them. I could do practically everything except raisethe dead and sometimes I wondered whether, with a little practice, Iwouldn't be able to do even that. When I came to my new office, whom did I find waiting there for me butLucy, her trim figure enhanced by a snug blue and white uniform. I'myour assistant, Kev, she said shyly. I looked at her. You are? I—I hope you want me, she went on, coyness now mixing withapprehension. I gave her shoulder a squeeze. I do want you, Lucy. More than I cantell you now. After all this is over, there's something more I want tosay. But right now— I clapped her arm—there's a job to be done. Yes, Kevin, she said, glaring at me for some reason I didn't havetime to investigate or interpret at the moment. My patients werewaiting for me. They gave me everything else I could possibly need, except enoughsleep, and I myself didn't want that. I wanted to heal. I wanted toshow my fellow human beings that, though I couldn't receive or transmitthoughts or foretell the future or move things with my mind, all thosepowers were useless without life, and that was what I could give. I took pride in my work. It was good to stop pain and ugliness, to knowthat, if it weren't for me, these people would be dead or permanentlydisfigured. In a sense, they were—well, my children; I felt a warmglow of affection toward them. They felt the same way toward me. I knew because the secret of thehospital soon leaked out—during all those years of peace, thegovernment had lost whatever facility it had for keeping secrets—andpeople used to come in droves, hoping for a glimpse of me. <doc-sep>The blow shook the gun from my fingers. It almost fell into the thing on the floor, but at the last moment seemed to change direction andmiss it. I knew something. I don't wash because I drink coffee. It's all right to drink coffee, isn't it? he asked. Of course, I said, and added absurdly, That's why I don't wash. You mean, Andre said slowly, ploddingly, that if you bathed, youwould be admitting that drinking coffee was in the same class as anyother solitary vice that makes people wash frequently. I was knocked to my knees. Kevin, the Martian said, drinking coffee represents a major viceonly in Centurian humanoids, not Earth-norm human beings. Which areyou? Nothing came out of my gabbling mouth. What is Doc's full name? I almost fell in, but at the last instant I caught myself and said,Doctor Kevin O'Malley, Senior. From the bed, Doc said a word. Son. Then he disappeared. I looked at that which he had made. I wondered where he had gone, insearch of what. He didn't use that, Andre said. So I was an Earthman, Doc's son. So my addiction to coffee was all inmy mind. That didn't change anything. They say sex is all in your mind.I didn't want to be cured. I wouldn't be. Doc was gone. That was all Ihad now. That and the thing he left. The rest is simple, Andre said. Doc O'Malley bought up all the stockin a certain ancient metaphysical order and started supplying memberswith certain books. Can you imagine the effect of the Book of Dyzan or the Book of Thoth or the Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan or the Necronomican itself on human beings? But they don't exist, I said wearily. Exactly, Kevin, exactly. They have never existed any more than yourVictorian detective friend. But the unconscious racial mind has reachedback into time and created them. And that unconscious mind, deeper thanpsychology terms the subconscious, has always known about the powersof ESP, telepathy, telekinesis, precognition. Through these books,the human race can tell itself how to achieve a state of pure logic,without food, without sex, without conflict—just as Doc has achievedsuch a state—a little late, true. He had a powerful guilt complex,even stronger than your withdrawal, over releasing this blessing onthe inhabited universe, but reason finally prevailed. He had reached astate of pure thought. The North American government has to have this secret, Kevin, thegirl said. You can't let it fall into the hands of the Martians. <doc-sep></s>

n the year 2102, when this story takes place, 95% of the population has psi-powers. Because of the advancement of technology and medicine, physical ailments are easily and quickly remedied. There is even a cure-all that can heal most things, so it is not often that sickness or injury is relevant to life in the society that Kevin and his family live in. However, everything changes when an alien race from Alpha Centauri wages war on the humans. Unknown weapons mean unknown damage, and injury is out of the humans' control. Because Kevin does not have any psi-powers, he is encouraged to learn first aid so that he can be useful during the war. He is expected to be especially good at first aid because he does not feel the emotions of the injured in the way that telepaths do, and thus he should be able to stay more level-headed. However, he is even more effective in first aid that anyone imagined, because when he touches an injured person they heal almost instantaneously. What usually takes days with cure-all is achieved in mere seconds with a touch of Kevin's hand. It is not only the lack of violence that led to Kevin's power going unnoticed: he is the only person in the world with his powers, which makes it incredibly rare, instead of just being a power that nobody was looking for.

<s>III Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality? Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far. Not especially, sir, he mumbled. The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor. Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality. You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me. Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman. Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will. Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us. What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution. Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits. Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits? But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently. Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times.... For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face. Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow. Jack looked at him blankly. Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained. <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>He was halfway across the lawn before he realized the terror into whichthe grating radio voice had thrown him. He leaped for the branch over-hanging the fence, vaulted up with therisky help of a foot on the barbed top. A surprised squirrel, lackingtime to make its escape up the trunk, sprang to the ground ahead ofhim. With terrible suddenness, two steel-jawed semicircles clankedtogether just over the squirrel's head. Jack landed with one foot toeither side of the sprung trap, while the squirrel darted off with asqueak. Jack plunged down the slope to the rocky spine and ran across it, sprayfrom the rising waves spattering him to the waist. Panting now, hestumbled up into the oaks and undergrowth of the first island, foughthis way through it, finally reached the silent cove. He loosed the lineof the Annie O. , dragged it as near to the cove's mouth as he could,plunged knee-deep in freezing water to give it a final shove, scrambledaboard, snatched up the boathook and punched at the rocks. As soon as the Annie O. was nosing out of the cove into the crosswaves, he yanked up the sail. The freshening wind filled it and sentthe sloop heeling over, with inches of white water over the lee rail,and plunging ahead. For a long while, Jack was satisfied to think of nothing but the windand the waves and the sail and speed and danger, to have all hisattention taken up balancing one against the other, so that he wouldn'thave to ask himself what year it was and whether time was an illusion,and wonder about flappers and hidden traps. When he finally looked back at the island, he was amazed to see howtiny it had grown, as distant as the mainland. Then he saw a gray motorboat astern. He watched it as it slowlyovertook him. It was built like a lifeboat, with a sturdy low cabin inthe bow and wheel amidship. Whoever was at the wheel had long gray hairthat whipped in the wind. The longer he looked, the surer he was thatit was a woman wearing a lace dress. Something that stuck up inchesover the cabin flashed darkly beside her. Only when she lifted it tothe roof of the cabin did it occur to him that it might be a rifle. But just then the motorboat swung around in a turn that sent wavesdrenching over it, and headed back toward the island. He watched it fora minute in wonder, then his attention was jolted by an angry hail. Three fishing smacks, also headed toward town, were about to crosshis bow. He came around into the wind and waited with shaking sail,watching a man in a lumpy sweater shake a fist at him. Then he turnedand gratefully followed the dark, wide, fanlike sterns and age-yellowedsails. <doc-sep></s>

Kevin thinks he is one of the 5% of the population that does not have psi-powers, and we can learn a lot about how society sees this group of people by his interactions with his peers and his family. Before realizing he had powers, Kevin had to stay at home to take care of the house. His family knew that he would not be able to make much money in any kind of job without powers, and it would shame their family for him to be working one of those jobs. Even when he is at home, he's often referred to as slow or useless. He has never had many friends because his peers hated playing sports with him, since they couldn't communicate with their minds, and so Kevin was always at a disadvantage. Similarly, even though he was likeable, girls never wanted to date him. He was also left out of other aspects of society, because a lot of news was delivered via tellies which is received through psi-powers, so he often has to learn about the goings-on in the society from his family. Kevin learns firsthand how big of a difference it meant for how he was treated once he realized he did have powers after all.

<s> Jack of No Trades By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday! I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud. Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder! I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip. I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis. Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother. Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev. Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed. Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me. How else could I tell? Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious. If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands. She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands. I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either. <doc-sep>There are tensions in this room, my sister announced as she slouchedin, not quite awake yet, and hatred. I could feel them all the wayupstairs. And today I'm working on the Sleepsweet Mattress copy, so Imust feel absolutely tranquil. Everyone will think beautiful thoughts,please. She sat down just as a glass of orange juice was arriving at herplace; Danny apparently didn't know she'd come in already. The glassbumped into the back of her neck, tilted and poured its contents overher shoulder and down her very considerable decolletage. Being a mereprimitive, I couldn't help laughing. Danny, you fumbler! she screamed. Danny erupted from the kitchen. How many times have I asked all of younot to sit down until I've got everything on the table? Always a lot ofinterfering busybodies getting in the way. I don't see why you have to set the table at all, she retorted. Arobot could do it better and faster than you. Even Kev could. Sheturned quickly toward me. Oh, I am sorry, Kevin. I didn't say anything; I was too busy pressing my hands down on theback of the chair to make my knuckles turn white. Sylvia's face turned even whiter. Father, stop him— stop him! He'shating again! I can't stand it! Father looked at me, then at her. I don't think he can help it,Sylvia. I grinned. That's right—I'm just a poor atavism with no control overmyself a-tall. Finally my mother came in from the kitchen; she was an old-fashionedwoman and didn't hold with robocooks. One quick glance at me gave herthe complete details, even though I quickly protested, It's illegal toprobe anyone without permission. I used to probe you to find out when you needed your diapers changed,she said tartly, and I'll probe you now. You should watch yourself,Sylvia—poor Kevin isn't responsible. She didn't need to probe to get the blast of naked emotion that spurtedout from me. My sister screamed and even Father looked uncomfortable.Danny stomped back into the kitchen, muttering to himself. Mother's lips tightened. Sylvia, go upstairs and change your dress.Kevin, do I have to make an appointment for you at the clinic again?A psychiatrist never diagnosed members of his own family—that is, notofficially; they couldn't help offering thumbnail diagnoses any morethan they could help having thumbnails. No use, I said, deciding it was safe to drop into my chair. Who canadjust me to an environment to which I'm fundamentally unsuited? Maybe there is something physically wrong with him, Amy, my fathersuggested hopefully. Maybe you should make an appointment for him atthe cure-all? Mother shook her neatly coiffed head. He's been to it dozens of timesand he always checks out in splendid shape. None of us can spare thetime to go with him again, just on an off-chance, and he could hardlybe allowed to make such a long trip all by himself. Pity there isn't amachine in every community, but, then, we don't really need them. <doc-sep>III Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality? Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far. Not especially, sir, he mumbled. The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor. Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality. You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me. Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman. Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will. Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us. What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution. Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits. Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits? But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently. Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times.... For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face. Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow. Jack looked at him blankly. Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained. <doc-sep></s>

Kevin's mother is a psychiatrist, but she does not want to diagnose her own family member, so she has to entrust Kevin's care to people outside the household. There is a lot of tension between Kevin and his mother at the beginning of the story, and she feels sorry for him whenever he feels hope for the future. It seems that the family knows she can feel the specific thoughts but they don't think she can necessarily where they're coming from, and doesn't have context for these feelings. Even though he is slower at some things than his siblings, his mom encourages him to get trained for first-aid once they know a war is coming; in some sense, he finally has a chance to directly contribute to society, according to his mom, and wouldn't be useless anymore. She also thinks he might have an advantage since he won't feel the others' pain as much. After Kevin finds out that he does have powers, his mom seems to be trying to make up for lost time, trying to bond with him, because she recognizes him as useful now, and is no longer indifferent (or even directly mean) towards him.

<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> Orphans of the Void By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding one worth living for is the genuine problem! In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea. What do you make of it? he asked. Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit. Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe? Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him. No inscriptions, he pointed out. They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization. You don't think these are native? Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded. Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old— too old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks. Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper? Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good. You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back. How long? Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand. Make a rough estimate. Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know. Steffens whistled. Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind at least several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force. The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history. Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years. Which ought to give them , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start. <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></s>

Captain Steffens and his crew, including Lieutenant Ball, are exploring the dead (uninhabited) fourth planet of the star called Tybanon in the Coal Sack Nebula. They are on a Mapping Command sent from Earth to explore new planets, assess them for life-forms and evaluate the ability of human colonization.This planet is peculiar because it contains stone building structures that are over 15,000 years old. Steffens and Ball discuss the profound realization that to be that old, the alien race that erected them must be quite advanced, with interstellar travel while humans were still throwing spears around. They conclude there were castaways stranded on the planet that were then evacuated since they could find no other traces of civilization besides the structures.They begin mystery-solving, wondering if the race evacuated to a different planet. The readings from the system indicate that there are moons, and the Third planet has a suitable temperature range for life, but has a CO2 atmosphere. They take their ship down to cruising altitude on the Third planet and find cities that have all been obliterated into black craters at least three miles in diameter and very deep. They are shaken, and then Steffens spots the most perfect robots he has ever seen. They are black plastic, expertly crafted, have hanging arms and legs and move with a gliding motion. He is forbidden by League Law from contacting planet-bound races. He is not clear if robots are a race (sentient robots are banned on Earth) and thinks that he could be in trouble whether he contacts them or not. Contacting them if they are a race would be bad, and also he would be dismissed for not fulfilling his mapping duties if they aren’t a race. As he wonders, the robots contact the humans telepathically, urging them to land since their only desire is to serve and sending a visual of a robot extending a handshake.Steffens decides not to reach out to the Alien Contact branch, and makes contact and lands on the planet. The robots are disappointed when the humans land, but show examples of caring for them like cleaning up the radiation so that the humans can feel more comfortable, and spreading their robot bodies out across the planet because they themselves are radioactive.The humans spend three weeks gathering knowledge of the planet. Steffens begins to inquire about their origins and finds they were constructed by “Makers” who are no longer on the planet, but that the robots believe will return. They were disappointed when the humans landed because they did not communicate telepathically and so could not be the makers. The robots also have Factories on the planet where they are constructed. The story ends with Steffens feeling an irony that he wishes to discover who made the robots, but asking them who their Makers are would be like asking a human who created their god - an impossible question.

<s> Orphans of the Void By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding one worth living for is the genuine problem! In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea. What do you make of it? he asked. Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit. Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe? Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him. No inscriptions, he pointed out. They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization. You don't think these are native? Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded. Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old— too old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks. Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper? Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good. You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back. How long? Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand. Make a rough estimate. Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know. Steffens whistled. Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind at least several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force. The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history. Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years. Which ought to give them , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start. <doc-sep>She shrugged. We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in thecity, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city—thesecan be had for a price. You'll tell me your name? Maggie. Why did you save me? Her eyes twinkled mischievously. Because you're a good astrogator. His own eyes widened. How did you know that? She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. I know everything about you,Lieutenant Curtis. How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers— I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four,you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduatedfrom the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation.Your rating for the five-year period was 3.8—the second highest in aclass of fifty-seven. Your only low mark in the five years was a 3.2 inHistory of Martian Civilization. Want me to go on? Fascinated, Ben nodded. You were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the Odyssey .You did well on your flight from Roswell to Luna City. In a barroomfight in Luna City, you struck and killed a man named Arthur Cobb, apre-fab salesman. You've been charged with second degree murder andescape. A reward of 5,000 credits has been offered for your capture.You came to Hoover City in the hope of finding a renegade group ofspacemen who operate beyond Mars. You were looking for them in theBlast Inn. He gaped incredulously, struggling to rise from his pillows. I—don'tget it. There are ways of finding out what we want to know. As I told you, wehave many friends. He fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. She rose quickly. I'm sorry, she said. I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happybecause you're alive. Rest now. We'll talk again soon. Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walkagain. She lowered her gaze. I hope you'll be able to. But you don't think I will, do you? I don't know. We'll try walking tomorrow. Don't think about it now.Rest. He tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture. Just one more question, he almost whispered. Yes? The man I killed—did he have a wife? She hesitated. He thought, Damn it, of all the questions, why did Iask that? Finally she said, He had a wife. Children? Two. I don't know their ages. She left the room. <doc-sep>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way. It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps. Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what? We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured. The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her. In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces. There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken. She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left. He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff.... We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters. I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything.... The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made? Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier .... Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre. For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now.... Gold! I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top. Gold! I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold! And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery.... <doc-sep></s>

The story opens in the Coal Sack Nebula, on the uninhabited fourth planet of a star called Tyban. There are twelve 15,000 year old stone buildings on the dusty uninhabitable planet, the first evidence of another advanced space-crossing alien race.Steffens and his crew travel to the Third planet in the Tyban solar system which seems uninhabited as well, with the cities obliterated into black holes in the ground that are at least three miles wide. The Third planet is Earth-like, with continents, hills and deserts, and of a suitable temperature for life, but with absolutely no vegetation, deathly radiation for humans, and a CO2 atmosphere. They see splintered walls and wreckage, but no life - until their discovery of the robots. There are nine million black, plastic robots slightly shorter than humans on the planet, and they have a huge, grey block building Factory near the edge of the twilight zone in a valley between two mountains where they are produced. Their desire for their human-like Makers to return to them, and their use of telepathic communication and mind-probing sets an eerie vibe over the humans’ exploration of the planet.

<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> Orphans of the Void By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding one worth living for is the genuine problem! In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea. What do you make of it? he asked. Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit. Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe? Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him. No inscriptions, he pointed out. They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization. You don't think these are native? Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded. Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old— too old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks. Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper? Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good. You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back. How long? Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand. Make a rough estimate. Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know. Steffens whistled. Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind at least several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force. The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history. Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years. Which ought to give them , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start. <doc-sep></s>

The “Makers” are to the robots as gods of creation are to humans. The robots believe that the Makers wouldn’t have created them if they wouldn’t return for them one day, and so steadfastly believe that the Makers will visit. They tell Steffens that the Makers were similar to his human form. This is evidenced by the disappointment the robots display when the humans land and the robots realize they do not communicate telepathically, thus cannot be the Makers they were expecting.Steffens states the “ironic parallel” of the Makers at the end of the story because the humans wish to understand who created the robots, but they can’t possibly answer that question because it would be like asking a human who created their god.

<s> Orphans of the Void By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding one worth living for is the genuine problem! In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea. What do you make of it? he asked. Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit. Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe? Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him. No inscriptions, he pointed out. They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization. You don't think these are native? Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded. Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old— too old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks. Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper? Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good. You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back. How long? Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand. Make a rough estimate. Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know. Steffens whistled. Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind at least several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force. The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history. Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years. Which ought to give them , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start. <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>Greetings, it said! Greetings! Ball was mumbling incredulouslythrough shocked lips. Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffenswas not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices. We await your coming, it said gravely, and repeated: Our desire isonly to serve. And then the robots sent a picture . As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate tookshape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing aloneagainst a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots.With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of thehanging arms of its side, of its right side, and extended it towardSteffens, a graciously offered hand. Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realizedright away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. Therobot mind had helped. When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. Hewaited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling ofthe robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, ifthey wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing morehappened, he began to lose his fear. While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back.He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for goodmeasure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shakinghands. Greetings, he said, because it was what they had said, andexplained: We have come from the stars. It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wonderedbaffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Ordersomeone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and think a message? No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on: We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon yourplanet. <doc-sep></s>

The robots are the first evidence of an advanced alien race that man has discovered in 300 years of interstellar travel. They are at least a foot shorter than the humans, with an eye-band circling their entire head, bunches of hanging arms, and a gliding type of locomotion. Steffens remarks that they are some of the most well-built machinery he has ever seen. The robots are made of black plastic, and have rows of dense symbols engraved all over their torsos. Their communication comes to the humans telepathically, and they are fully sentient - aware of their life spans of ~55 years, and their time until death. They also have the ability to probe the minds of the humans and even urge them to make certain decisions, but they reveal they only use this to get the humans to land and will not use it further except when given permission.They claim to have been made by the Makers, and exhibit the Factory where they are built to Steffens and his crew while they are on the Third planet. There are more than nine million of them in total on the planet, which astonishes the humans, and they spend their time trying to expand their knowledge to better serve their Makers when they eventually return to the planet.

<s> Orphans of the Void By MICHAEL SHAARA Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding one worth living for is the genuine problem! In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea. What do you make of it? he asked. Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit. Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe? Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him. No inscriptions, he pointed out. They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization. You don't think these are native? Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded. Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old— too old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks. Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper? Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good. You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back. How long? Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand. Make a rough estimate. Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know. Steffens whistled. Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind at least several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force. The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history. Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years. Which ought to give them , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start. <doc-sep>Steffens had not realized that there were so many. They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now therewere hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arrivingeven as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills withfantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety.Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal.Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but nonetouched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out. One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens nowsaw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The blackthing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture.Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal throughthe glove of his suit. Welcome, the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and nowSteffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It wasless friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less interested , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else. Thank you, Steffens said. We are deeply grateful for your permissionto land. Our desire, the robot repeated mechanically, is only to serve. Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. Hetried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they should seem inhuman. But.... Will the others come down? asked the robot, still mechanically. Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above,jets throbbing gently. They must remain with the ship, Steffens said aloud, trusting to therobot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read hismind, there was no need to ask. For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tenseand uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot wasobviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon mento come on out of the skiff. They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heardthe one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly. We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It isour—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when weobserved that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were aboutto leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that youmight base your decision upon sufficient data. Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action. We perceive, the robot went on, that you are unaware of our completeaccess to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn thatwe have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize.Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Onlythat information was taken which is necessary for communicationand—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at yourrequest. Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probedas violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and heretreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work. The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no waydifferent from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robotswas immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffensguessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake,because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. Thepicture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen,had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him andthe others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentarylapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemedalmost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began toexamine the first robot in detail. It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen.The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band ofthe head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon themetal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon thechest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continuedin orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to thebase of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it wasa remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern onthe nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to concludethat the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively atthat, although the answer seemed illogical. It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered thesymbols again. And only then did he realized what they were. <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>

Steffens was stumped as to what to do when they visually discovered robots on the Third planet. He proactively sounded an alert and put defense screens on the ship, but wondered about what his governing League Law would have him do.Contact with races on foreign planets was forbidden, but he was unsure if robots could be called a race. Earth didn’t have robots because imaginative robots were expressly forbidden to build. Steffens thought it was possible the robots were the brains of natives encased in metal.Since Steffens is under “The Mapping Command”, he is supposed to go no further than examining unexplored systems, checking for life-forms and the possibilities of human colonization. His conundrum was that, “if he returned to Sirius base without investigating this robot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or the other, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction of duty.”The robots reach out telepathically, saying in words that they are only here to serve, and communicating a photo to the minds of the crew of a robot extending a hand for a handshake. Although Steffens wonders about letting the Alien Contact crew handle the situation, he ultimately decides it is his responsibility - and he goes on to initiate contact by requesting to land. He is encouraged to stay and explore by the kind nature of the robots.

<s> A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS By BILL DOEDE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred! Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native. At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed. He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated. He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him. He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings. Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs. <doc-sep>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>He turned and walked off, not looking back. Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat. Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools. Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street. He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun. There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him. His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought. You did not leave, as I asked you. Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that. You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry. Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function. What rooms? Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms. I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least. You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure? I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand. No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS By BILL DOEDE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred! Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native. At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed. He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated. He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him. He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings. Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs. <doc-sep> IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS IN THE GARDEN BY R. A. LAFFERTY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure. The chordata discerner read Positive over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body? Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only. Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now. Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark. There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results. The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read Positive when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly. The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did not have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a difference , themachine insisted. It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply. And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read Positive on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read Positive on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read Positive on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test. So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests. Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell me light. So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned. <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back. Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat. Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools. Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street. He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun. There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him. His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought. You did not leave, as I asked you. Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that. You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry. Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function. What rooms? Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms. I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least. You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure? I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand. No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east. Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson. Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well? No. I'm sorry to hear that. How do you feel? Fine, but my head aches a little. Sorry, Maota said. For what? For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you. Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize. I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright. He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon. It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon. Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see. What about the book? What kind of book is it? What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what kind of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks. No, no. I mean, what's in it? Poetry. Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book. Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest. The old man raised the gun. <doc-sep>Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie. No. If I had this machine, could I travel as you? Yes. Then I'll kill you and take yours. It would not work for you. Why? Each machine is tailored for each person. The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book. Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences? He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I. He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly. Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city? No. Where are you going? Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant. Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity? There are many directions. You would not understand. East. West. North. South. Up. Down. No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see. Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building. Michaelson said, This is where you live? Yes. Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be. Maota pointed to it. You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction. <doc-sep>No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger. Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command. At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him. He was standing up! The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place. To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence. You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were agod...! <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS By BILL DOEDE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred! Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native. At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed. He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated. He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him. He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings. Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs. <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back. Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat. Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools. Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street. He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun. There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him. His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought. You did not leave, as I asked you. Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that. You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry. Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function. What rooms? Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms. I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least. You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure? I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand. No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been. <doc-sep>The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing! The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man. You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful? Yes, beautiful. You will leave now. Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago. You must go. Why? Who are you? I am keeper of the city. You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper? The spirits may return. Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear. The spirits are angry. Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it. Leave! The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious. Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt. He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following. Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS By BILL DOEDE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred! Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native. At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed. He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated. He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him. He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings. Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs. <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back. Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat. Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools. Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street. He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun. There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him. His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought. You did not leave, as I asked you. Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that. You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry. Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function. What rooms? Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms. I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least. You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure? I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand. No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been. <doc-sep>When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now. The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back. The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up. It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting. Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands. God in heaven! he exclaimed. He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again. Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time. A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand. I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes. And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears! He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine. The clock was warm. He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth! He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head. Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense. He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS By ERIK FENNEL On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers. It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing. In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open. The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers. Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence. The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him. Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness. Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky. Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully. Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action. It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders. At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch. The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power. There's metal in the field! His voice was high and unsteady. <doc-sep>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></s>

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

<s> THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS By ERIK FENNEL On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers. It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing. In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open. The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers. Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence. The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him. Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness. Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky. Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully. Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action. It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders. At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch. The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power. There's metal in the field! His voice was high and unsteady. <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations. Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here. First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor. Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt. Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible. But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions. On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell. Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials. Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions. Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end. She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt. But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires. The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate. Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed. But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship. He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action. Then it was done. As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations. <doc-sep>Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared. But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition. Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him. Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes. Huh? he grunted. Who? Me? Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter! Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly. Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice. Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly. I believe you, Barry. She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist. When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features. The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan. But even with his trickery Hind had lost. He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom. The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off. He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest. Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room. Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help. The door was locked! He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed. He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped. Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered. He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough! He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness. There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground. Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath. Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale. Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water. III Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus. Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers. Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids. For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim. Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off. He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer. He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection. He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank. Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless. Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward. Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman. Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder. Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing. Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working. Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage. It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt. Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close. Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp. Barry stared through the reddening water. Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively. But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind. One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord. One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break. He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out. Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously. Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly. The other one turned too late as Barry leaped. Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS By ERIK FENNEL On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers. It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing. In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open. The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers. Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence. The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him. Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness. Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky. Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully. Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action. It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders. At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch. The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power. There's metal in the field! His voice was high and unsteady. <doc-sep>The following day was our seventh in the swamp. The water hereresembled a vast mosaic, striped and cross-striped with long windingribbons of yellowish substance that floated a few inches below thesurface. The mold balls coming into contact with the evonium water ofthe swamp had undergone a chemical change and evolved into a cohesivemulti-celled marine life that lived and died within a space of hours.The Venusians paddled with extreme care. Had one of them dipped hishand into one of those yellow streaks, he would have been devoured ina matter of seconds. At high noon by my Earth watch I sighted a low white structure on oneof the distant islands. Moments later we made a landing at a rudejetty, and Grannie Annie was introducing me to Ezra Karn. He was not as old a man as I had expected, but he was ragged andunkempt with iron gray hair falling almost to his shoulders. He wasdressed in varpa cloth, the Venus equivalent of buckskin, and on hishead was an enormous flop-brimmed hat. Glad to meet you, he said, shaking my hand. Any friend of MissFlowers is a friend of mine. He ushered us down the catwalk into hishut. The place was a two room affair, small but comfortable. The latesttype of visi set in one corner showed that Karn was not isolated fromcivilization entirely. Grannie Annie came to the point abruptly. When she had explained theobject of our trip, the prospector became thoughtful. Green Flames, eh? he repeated slowly. Well yes, I suppose I couldfind that space ship again. That is, if I wanted to. What do you mean? Grannie paused in the act of rolling herself acigarette. You know where it is, don't you? Ye-s, Karn nodded. But like I told you before, that ship lies inVarsoom country, and that isn't exactly a summer vacation spot. What are the Varsoom? I asked. A native tribe? Karn shook his head. They're a form of life that's never been seen byEarthmen. Strictly speaking, they're no more than a form of energy. Dangerous? Yes and no. Only man I ever heard of who escaped their country outsideof myself was the explorer, Darthier, three years ago. I got awaybecause I was alone, and they didn't notice me, and Darthier escapedbecause he made 'em laugh. Laugh? A scowl crossed Grannie's face. That's right, Karn said. The Varsoom have a strange nervous reactionthat's manifested by laughing. But just what it is that makes themlaugh, I don't know. Food supplies and fresh drinking water were replenished at the hut.Several mold guns were borrowed from the prospector's supply to arm theVenusians. And then as we were about to leave, Karn suddenly turned. The Doctor Universe program, he said. I ain't missed one in months.You gotta wait 'til I hear it. Grannie frowned in annoyance, but the prospector was adamant. Heflipped a stud, twisted a dial and a moment later was leaning back in achair, listening with avid interest. It was the same show I had witnessed back in Swamp City. Once again Iheard questions filter in from the far outposts of the System. Onceagain I saw the commanding figure of the quiz master as he strode backand forth across the stage. And as I sat there, looking into the visiscreen, a curious numbing drowsiness seemed to steal over me and leadmy thoughts far away. <doc-sep>The stern, white haired I.S.P. Commander behind the immense Aluminildesk, frowned slightly as Dennis Brooke entered. He eyed the six footfour frame of the Captain before him with a mixture of feelings, asif uncertain how to begin. Finally, he sighed as if, having come to adecision, he were forcing himself to speak: Sit down, Dennis. I've sent for you, despite your grounding, fortwo reasons. The first one you already know—your capture of one ofKoerber's henchmen—has given us a line as to his present orbit ofpiracy, and the means of a check on his activities. But that's notreally why I've brought you here. He frowned again as if what he hadto say were difficult indeed. Marla Starland, your fiancee, accepted an assignment we offered her—adelicate piece of work here on Terra that only a very beautiful, andvery clever young lady could perform. And, he paused, grimacing,somewhere between Venus and Terra, the interplanetary spacer bringingher and several other passengers, began to send distress signals.Finally, we couldn't contact the ship any more. It is three daysoverdue. All passengers, a cargo of radium from Venus worth untoldmillions, the spacer itself—seem to have vanished. Dennis Brooke's space-tanned features had gone pale. His large hazeleyes, fringed with auburn lashes, too long for a man, were bright slitsthat smouldered. He stood silent, his hands clenched at his sides,while something cold and sharp seemed to dig at his heart with cruelprecision. Marla! He breathed at last. The thought of Marla in the powerof Koerber sent a wave of anguish that seared through him like anatom-blast. Commander, Dennis said, and his rich baritone voice had depths ofemotion so great that they startled Commander Bertram himself—andthat grizzled veteran of the I.S.P., had at one time or another knownevery change of torture that could possibly be wrung on a human soul.Commander, give me one ... one chance at that spawn of unthinkablebegetting! Let me try, and I promise you ... in his torture, Denniswas unconsciously banging a knotted fist on the chaste, satiny surfaceof the priceless desk, I promise you that I will either bring youKoerber, or forfeit my life! Commander Bertram nodded his head. I brought you here for thatpurpose, son. We have reached a point in our war with Koerber, wherethe last stakes must be played ... and the last stake is death! He reached over and flipped up the activator on a small telecast seton his desk; instantly the viso-screen lighted up. You'll now seea visual record of all we know about the passenger spacer that leftVenus with passengers and cargo, as far as we could contact the vesselin space. This, Dennis, the Commander emphasized his words, is yourchance to redeem yourself! He fell silent, while the viso-screen beganto show a crowded space port on Venus, and a gigantic passenger spacerup-tilted in its cradle. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS By ERIK FENNEL On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers. It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing. In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open. The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers. Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence. The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him. Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness. Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky. Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully. Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action. It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders. At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch. The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power. There's metal in the field! His voice was high and unsteady. <doc-sep>Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate. Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind. It must be cleared. From the outside. Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered. Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations. The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death. Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief. I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty. Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man. For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel. For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty. He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock. But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility. Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness. For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand. Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive— <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations. Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here. First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor. Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt. Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible. But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions. On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell. Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials. Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions. Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end. She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt. But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires. The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate. Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed. But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship. He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action. Then it was done. As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS By ERIK FENNEL On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers. It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing. In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open. The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers. Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence. The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him. Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness. Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky. Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully. Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action. It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders. At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch. The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power. There's metal in the field! His voice was high and unsteady. <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations. Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here. First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor. Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt. Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible. But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions. On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell. Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials. Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions. Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end. She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt. But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires. The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate. Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed. But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship. He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action. Then it was done. As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations. <doc-sep>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>

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

<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>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth. They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought. And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled. But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the xopa fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse. And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof xopa -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings.... Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate. <doc-sep>The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over theship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past theopen lock. I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I? she asked aloud, finally.This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of foolstunts! I just didn't realize until now the why of that law. Don't talk so much, the nurse admonished. A lot of people have foundout the why of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, andlived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world,humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stayright at home. How about these men that live and work here? They never get here until they've been through the mill first.Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without. Well, Judith said. I've certainly learned my lesson! Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came asound remarkably resembling a snort. Gray? Judith asked fearfully. Yes? Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time? Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar thatshook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in hisarms. The burden groaned. Gladney! Nurse Gray exclaimed. I got. Rat confirmed. Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney. But how? she demanded. What of Roberds and Peterson? Trick, he sniggered. I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in.Very simple. He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snappedbuckles. And Peterson? she prompted. Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him. Fan him? I don't understand. Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized. Rat finished upand was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wingsas he padded away. He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago.Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang ofbullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centauriansnapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leapedfor the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping. You've been hurt! Gray cried. A small panel light outlined hisfeatures. She tried to struggle up. Lie still! We go. Boss get wise. With lightning fingers he flickedseveral switches on the panel, turned to her. Hold belly. Zoom! Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes. Rat unlocked the master level and shoved! <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> MASTER of Life and Death by ROBERT SILVERBERG ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y. MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property Printed in U.S.A. [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world. For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH? CAST OF CHARACTERS ROY WALTON He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means . FITZMAUGHAM His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet. FRED WALTON His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size. LEE PERCY His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills. PRIOR With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son? DR. LAMARRE He died for discovering the secret of immortality. Contents I The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place. Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters. So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice. Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all. His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay. He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it. It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization. Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition. He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings. Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came. There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data. It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage. He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep. That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute. The annunciator chimed. I'm busy, Walton said immediately. There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300. Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment. Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all. Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need— The door burst open. A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers. Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior. The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did. Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you? Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of— One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all. Search him, Walton said. They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health? Neither. Leave him here with me. Are you sure you— Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now get out ! They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards. Take a seat, Mr. Prior. I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man. I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior. Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you— That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor? Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted. Grinning, Walton said, I have to do something when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable. The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently. Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance— Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him. Mr. Walton.... Yes? My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now.... Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy. He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you— Walton rose. No , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program. I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected— You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live. I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now? It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits. Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked. Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you. Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer. But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us. Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks. In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time. It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food? Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing. Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now? The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too. What good are poets? he asked himself savagely. The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home. Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision. The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act. But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one. Prior's baby. With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour. II He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway. There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law. Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law. He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor. Roy. At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere. Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham. The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter? Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately. As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself. The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you? I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs. Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone? No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention. I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think. Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little. FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy. The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination. As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning? Yes, Walton said. He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good? That's right, sir, Walton said tightly. He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind? Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down. Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles. Of course, sir. The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign: FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now. The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day. I'll try, sir. Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone. Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know! Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept. <doc-sep>Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely. Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye! She turned and disappeared. Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait! You! He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down. Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions— The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand. I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then. A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late! He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy? Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here. The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that. Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good! He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl. What's that? he whispered. What's wha— Oh! Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers. Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up. The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do? <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>

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

<s>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth. They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought. And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled. But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the xopa fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse. And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof xopa -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings.... Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate. <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>

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

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

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

<s>The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data. While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night. Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do? I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine? Not at all, sir. Go right ahead. Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence. No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself. Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior. A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot: 3216847AB1 PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz. An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card: EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend. Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior. He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket. That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2,tubercular-prone . He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits. He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good. Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it. The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby. He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away. Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process? <doc-sep> MASTER of Life and Death by ROBERT SILVERBERG ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y. MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property Printed in U.S.A. [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world. For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH? CAST OF CHARACTERS ROY WALTON He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means . FITZMAUGHAM His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet. FRED WALTON His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size. LEE PERCY His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills. PRIOR With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son? DR. LAMARRE He died for discovering the secret of immortality. Contents I The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place. Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters. So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice. Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all. His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay. He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it. It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization. Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition. He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings. Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came. There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data. It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage. He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep. That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute. The annunciator chimed. I'm busy, Walton said immediately. There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300. Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment. Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all. Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need— The door burst open. A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers. Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior. The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did. Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you? Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of— One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all. Search him, Walton said. They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health? Neither. Leave him here with me. Are you sure you— Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now get out ! They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards. Take a seat, Mr. Prior. I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man. I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior. Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you— That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor? Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted. Grinning, Walton said, I have to do something when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable. The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently. Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance— Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him. Mr. Walton.... Yes? My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now.... Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy. He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you— Walton rose. No , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program. I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected— You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live. I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now? It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits. Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked. Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you. Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer. But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us. Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks. In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time. It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food? Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing. Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now? The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too. What good are poets? he asked himself savagely. The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home. Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision. The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act. But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one. Prior's baby. With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour. II He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway. There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law. Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law. He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor. Roy. At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere. Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham. The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter? Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately. As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself. The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you? I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs. Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone? No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention. I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think. Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little. FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy. The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination. As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning? Yes, Walton said. He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good? That's right, sir, Walton said tightly. He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind? Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down. Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles. Of course, sir. The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign: FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now. The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day. I'll try, sir. Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone. Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know! Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept. <doc-sep>Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years. You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had. But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way. And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification. Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn. Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and only the human race. I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself. It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin. Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden. Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men. We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you. The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction. He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. ' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —' The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him. It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death. The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen. Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered? She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft! Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess,though? Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy— A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light. Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , becauseit's being plated right now! Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance. By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and— It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is? That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway— Chip! Look out! <doc-sep>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>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry. In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend. As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes. I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of him . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway. Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it. Salvation shook his head. That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip! B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends! Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder! Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy. He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely? I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled. The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd better keep a sharp lookout! He turned to the perilens once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen— Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—! He pressed the plunger that transferred the perilens image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal. And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition. The Lorelei! <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction. He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. ' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —' The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him. It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death. The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen. Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered? She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft! Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess,though? Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy— A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light. Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , becauseit's being plated right now! Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance. By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and— It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is? That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway— Chip! Look out! <doc-sep>It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper'slaboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled toa halt in front of the door marked Radiation. She had set her doormechanism to Etaoin Shrdlu, principally because he hated double-talk.He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accentin the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it openedfar enough to admit him. Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of greaseon her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. Oneblonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well. What makes, Peter my love? she asked, and bent back to the ledger.Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,Darling, what's wrong? He said, Have you seen the news recently? She frowned. Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-sixhours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why? You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox? She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. Pete,you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whetherthere's trouble or not. What— I'm sorry, I forgot, he said. But you have a scanner? Yes, of course. But really, Pete— You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei. She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and thenwalked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain ofpapers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to Newsand pressed the stud. A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, andsuddenly leapt into full brilliance. Lorelei caught her breath. It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded bythe warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past thetransport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should havebeen dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. Theydisappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in aheartbeat they were gone. There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehowdefiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle offlesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, thosemen and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossiblyjoined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass ofhelpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was morehorrible than any cry of agony. The Invaders are here, citizens, the commentator was saying in astrangled voice. Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off thestreets.... His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it. <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry. In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend. As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes. I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of him . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway. Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it. Salvation shook his head. That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip! B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends! Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder! Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy. He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely? I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled. The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd better keep a sharp lookout! He turned to the perilens once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen— Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—! He pressed the plunger that transferred the perilens image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal. And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition. The Lorelei! <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction. He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. ' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —' The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him. It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death. The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen. Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered? She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft! Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess,though? Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy— A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light. Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , becauseit's being plated right now! Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance. By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and— It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is? That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway— Chip! Look out! <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry. In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend. As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes. I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of him . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway. Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it. Salvation shook his head. That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip! B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends! Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder! Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy. He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely? I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled. The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd better keep a sharp lookout! He turned to the perilens once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen— Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—! He pressed the plunger that transferred the perilens image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal. And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition. The Lorelei! <doc-sep>Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And— Johnny! Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did you dropfrom? The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp. I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you? We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and— Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron! You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare! [1] Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market? Warren shook his head. Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo— Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned? Why—why, yes. From where? Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong? Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything wrong , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei! <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And— Johnny! Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did you dropfrom? The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp. I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you? We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and— Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron! You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare! [1] Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market? Warren shook his head. Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo— Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned? Why—why, yes. From where? Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong? Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything wrong , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei! <doc-sep>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction. He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. ' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —' The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him. It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death. The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen. Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered? She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft! Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess,though? Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy— A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light. Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , becauseit's being plated right now! Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance. By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and— It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is? That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway— Chip! Look out! <doc-sep> THE LORELEI DEATH by NELSON S. BOND Far out in limitless Space she plied her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the void, beckoning spacemen to death and destruction with her beautiful siren lure. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship Chickadee II , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too— He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly. There! How do you like that ? Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder. Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck! You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do you think of it, Padre? Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is some Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—' Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls! Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours! Syd chuckled. O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer! Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I would becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all— The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped. That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun! Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along? No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em. O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later! And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the Chickadee onto the soil of the asteroid Danae. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> THE LORELEI DEATH by NELSON S. BOND Far out in limitless Space she plied her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the void, beckoning spacemen to death and destruction with her beautiful siren lure. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship Chickadee II , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too— He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly. There! How do you like that ? Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder. Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck! You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do you think of it, Padre? Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is some Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—' Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls! Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours! Syd chuckled. O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer! Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I would becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all— The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped. That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun! Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along? No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em. O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later! And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the Chickadee onto the soil of the asteroid Danae. <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry. In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend. As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes. I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of him . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway. Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it. Salvation shook his head. That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip! B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends! Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder! Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy. He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely? I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled. The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd better keep a sharp lookout! He turned to the perilens once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen— Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—! He pressed the plunger that transferred the perilens image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal. And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition. The Lorelei! <doc-sep>At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's telaudio wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for, die for! A woman like no other in the universe. Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd! Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the perilens .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the perilens was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted. But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice: Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help — Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger. We're blanketed! Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet.... He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The Chickadee groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral. It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the Chickadee must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments.... And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the Chickadee like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith: We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—' Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast! Chip stared at his companion numbly. But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us— Half-plated! howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the Chickadee ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip! He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the perilens vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting. He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold. 'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—' Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining Chickadee stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning. For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory.... After that—nothing! <doc-sep></s>

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

<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> CONTAGION By KATHERINE MacLEAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food, perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really. It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows. The hunt party of the Explorer filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds. A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired. Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest. Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck. This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly. Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet. <doc-sep> 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>

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

<s>June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map. We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come. Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D. Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore. The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel. What—what is the population of Minos? she asked. He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly. Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired. Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied. They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled. I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them. Joke? Max asked, bewildered. June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us. She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead? He indicated her with a smile. Like you. June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes. In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme? Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable. For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague. Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers. Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look. Plague. What was the disease? Hal Barton asked. Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it. You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice. Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow. Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton. No. Any other diseases? Not a one. Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself! <doc-sep>Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry. Why? Len was aggrieved. Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach. Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn. Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors. It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.' Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear. Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells— <doc-sep>May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully. Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it. Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have. Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics. Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest. You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead. Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm. Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth. High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones: What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat. Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest. The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air. We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet. If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease. Starting with me? Pat asked. Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard. More needles? Yes, and a few little extras thrown in. Rough? It isn't easy. A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs. In the Explorer , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name. But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient. Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions. Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes. All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map. We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come. Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D. Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore. The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel. What—what is the population of Minos? she asked. He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly. Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired. Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied. They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled. I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them. Joke? Max asked, bewildered. June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us. She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead? He indicated her with a smile. Like you. June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes. In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme? Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable. For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague. Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers. Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look. Plague. What was the disease? Hal Barton asked. Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it. You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice. Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow. Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton. No. Any other diseases? Not a one. Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself! <doc-sep>May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully. Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it. Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have. Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics. Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest. You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead. Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm. Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth. High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones: What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat. Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest. The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air. We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet. If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease. Starting with me? Pat asked. Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard. More needles? Yes, and a few little extras thrown in. Rough? It isn't easy. A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs. In the Explorer , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name. But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient. Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions. Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes. All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him. <doc-sep>Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions. The polished silver and black column of the Explorer seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up. Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming. It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough. The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>The Vinzz had been locking antennae with another of his kind. Now theydetached, and the first approached the man once more. There is, as ithappens, a body available for a private game, he lisped. No questionsto be asked or answered. All I can tell you is that it is in goodhealth. The man hesitated. But unable to pass the screening? he murmuredaloud. A criminal then. The green one's face—if you could call it a face—remained impassive. Male? Of course, the Vinzz said primly. His kind did have certain ultimatestandards to which they adhered rigidly, and one of those was thecurious tabu against mixed games, strictly enforced even though itkept them from tapping a vast source of potential players. There hadalso never been a recorded instance of humans and extraterrestrialsexchanging identities, but whether that was the result of tabu orbiological impossibility, no one could tell. It might merely be prudence on the Vinzz' part—if it had everbeen proved that an alien life-form had desecrated a human body,Earthmen would clamor for war ... for on this planet humanity heldits self-bestowed purity of birthright dear—and the Vinzz, despitebeing unquestionably the stronger, were pragmatic pacifists. It hadbeen undoubtedly some rabid member of the anti-alien groups active onTerra who had started the rumor that the planetary slogan of Vinau was,Don't beat 'em; cheat 'em. It would have to be something pretty nuclear for the other guy to takesuch a risk. The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. How much? Thirty thousand credits. Why, that's three times the usual rate! The other will pay five times the usual rate. Oh, all right, the delicate young man gave in. It was a terrificrisk he was agreeing to take, because, if the other was a criminal, hehimself would, upon assuming the body, assume responsibility for allthe crimes it had committed. But there was nothing else he could do. <doc-sep>For me, it was a nightmare. I lay down in my cabin and thought. I hadto think things through very carefully. One mistake was too many forme. My worst fear had been that someday I would overlook one tiny flawand ruin a gem. Now I might have ruined an exploration and destroyed aman, not a stone, because I had missed the flaw. No one but a reckless fool would have gone out alone on a strangeplanet with a terrifying phenomenon, but I'd had enough evidence to seethat space exploration made a man a reckless fool by doing things onone planet he had once found safe and wise on some other world. The thought intruded itself: why hadn't I recognized this before Ilet Quade escape to almost certain death? Wasn't it because I wantedhim dead, because I resented the crew's resentment of my authority, andrecognized in him the leader and symbol of this resentment? I threw away that idea along with my half-used cigarette. It might verywell be true, but how did that help now? I had to think . I was going after him, that was certain. Not only for humanereasons—he was the most important member of the crew. With him around,there were only two opinions, his and mine. Without him, I'd haveendless opinions to contend with. But it wouldn't do any good to go out no better equipped than he.There was no time to wait for tractors to be built if we wanted toreach him alive, and we certainly couldn't reach him five or tenmiles out with our three miles of safety line. We would have to go inspacesuits. But how would that leave us any better off than Quade? Why was Quade vulnerable in his spacesuit, as I knew from experience hewould be? How could we be less vulnerable, or preferably invulnerable? <doc-sep> CONTAGION By KATHERINE MacLEAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food, perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really. It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows. The hunt party of the Explorer filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds. A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired. Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest. Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck. This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly. Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> CONTAGION By KATHERINE MacLEAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food, perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really. It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows. The hunt party of the Explorer filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds. A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired. Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest. Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck. This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly. Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet. <doc-sep> A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too. A BOTTLE OF Old Wine By Richard O. Lewis Illustrated by KELLY FREAS <doc-sep>They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship Explorer towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside. But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet. The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion. The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows. They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved. This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder. They lowered their guns. It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac? The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble. Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria. English? gasped June. We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention. <doc-sep></s>

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

<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>Hatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure inwhich he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of allprobes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once. Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report: The subject recovered consciousness a short time ago and began toinspect his enclosure. His method of doing so was to put his ownmembers in physical contact with the various objects in the enclosure.After observing him do this for a time we concluded he might be unableto see and so we illuminated his field of vision for him. This appeared to work well for a time. He seemed relativelyundisturbed. However, he then reverted to physical-contact,manipulating certain appurtenances of an artificial skin we hadprovided for him. He then began to vibrate the atmosphere by means of resonating organsin his breathing passage. Simultaneously, the object he was holding, attached to the artificialskin, was discovered to be generating paranormal forces. The supervising council rocked with excitement. You're sure? demandedone of the councilmen. Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forcesnow, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulatinga carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by thevibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing. Fantastic, breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. Howabout communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress? Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; butwe thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while. The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. Itwas not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left inthe probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was goingon—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in thedark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room forhim briefly and again produced the rising panic. Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back. Stop fidgeting, commanded the council leader abruptly. Hatcher, youare to establish communication at once. But, sir.... Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesturewith. We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homeyfor him— actually, what he said was more like, we've warmed thebiophysical nuances of his enclosure —and tried to guess his needs;and we're frightening him half to death. We can't go faster. Thiscreature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormalforces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is notours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism iscloser to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves. Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatureswere intelligent. Yes, sir. But not in our way. But in a way, and you must learn that way. I know. One lobster-clawshaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itselfin an admonitory gesture. You want time. But we don't have time,Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Massesteam has just turned in a most alarming report. Have they secured a subject? Hatcher demanded jealously. The councillor paused. Worse than that, Hatcher. I am afraid theirsubjects have secured one of them. One of them is missing. There was a moment's silence. Frozen, Hatcher could only wait. Thecouncil room was like a tableau in a museum until the councillor spokeagain, each council member poised over his locus-point, his membersdrifting about him. Finally the councillor said, I speak for all of us, I think. If theOld Ones have seized one of our probers our time margin is considerablynarrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must doeverything you can to establish communication with your subject. But the danger to the specimen— Hatcher protested automatically. —is no greater, said the councillor, than the danger to every oneof us if we do not find allies now . <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. Sir!This is a church! Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I— Matheny backed out of the crowd,shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears. You forgot your chips, pal, said a voice. Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is— Matheny cursedhis knotting tongue. Damn it, just because they're so much moresophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler? The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced andsleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbellcloak and curly-toed slippers. You're from Mars, aren't you? he asked in the friendliest toneMatheny had yet heard. Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I— He stuck out hishand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. Damn! Oh, excuse me, Iforgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just wantto g-g-get the hell out of here. Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft. Matheny sighed. A drink is what I need the very most. My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus. They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed whatremained of his winnings. I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran— Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never meta Martian. I am very interested. There aren't many of us on Earth, agreed Matheny. Just a smallembassy staff and an occasional like me. I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old motherplanet and so on. We can't afford it, said Matheny. What with gravitation anddistance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them forpleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage. As they entered theshaft, he added wistfully: You Earth people have that kind of money,at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a fewtourists to us? I always wanted to, said Doran. I would like to see the what theycall City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given mygirl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she wasjust gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she appreciated me for it! He winked and nudged. Oh, said Matheny. <doc-sep>I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies, Swarts saida while later. Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.' Ching? Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals. Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projectorto his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist. That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sitand watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimeswhistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jitteringone leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same themeover and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberantmounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's NinthSymphony. He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himselfaboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at SyrtisMajor; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge brightglobe against the constellations.... Finally the door slid aside and she appeared, carrying the usual trayof food. She smiled at him, making dimples in her golden skin andrevealing a perfect set of teeth, and put the tray on the table. I think you are wonderful, she laughed. You get everything youwant, even from Swarts, and I have not been able to get even a littleof what I want from him. I want to travel in time, go back to your 20thCentury. And I wanted to talk with you, and he would not let me. Shelaughed again, hands on her rounded hips. I have never seen him soirritated as he was this noon. Maitland urged her into the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.Eagerly he asked, Why the devil do you want to go to the 20th Century?Believe me, I've been there, and what I've seen of this world looks alot better. She shrugged. Swarts says that I want to go back to the Dark Age ofTechnology because I have not adapted well to modern culture. Myself,I think I have just a romantic nature. Far times and places look moreexciting.... How do you mean— Maitland wrinkled his brow—adapt to modernculture? Don't tell me you're from another time! Oh, no! But my home is Aresund, a little fishing village at the headof a fiord in what you would call Norway. So far north, we are muchbehind the times. We live in the old way, from the sea, speak the oldtongue. <doc-sep>Tonight is our last night at TheSpace Room . Goon-Face is scowlingagain with the icy fury of aPlutonian monsoon. As Goon-Facehas said, No beeg feedle, no contract. Without John, we're notes in alost chord. We've searched everything, inhospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs,hotels. We've hounded spaceportsand 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhereis John Smith. Ziggy, whose two fingers havehealed, has already bowed to whatseems inevitable. He's signed up forthat trip to Neptune's uraniumpits. There's plenty of room formore volunteers, he tells us. But Ispend my time cussing the guy whoforgot to set the force field at theother end of the hole and let Johnand his Zloomph back into his owntime dimension. I cuss harder whenI think how we were robbed of thebest bass player in the galaxy. And without a corpus delecti wecan't even sue the city. ... THE END <doc-sep></s>

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

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

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

<s> He was still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said, Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us. I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance. They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them. But what happened when you met theship? The space captain grinned. Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with water to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower. These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up. They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes. I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway. Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from? The captain shrugged. Who knows? Jon set two glasses on the table. Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small. Don't mind if I do. The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep>class=chap/> 2. If you have explored the weird life of many a planet, as I have, youcan appreciate the deep sense of excitement that comes over me when,looking out at a new world for the first time, I see a man-like animal. Walking upright! Wearing adornments in the nature of clothing! I gazed, and my lungs filled with the breath of wonderment. A man!Across millions of miles of space—a man, like the men of the Earth. Six times before in my life of exploration I had gazed at new realmswithin the approachable parts of our universe, but never before had theliving creatures borne such wonderful resemblance to the human life ofour Earth. A man! He might have been creeping on all fours. He might have been skulking like a lesser animal. He might have been entirely naked. He was none of these—and at the very first moment of viewing him Ifelt a kinship toward him. Oh, he was primitive in appearance—but hadmy ancestors not been the same? Was this not a mirror of my own racea million years or so ago? I sensed that my own stream of life hadsomehow crossed with his in ages gone by. How? Who can ever know? Bywhat faded charts of the movements through the sky will man ever beable to retrace relationships of forms of life among planets? Get ready to go out and meet him, Campbell, I said. He's a friend. Split Campbell gave me a look as if to say, Sir, you don't even knowwhat sort of animal he is, actually, much less whether he's friendly ormurderous. There are some things I can sense on first sight, Campbell. Take myword for it, he's a friend. I didn't say anything, sir. Good. Don't. Just get ready. We're going to go out —? Yes, I said. Orders. And meet both of them? Split was at the telescope. Both? I took the instrument from him. Both! Well! They seem to be coming out of the ground, Split said. I see no signsof habitation, but apparently we've landed on top of an undergroundcity—though I hasten to add that this is only an hypothesis. One's a male and the other's a female, I said. Another hypothesis, said Split. The late evening sunshine gave us a clear view of our two friends.They were fully a mile away. Split was certain they had not seen ourship, and to this conclusion I was in agreement. They had apparentlycome up out of the barren rock hillside to view the sunset. I studiedthem through the telescope while Split checked over equipment for ahike. The man's walk was unhurried. He moved thoughtfully, one mightguess. His bare chest and legs showed him to be statuesque in mold,cleanly muscled, fine of bone. His skin was almost the color of thecream-colored robe which flowed from his back, whipping lightly inthe breeze. He wore a brilliant red sash about his middle, and thiswas matched by a red headdress that came down over his shoulders as acircular mantle. The girl stood several yards distant, watching him. This was somesort of ritual, no doubt. He was not concerned with her, but with thesetting sun. Its rays were almost horizontal, knifing through a breakin the distant mountain skyline. He went through some routine motions,his moving arms highlighted by the lemon-colored light of evening. The girl approached him. Two other persons appeared from somewhere backof her.... Three.... Four.... Five.... Where do they come from? Split had paused in the act of checkingequipment to take his turn at the telescope. If he had not done so, Imight not have made a discovery. The landscape was moving . The long shadows that I had not noticed through the telescope were aprominent part of the picture I saw through the ship's window when Ilooked out across the scene with the naked eye. The shadows were moving. They were tree shadows. They were moving toward the clearing where thecrowd gathered. And the reason for their movement was that the treesthemselves were moving. Notice anything? I asked Split. The crowd is growing. We've certainly landed on top of a city. Hegazed. They're coming from underground. Looking through the telescope, obviously he didn't catch the view ofthe moving trees. Notice anything else unusual? I persisted. Yes. The females—I'm speaking hypothetically—but they must befemales—are all wearing puffy white fur ornaments around their elbows.I wonder why? You haven't noticed the trees? The females are quite attractive, said Split. I forgot about the moving trees, then, and took over the telescope.Mobile trees were not new to me. I had seen similar vegetation on otherplanets—sponge-trees—which possessed a sort of muscular quality. Ifthese were similar, they were no doubt feeding along the surface of theslope below the rocky plateau. The people in the clearing beyond paidno attention to them. I studied the crowd of people. Only the leader wore the brilliant garb.The others were more scantily clothed. All were handsome of build. Thelemon-tinted sunlight glanced off the muscular shoulders of the malesand the soft curves of the females. Those furry elbow ornaments on the females, I said to Split,they're for protection. The caves they live in must be narrow, sothey pad their elbows. Why don't they pad their shoulders? They don't have anything on theirshoulders. Are you complaining? We became fascinated in watching, from the seclusion of our ship. If wewere to walk out, or make any sounds, we might have interrupted theirmeeting. Here they were in their native ritual of sunset, not knowingthat people from another world watched. The tall leader must be makinga speech. They sat around him in little huddles. He moved his arms incalm, graceful gestures. They'd better break it up! Split said suddenly. The jungles aremoving in on them. They're spellbound, I said. They're used to sponge-trees. Didn't youever see moving trees? Split said sharply, Those trees are marching! They're an army undercover. Look! I saw, then. The whole line of advancing vegetation was camouflage fora sneak attack. And all those natives sitting around in meeting were asinnocent as a flock of sitting ducks. Split Campbell's voice was edgedwith alarm. Captain! Those worshippers—how can we warn them? Oh-oh!Too late. Look! All at once the advancing sponge-trees were tossed back over the headsof the savage band concealed within. They were warriors—fifty or moreof them—with painted naked bodies. They dashed forward in a widesemicircle, swinging crude weapons, bent on slaughter. <doc-sep>The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. Sir!This is a church! Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I— Matheny backed out of the crowd,shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears. You forgot your chips, pal, said a voice. Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is— Matheny cursedhis knotting tongue. Damn it, just because they're so much moresophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler? The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced andsleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbellcloak and curly-toed slippers. You're from Mars, aren't you? he asked in the friendliest toneMatheny had yet heard. Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I— He stuck out hishand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. Damn! Oh, excuse me, Iforgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just wantto g-g-get the hell out of here. Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft. Matheny sighed. A drink is what I need the very most. My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus. They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed whatremained of his winnings. I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran— Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never meta Martian. I am very interested. There aren't many of us on Earth, agreed Matheny. Just a smallembassy staff and an occasional like me. I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old motherplanet and so on. We can't afford it, said Matheny. What with gravitation anddistance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them forpleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage. As they entered theshaft, he added wistfully: You Earth people have that kind of money,at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a fewtourists to us? I always wanted to, said Doran. I would like to see the what theycall City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given mygirl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she wasjust gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she appreciated me for it! He winked and nudged. Oh, said Matheny. <doc-sep></s>

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

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

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

<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> Mr. Dawes came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol. Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker. Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before. Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter? Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity. Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair. Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting. Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be. Supper! Mom called. After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten. He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving. I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy. Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that. Goodnight, Dawes said. Goodnight. He read Sally's copy of Treasure Island for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes. He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ... Then sleep came. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or thlotback , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune. On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now. It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said. The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there. No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right. To go—to them? I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry. Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What can we do? Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on. North? North. And if by some miracle we find him? Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you? As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir thlots . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender. They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent. Tobias Whiting was in there. <doc-sep>They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him. When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man.... Steve! It was Mary, calling his name and crying. It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad— Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face. My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain.... Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly. You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want? Yes, Dad. Oh, yes! You can get her out of here, Cantwell? I think so, Steve said. Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary. She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him? Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them. I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man.... <doc-sep>Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared. The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks. And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji. But why? someone asked. Why? At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji. None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand. Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said. Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us? That's what I was told, Steve said. All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight. No? someone asked. No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness. <doc-sep></s>

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

<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> 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>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></s>

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

<s> HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT By ADAM CHASE [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.] The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare. How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero. Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village. He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body. He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a Kumaji raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy. He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips. He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish. Poisoned. He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table. The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything. He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away. Earthman! a quavering voice called. Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black. Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said: What happened here? They're gone. All gone. Yes, but what happened? The Kumaji— You're Kumaji. This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone. But you stayed here— To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water. <doc-sep>Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves. When did it happen? Steve demanded. Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses. Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat.... They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them. <doc-sep>Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going? N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry. Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter? Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far. He'll crash in the desert? Crash or crash-land, Steve said. Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent. We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack. Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go. Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying. Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis? Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise. That's good enough for me, Steve said. A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus. The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family. Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her. A high school boy in jeans and black jacket. A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness. Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner. Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof. Maybe there were others. Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited. A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway. Loyce tensed. One of them ? Or—another they had missed? The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond. The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce. The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them. A look rich with meaning. Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open. Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell— Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him. Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off. Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book. Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away. Stop! For God's sake listen— He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him. Had he made a mistake? But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his. <doc-sep>A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind. When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella. The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return. I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it. I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization! Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization. The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha? Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home. <doc-sep>Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curvinghulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a senseof alienness . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation.Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange thatit hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over ayear, but the Moon was vast and the Mare Serenitatis covered threehundred and forty thousand square miles. What is it? Marie asked breathlessly. Her husband grunted his bafflement. Who knows? But see how it curves?If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter! If it's a perfect sphere, Miller suggested, most of it must bebeneath the Moon's surface. Maybe it isn't a sphere, my wife said. Maybe this is all of it. Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it. I reachedfor the radio controls on my suit. Kane grabbed my arm. No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves.If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If wediscover something really important, we'll be famous! I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yetit carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof ofan alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered forourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym forprestige and wealth. All right, I conceded. Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit.Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed thebrilliant flame against the metal. A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: It'ssteel ... made thousands of years ago. Someone gasped over the intercom, Thousands of years! But wouldn't itbe in worse shape than this if it was that old? Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. Thenotch was only a quarter of an inch deep. I say steel because it's similar to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that,on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not evena wind to disturb its surface. It's at least several thousand yearsold. <doc-sep></s>

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

<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>His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray. He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt. He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything. Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again. It was getting light. His head was splitting. Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown.... Town! He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening. He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs. Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately? The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that.... He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life? He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou! <doc-sep>Sorry, the Vinzz said impersonally, in English that was perfectexcept for the slight dampening of the sibilants, but I'm afraid youcannot play. Why not? The emaciated young man began to put on his clothes. You know why. Your body is worthless. And this is a reputable house. But I have plenty of money. The young man coughed. The Vinzzshrugged. I'll pay you twice the regular fee. The green one shook his head. Regrettably, I do mean what I say. Thisgame is really clean. In a town like this? That is the reason we can afford to be honest. The Vinzz' tendrilsquivered in what the man had come to recognize as amusement throughlong, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. Hisheavy robe of what looked like moss-green velvet, but might have beenvelvet-green moss, encrusted with oddly faceted alien jewels, swungwith him. We do a lot of business here, he said unnecessarily, for the wholeset-up spelled wealth far beyond the dreams of the man, and he was byno means poor when it came to worldly goods. Why don't you try anothertown where they're not so particular? The young man smiled wryly. Just his luck to stumble on a sunny game.He never liked to risk following his quarry in the same configuration.And even though only the girl had actually seen him this time, hewouldn't feel at ease until he had made the usual body-shift. Washe changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his owndiscoverment and identification simply as an excuse to cover the factthat none of the bodies that fell to his lot ever seemed to fit him?Was he activated solely by revenge or as much by the hope that in thehazards of the game he might, impossible though it now seemed, some daywin another body that approached perfection as nearly as his originalcasing had? He didn't know. However, there seemed to be no help for it now; hewould have to wait until they reached the next town, unless the girl,seeing him reappear in the same guise, would guess what had happenedand tell her husband. He himself had been a fool to admit to her thatthe hulk he inhabited was a sick one; he still couldn't understandhow he could so casually have entrusted her with so vital a piece ofinformation. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> He was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling. The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies. He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him. It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet. He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame. Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat! Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear? Mrs. Dawes! Sol said. Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa! Pa! Look who's here! Willie Dawes appeared. No! Sol thought. This was King Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire. Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker. Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about? Yep, the King said. Andnow you're in it, too. Then I'm only dreaming! Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So that's thesnooper, eh? Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights. Sol said: The Knights? Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked. Now wait a minute— Charlie shouted. Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough— Not quite, said the King. The Knights stepped forward. Wait! Sol screamed. Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake? Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep> He took a walk. The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else. He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes. Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter. Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon? You a stranger? Yes. Thought so. Sol repeated the question. Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is. How—I mean, what kindof place is it? Said you're a stranger? Yes. Then 'tain't your business. That was that. He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody. He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened. Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it. At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story. He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing. At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities. Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal. He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents. He learned little. <doc-sep> At the table, Dawesasked his destination. Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He seemed okay. Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night? That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though. What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full. Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know nothin' ? Arma gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name? Becker. Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically. Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout? Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime. Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes. You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean you dream about the sameplace? Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too. If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly. If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution! Execution, her fathersaid. Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the least Icould do. Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there. Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution? None of your business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car. The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready. Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor. Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you? Fine, Sol said uneasily. The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> At the table, Dawesasked his destination. Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He seemed okay. Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night? That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though. What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full. Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know nothin' ? Arma gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name? Becker. Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically. Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout? Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime. Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes. You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean you dream about the sameplace? Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too. If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly. If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution! Execution, her fathersaid. Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the least Icould do. Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there. Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution? None of your business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car. The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready. Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor. Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you? Fine, Sol said uneasily. The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes. <doc-sep> The fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came. It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen. Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way. My poor Vincent, shesobbed. Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage. He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn. The law's the law, thefat man sighed. Sol couldn't hold himselfin. What law? Who's dead?How did it happen? Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of your business? I mean, is it? I don't know, Sol saidmiserably. You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up. They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage. When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her. What happened? How didyour husband die? Please ... You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too? She was shocked at thequestion. Of course! And your husband? Didhe have the same dream? Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door. Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ... He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping. We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he? What killed him? Solsaid. Heart attack. The fat man chuckled. The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid. Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car— The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your car ? Young man, ain'tyou got no respect ? Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination. <doc-sep> They crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk. Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage. The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat? Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent. Aw, Willie— Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else. The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night or day. Stranger? Come on ! Dawes said. The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again. A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes. Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit? Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince. Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers. Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does she dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there? Yep. Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right. And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything? I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie? The fat man giggled. Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid. The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them. Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan. The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament. He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man. Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop. Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain. First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being. Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law . [15] Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law. Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept. A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen. And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile. With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane. If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending [16] on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so. So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws. If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a responsible human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane. The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person. As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire. <doc-sep> Mr. Dawes came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol. Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker. Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before. Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter? Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity. Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair. Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting. Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be. Supper! Mom called. After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten. He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving. I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy. Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that. Goodnight, Dawes said. Goodnight. He read Sally's copy of Treasure Island for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes. He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ... Then sleep came. <doc-sep>He nodded. He'd heard about the sea-bottom mining cities that werebubbling under protective domes in every one of the Earth's oceans justabout the same time settlements were springing up on the planets. He looked impressed when I told him about Mom and Pop being one of thefirst couples to get married in Undersea. He looked thoughtful when Itold him how Sis and I had been born there and spent half our childhoodlistening to the pressure pumps. He raised his eyebrows and lookeddisgusted when I told how Mom, as Undersea representative on the WorldCouncil, had been one of the framers of the Male Desuffrage Act afterthe Third Atomic War had resulted in the Maternal Revolution. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> He took a walk. The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else. He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes. Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter. Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon? You a stranger? Yes. Thought so. Sol repeated the question. Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is. How—I mean, what kindof place is it? Said you're a stranger? Yes. Then 'tain't your business. That was that. He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody. He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened. Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it. At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story. He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing. At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities. Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal. He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents. He learned little. <doc-sep>Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint. You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves. I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far. The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully. I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering. What date was it you wanted? Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth. The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you. I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly. On page four, under a column headed County Notes he saw the name Bram: Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths. May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year? The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye: A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river. The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow. Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel. A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car. Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car. <doc-sep>His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray. He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt. He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything. Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again. It was getting light. His head was splitting. Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown.... Town! He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening. He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs. Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately? The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that.... He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life? He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou! <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today. I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face. Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother. I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it. I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do. But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night. George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid. If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court. And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too. George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks. He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears. I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course. Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win. With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. <doc-sep>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>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was. From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances. The law didn't leave a man much leeway. But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone. Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway. Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today. I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face. Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother. I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it. I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do. But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night. George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid. If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court. And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too. George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks. He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears. I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course. Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win. With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. <doc-sep>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was. From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances. The law didn't leave a man much leeway. But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone. Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway. Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou. <doc-sep>Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front. For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit. Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all. He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine. Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over. But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off. George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax. So I did. Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful. And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid. I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office. Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram. Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is. There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had. But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> PRIME DIFFERENCE By ALAN E. NOURSE Illustrated by SCHOENHEER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be? I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife. Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge— It's so permanent . Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved. You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime. So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long. Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped. She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case. <doc-sep>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today. I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face. Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother. I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it. I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do. But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night. George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid. If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court. And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too. George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks. He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears. I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course. Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win. With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. <doc-sep>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 starts with a husband, George Faircloth, who is unsatisfied with his marriage, trying to escape from his wife without communicating with her. Throughout the story, he uses Prime Technology, a technology that can produce an identical duplicate of a human, to deal with his wife’s complaints and other annoying interactions with him. However, when he finds out that George Prime, his duplicate, gets along better with his wife than him and finally leaves him behind together, he realizes what he has done wrong. When he feels desperate, his wife’s duplicate comes to stay with him, and he finally finds his wife’s duplicate better than his wife. The central theme of the story is the marriage relationship. The beginning of the story reveals a marriage failure where both the husband and the wife are not satisfied with each other after years-long marriage. Their solutions are not to communicate with each other or change for the better but to escape from each other through Prime technology. In the middle of the story, where George Faircloth once finds his wife adorable again due to George Prime’s effort, it shows the importance of communication and mutual support in the marriage, which is lacking in their relationship. The ending of the story, where both of them live with the duplicates of each other, indicates that a good relationship in marriage is to listen to and satisfy what each other needs with proper communication.

<s>I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited. George Prime didn't come out. It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover. Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done. I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him. But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced. What check? I asked. The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth. The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly. Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account. He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them. What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy. That's been closed out for two weeks. I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through. I came up with a horrible thought. Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon. I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda. When? I choked out. Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock— I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon— Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime. For how long? <doc-sep>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today. I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face. Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother. I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it. I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do. But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night. George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid. If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court. And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too. George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks. He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears. I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course. Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win. With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. <doc-sep>When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house. They were gone. I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android. Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around. I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink. My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings. It was indecent. Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early! I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here! Of course. Where did you think I'd be? But I thought—I mean the ticket office— She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you? Then—you knew? Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace. Bermuda, I said. And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest. Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before.... I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him? I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss. Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was never like this— I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened. That Marge always had been a sly one. I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was. From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances. The law didn't leave a man much leeway. But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone. Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway. Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou. <doc-sep>Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it. I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week. But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along. Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there. Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive. That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today. I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear. Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome. Marge had quite a spy system. She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added. She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then. Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned. Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm. I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent. Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy— Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie. As I said, a guy gets fed up. And maybe opportunity would only knock once. And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me. <doc-sep>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today. I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face. Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother. I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it. I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do. But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night. George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid. If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court. And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too. George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks. He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears. I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course. Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win. With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was— GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY By CHARLES V. DE VET Illustrated by TURPIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it? He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground. Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain? His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time? Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here. Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them: The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy. The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low. Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever. That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently. A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk.... <doc-sep>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>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout. After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now. Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground. The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm. Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study. Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river. One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached. The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm. The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was— GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY By CHARLES V. DE VET Illustrated by TURPIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it? He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground. Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain? His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time? Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here. Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them: The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy. The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low. Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever. That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently. A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk.... <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout. After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now. Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground. The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm. Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study. Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river. One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached. The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm. The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup. <doc-sep> 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>

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

<s>Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there. Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever. Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free! Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act. He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him. The first was quite routine: REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID. TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED. GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES. SS II The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it. SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES. SS II Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep. In the morning, another message was waiting: VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY. SS II <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout. After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now. Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground. The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm. Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study. Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river. One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached. The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm. The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup. <doc-sep> Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was— GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY By CHARLES V. DE VET Illustrated by TURPIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it? He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground. Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain? His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time? Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here. Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them: The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy. The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low. Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever. That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently. A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk.... <doc-sep></s>

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

<s> Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was— GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY By CHARLES V. DE VET Illustrated by TURPIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it? He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground. Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain? His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time? Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here. Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them: The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy. The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low. Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever. That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently. A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk.... <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout. After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now. Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground. The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm. Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study. Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river. One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached. The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm. The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup. <doc-sep>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>

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

<s> Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was— GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY By CHARLES V. DE VET Illustrated by TURPIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it? He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should. OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW. SS II Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground. Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain? His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time? Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here. Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them: The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy. The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low. Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever. That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently. A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk.... <doc-sep>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>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout. After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now. Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground. The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm. Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study. Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river. One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached. The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm. The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup. <doc-sep></s>

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

<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>Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation. You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia? Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back. I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step? The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is? I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more. The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly. I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables? At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame. Clever of them. Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually— He paused dramatically. Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed! I agree, I said reluctantly. Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat. I waved his protests aside. I would agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously. Why? the young man demanded. Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell. Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned? No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design. But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom. Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential. <doc-sep>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>

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

<s>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine. Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia— What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically. Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial. Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man— You are ? I said. He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock. You are . I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything. I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine. Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days? There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said. You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one. Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach. Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably.... Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it. There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them. I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work. Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it. Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of. <doc-sep>The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined. While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom. Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve. Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere? Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge. There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal. Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said. Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension? Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded. But too late. There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal. If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space. As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit. I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention. This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable. I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all. If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication. <doc-sep>The closed sedan was warm, even in early December. Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered? Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street. The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme. What? The firing squad? The Expendable, of course. Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it. He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined. A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight. Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder. I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears. The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated. Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem. Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit.... You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy. That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped. Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred. One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished. What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine. Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved. Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area. You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics. No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works. You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen? Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories . My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld. I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it. What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now? This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat. Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's murder . Not, Carmen said, without no corpus delecti . The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training. You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember, you did it with your machine. Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there? <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine. Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia— What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically. Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial. Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man— You are ? I said. He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock. You are . I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything. I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine. Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days? There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said. You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one. Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach. Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably.... Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it. There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them. I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work. Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it. Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of. <doc-sep>The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined. While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom. Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve. Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere? Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge. There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal. Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said. Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension? Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded. But too late. There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal. If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space. As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit. I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention. This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable. I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all. If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication. <doc-sep>There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning. One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.) The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray. This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks. If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles. I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang. I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door. He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor. The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully. He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the Times . I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants. The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe. Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables? Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too. Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know? I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock. This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health. But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse? The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it. There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell. That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them? I knew what to tell them. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>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>Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation. You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia? Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back. I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step? The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is? I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more. The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly. I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables? At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame. Clever of them. Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually— He paused dramatically. Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed! I agree, I said reluctantly. Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat. I waved his protests aside. I would agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously. Why? the young man demanded. Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell. Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned? No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design. But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom. Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential. <doc-sep>It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It laythere in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more thanfive hundred meters in diameter, where the Citadel was to have been athousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving intothe hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled withthe latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough tolast a lifetime. It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there wasone other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solidmeters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmicrays, were gone. A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, tothe left of the airlock— The Avenger . He stepped away now, and joinedthe group a little distance away, silently waiting. Lorelei said, You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter— Darling, he began wearily. Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way. There's no other way, Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as ifhe could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,but that's only delaying the end. They still come down here, only notas many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birthrate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now. They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're amillion years too far back even to understand what they are or wherethey came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer. She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook herslender body. But he went remorselessly on. Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. Theymake tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions ofpossible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. Wecan't fight them , but a superman could. That's our only chance.Lorelei—darling—don't you see that? She choked, But why can't you take me along? He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. You know why, hesaid bitterly. Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven ofstaying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,too. You'd be their murderer. Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he nolonger had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was goneout of her body. All right, she said in a lifeless voice. You'llcome back, Peter. He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. Aline from an old film kept echoing through his head. They'll comeback—but not as boys ! We'll come back, but not as men. We'll come back, but not as elephants. We'll come back, but not as octopi. <doc-sep></s>

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

<s>Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation. You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia? Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back. I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step? The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is? I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more. The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly. I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables? At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame. Clever of them. Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually— He paused dramatically. Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed! I agree, I said reluctantly. Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat. I waved his protests aside. I would agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously. Why? the young man demanded. Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell. Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned? No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design. But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom. Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential. <doc-sep>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>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 theme of capitalism is explored throughout the story by the greed of the racketeer, Tony Carmen, and how he prefers profits over the environment. In the story, Professor Venetti creates a machine that can easily decompose anything without knowing how it works and where the decomposed particles go. His process of creating the device is also not carefully examined under the safety rules. Despite knowing these manufacturing facts and the uncertainty of its consequences, Tony Carmen makes this machine into a business and sells it for a considerable profit, with the collaboration of Professor Venetti. The theme of capitalism is shown through the preference for profits over safety when seeking profits from a product. It is also explored through Tony’s dealings with business corporates and how he attracts business corporations’ attention to sell their products. Revealed by Tony’s testimony, big business corporations would have detectives and their sources of information to buy the inventions and sell them. Finally, the mechanism of the business world and the dark side of capitalism are shown through Tony’s plan to sell the products and all the dirty work behind it when Professor Venetti’s secretary is reading the letters regarding their business matter from several organizations.