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<s> THE PLAGUE By TEDDY KELLER Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plagueshowed up.... One that attacked only people within thepolitical borders of the United States! Illustrated by Schoenherr Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and theexcited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebodyhad to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip. Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had beenanswering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, huskyvoice that gave even generals pause—by saying, Good morning. Officeof the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator. Nowthere was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running toa dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. Andnow the harried girls answered with a hasty, Germ War Protection. All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this officedeep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quitecomprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, orat least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, AndyMcCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin. I told you, general, he snapped to the flustered brigadier, ColonelPatterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybethis replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, thebrand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm incharge. But this is incredible, a two-star general wailed. A mysteriousepidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attacktimed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on topof the whole powder keg. Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a momentbefore he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mopof hair that give him such a boyish look. May I remind you, general,he said, that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and Iknow what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority,we'll try to figure this thing out. But good heavens, a chicken colonel moaned, this is all soirregular. A noncom! He said it like a dirty word. Irregular, hell, the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let thesergeant get to work. He took a step toward the door, and the otherofficers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As theydrifted out, he turned and said, We'll clear your office for toppriority. Then dead serious, he added, Son, a whole nation couldpanic at any moment. You've got to come through. Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general,snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. Bettijean, willyou bring me all the latest reports, please? Then he peeled out ofhis be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himselfone moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal whoentered his office. <doc-sep>Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smileas she put down a thick sheaf of papers. You look beat, she said.Brass give you much trouble? Not much. We're top priority now. He ran fingers through the thick,brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation tohis wary and confused brain. What's new? I've gone though some of these, she said. Tried to save you alittle time. Thanks. Sit down. She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. So far, nofatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it'sspreading like ... well, like a plague. Fear flickered deep in herdark eyes. Any water reports? Andy asked. Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and abunch more. No indication there. Except—she fished out a one-pagereport—some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaignfor everybody to write their congressman about some deal and todaythey were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up atthe polls. They've all got it. Andy shrugged. You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that'sa big help. He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came upwith a crude chart. Any trends yet? It's hitting everybody, Bettijean said helplessly. Not many kids sofar, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers,teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when youcalled me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolatedmountain areas of the West and South. But reports are toofragmentary. What is it? he cried suddenly, banging the desk. People deathlyill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison untilthey have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part ofthe country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread? In food? How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packingplants over the country. How could they all goof at the sametime—even if it was sabotage? On the wind? But who could accurately predict every wind over the entirecountry—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? Andwhy wouldn't everybody get it in a given area? Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk togrip his icy, sweating hands. Andy, do ... do you think it's ...well, an enemy? I don't know, he said. I just don't know. For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her,punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking hishead, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf ofpapers. We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something. Henodded toward the outer office. Stop all in-coming calls. Get thosegirls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country.Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line upanother relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee andsandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, andoccupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington. Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strodefrom the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls onthe phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phoneand directory. He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke toworried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hystericalnurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legiblescrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burneddown to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart andbroken lines pointed vaguely to trends. <doc-sep>It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office withanother stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for acigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijeancried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers. Sergeant, the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office. Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers whotrailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp hisjaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just aninstant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version ofGeneral Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't aswagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a foldednewspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk. RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION, the scare headline screamed. Andy's firstglance caught such phrases as alleged Russian plot and germwarfare and authorities hopelessly baffled. Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. That'llhelp a lot, he growled hoarsely. Well, then, Sergeant. The colonel tried to relax his square face,but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind thepale gray eyes. So you finally recognize the gravity of thesituation. Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips.Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand onhis shoulder. Colonel, she said levelly, you should know better than that. A shocked young captain exploded, Corporal. Maybe you'd better reportto— All right, Andy said sharply. For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaledslowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook someof the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we'resurviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here thatmakes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic. He feltBettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave hera tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. So saywhat you came here to say and let us get back to work. Sergeant, the captain said, as if reading from a manual,insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions.Your conduct here will be noted and— Oh, good heavens! Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy'sshoulder. Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weightaround when this man— That's enough, the colonel snapped. I had hoped that you two wouldco-operate, but.... He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up abit with his own importance. I have turned Washington upside down toget these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant.Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You willreport to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action. Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.But you can't— Let's go, Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass,he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. Let them sweat awhile. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do tous, at least we can get some sleep. But you can't quit now, Bettijean protested. These brass hats don'tknow from— Corporal! the colonel roared. <doc-sep>And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel? The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just— I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone. But, general, I— The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier? Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess. The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared. Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him. I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works. A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it. It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within. The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do? Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him. Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation. The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here. But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned— The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work. <doc-sep>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>In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk,then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed. Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back toBettijean, Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab. It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now shelay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering,shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at thehall door, plainly ready to stampede. It's not contagious, Andy growled. Find some blankets or coats tocover her. And get a glass of water. The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up thefallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He useda chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with ablanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip ofwater and heard somebody murmur, Poor Janis. Now, Andy said brightly, how's that, Janis? She mustered a smile, and breathed, Better. I ... I was so scared.Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic. Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of, Andy said, feelingsuddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedsidemanner. You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conkedout with this stuff yet. Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed. Don't hurry, Andy said, but I want you to tell me everything thatyou did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelvehours. He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to seeBettijean standing there. He tried to smile. What time is it? Janis asked weakly. Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take. One of the girls said, It's three o'clock in the morning. She edgednearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center ofattention. Andy ignored her. I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine,Janis said. I came to work as usual and.... Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, thentold about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about stayingon her phone and typewriter for another five hours. It was abouteleven when the relief crew came in. What did you do then? Andy asked. I ... I took a break and.... Her ivory skin reddened, the colorspreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her faceaway from Andy. And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a littlenap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all. And that's not all, Andy prompted. What else? Nothing, Janis said too quickly. Andy shook his head. Tell it all and maybe it'll help. But ... but.... Was it something against regulations? I ... I don't know. I think.... I'll vouch for your job in this office. Well.... She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glancesought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally,resigned, she said, I ... I wrote a letter to my mother. Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. And you told herabout what we were doing here. Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes. Did you mail it? Y ... yes. You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp? Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me. She choked down a sob.Did I do wrong? No, I don't think so, Andy said, patting her shoulder. There'scertainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take iteasy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now. The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. Alab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could onlyshrug and indicate the girl. Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle ofthoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, societymatrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands ofpeople sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few governmentworkers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and morefrightened about a letter—and.... Hey, wait! Andy yelled. Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean'sdesk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it,straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. Hesnatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse.Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed throughthe pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the labtechnician, he said, Get me a report. Fast. The technician darted out. Andy wheeled to Bettijean. Get the brass in here. And call thegeneral first. To the doctor, he said, Give that girl the best ofeverything. Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. Hewas still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozenother brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. Thelab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handedhis hastily scribbled report to Andy. <doc-sep>It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittlesilence. Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it? Then she moved aroundthe desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers. Have you got something? the brigadier asked. Some girl outside wasbabbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students,and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established atrend? Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it wasweary. Our problem, he said, was in figuring out what a writer doesthat a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and whysenators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught thebug and people in a Tennessee community didn't. The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate thepoison and prescribe medication. But—he held up a four-centstamp—here's the villain, gentlemen. The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyesbugged at Andy, at the stamp. Bettijean said, Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parentsand especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots ofstamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices havepostage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking.And—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—Andy, you'rewonderful. The old American ingenuity, the colonel said, reaching for Andy'sphone. I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do— At ease, colonel, the brigadier said sharply. He waited until thecolonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. It's your show. What doyou suggest? Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks.Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking anystamps. Then— He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment,then hung up and said, But before the big announcement, get somebodychecking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where theyprint stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted yearsago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard. But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pureaccident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep thestickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phonecall. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should bequick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors.The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in sixhours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. United Stateswhips mystery virus, or something like that. And we could send theKremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped. <doc-sep>The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured intothe corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinklinghis granite brow. But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick. Andy chucked. That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerklick a stamp? They always use a sponge. The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned andthe grin became a rumbling laugh. How would you two like a thirty-dayfurlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted? Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand. And while you're gone, the general continued, I'll see what stringsI can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions,I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time topin on the bars. But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention offurlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into thedepths of each other's eyes. And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-centstamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched thestamp out of the office under guard. THE END <doc-sep></s>

The Plague takes place in the modern United States of America. The story follows several government workers as they navigate a sudden and mysterious epidemic. Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud, mostly referred to as Andy, works at the Office of the Civil Health and Germ Welfare Protection located in the Pentagon. Corporal Bettijean Baker, his right-hand woman and new lover, picks up the phone one day, and then chaos ensues. A switchboard is put in the hallway to help receive the hundreds of calls being made to their office. This sudden influx of calls, attention, people, and disease leave the main characters feeling overwhelmed and desperate. Since the new lieutenant had not arrived (post Colonel Patterson’s retirement), Sergeant Andy is effectively in charge as a noncom, though not everyone is happy about that. Andy pushes their worries aside, and continues working. Despite the spread, no fatalities have been reported, and infections are random. No trend has been established yet, but they are searching desperately for one. Bettijean goes through reports with Sergeant Andy, revealing all she’s uncovered. It’s affecting workers, artists, and poets, but not necessarily those who work in government, or as doctors or businessmen. The water systems are ruled out, as well as wind and food. Bettijean and Andy are left with nothing, except the possibility of biological terrorism. Finally, Andy orders Bettijean to halt all in-coming calls, and redirect their attention to all hospitals. Despite their best efforts, no conclusion can be reached. The colonel reappears in Andy’s office, followed by two officers. He throws a newspaper down on his desk, proclaiming that this epidemic was allegedly caused by the Russians, and that all the authorities are baffled. It is hinted that the Colonel commissioned this article to throw doubt on Andy’s authority. Andy defends his employees and the work they’ve been doing. The Colonel forces Andy and Bettijean out of office, and Andy lets him, kissing Bettijean on the way out. Suddenly, the general walks in and gives Andy back his job, while telling him the news from Intelligence. The Iron Curtain’s not sent word for almost two days. Only a coded message that could have been about the epidemic. Andy promises to work hard again, and the general assigns the colonel and his two men to the switchboard in the hall. After brainstorming about potential causes, Janis, another employee, enters the room and puts another stack of reports down. Small college towns, newly engaged girls, poets, all these people have been infected. Janis falls to the floor, and everyone rushes to her. She’s been infected with the disease, and they question her about her activities for the past 12 hours. It’s revealed finally that she wrote a letter to her mother, and Andy finally figures it out. The poison was in the stamps. He lets his higher-ups know, and Janis is carted off to safety. Bettijean and Andy are given a 30-day vacation to relax and explore their relationship further.

<s> THE PLAGUE By TEDDY KELLER Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plagueshowed up.... One that attacked only people within thepolitical borders of the United States! Illustrated by Schoenherr Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and theexcited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebodyhad to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip. Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had beenanswering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, huskyvoice that gave even generals pause—by saying, Good morning. Officeof the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator. Nowthere was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running toa dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. Andnow the harried girls answered with a hasty, Germ War Protection. All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this officedeep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quitecomprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, orat least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, AndyMcCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin. I told you, general, he snapped to the flustered brigadier, ColonelPatterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybethis replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, thebrand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm incharge. But this is incredible, a two-star general wailed. A mysteriousepidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attacktimed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on topof the whole powder keg. Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a momentbefore he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mopof hair that give him such a boyish look. May I remind you, general,he said, that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and Iknow what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority,we'll try to figure this thing out. But good heavens, a chicken colonel moaned, this is all soirregular. A noncom! He said it like a dirty word. Irregular, hell, the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let thesergeant get to work. He took a step toward the door, and the otherofficers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As theydrifted out, he turned and said, We'll clear your office for toppriority. Then dead serious, he added, Son, a whole nation couldpanic at any moment. You've got to come through. Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general,snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. Bettijean, willyou bring me all the latest reports, please? Then he peeled out ofhis be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himselfone moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal whoentered his office. <doc-sep>Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smileas she put down a thick sheaf of papers. You look beat, she said.Brass give you much trouble? Not much. We're top priority now. He ran fingers through the thick,brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation tohis wary and confused brain. What's new? I've gone though some of these, she said. Tried to save you alittle time. Thanks. Sit down. She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. So far, nofatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it'sspreading like ... well, like a plague. Fear flickered deep in herdark eyes. Any water reports? Andy asked. Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and abunch more. No indication there. Except—she fished out a one-pagereport—some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaignfor everybody to write their congressman about some deal and todaythey were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up atthe polls. They've all got it. Andy shrugged. You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that'sa big help. He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came upwith a crude chart. Any trends yet? It's hitting everybody, Bettijean said helplessly. Not many kids sofar, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers,teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when youcalled me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolatedmountain areas of the West and South. But reports are toofragmentary. What is it? he cried suddenly, banging the desk. People deathlyill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison untilthey have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part ofthe country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread? In food? How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packingplants over the country. How could they all goof at the sametime—even if it was sabotage? On the wind? But who could accurately predict every wind over the entirecountry—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? Andwhy wouldn't everybody get it in a given area? Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk togrip his icy, sweating hands. Andy, do ... do you think it's ...well, an enemy? I don't know, he said. I just don't know. For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her,punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking hishead, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf ofpapers. We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something. Henodded toward the outer office. Stop all in-coming calls. Get thosegirls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country.Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line upanother relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee andsandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, andoccupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington. Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strodefrom the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls onthe phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phoneand directory. He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke toworried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hystericalnurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legiblescrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burneddown to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart andbroken lines pointed vaguely to trends. <doc-sep>It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office withanother stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for acigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijeancried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers. Sergeant, the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office. Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers whotrailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp hisjaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just aninstant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version ofGeneral Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't aswagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a foldednewspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk. RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION, the scare headline screamed. Andy's firstglance caught such phrases as alleged Russian plot and germwarfare and authorities hopelessly baffled. Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. That'llhelp a lot, he growled hoarsely. Well, then, Sergeant. The colonel tried to relax his square face,but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind thepale gray eyes. So you finally recognize the gravity of thesituation. Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips.Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand onhis shoulder. Colonel, she said levelly, you should know better than that. A shocked young captain exploded, Corporal. Maybe you'd better reportto— All right, Andy said sharply. For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaledslowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook someof the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we'resurviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here thatmakes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic. He feltBettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave hera tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. So saywhat you came here to say and let us get back to work. Sergeant, the captain said, as if reading from a manual,insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions.Your conduct here will be noted and— Oh, good heavens! Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy'sshoulder. Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weightaround when this man— That's enough, the colonel snapped. I had hoped that you two wouldco-operate, but.... He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up abit with his own importance. I have turned Washington upside down toget these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant.Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You willreport to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action. Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.But you can't— Let's go, Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass,he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. Let them sweat awhile. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do tous, at least we can get some sleep. But you can't quit now, Bettijean protested. These brass hats don'tknow from— Corporal! the colonel roared. <doc-sep>And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel? The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just— I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone. But, general, I— The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier? Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess. The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared. Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him. I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works. A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it. It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within. The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do? Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him. Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation. The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here. But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned— The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work. <doc-sep>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>In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk,then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed. Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back toBettijean, Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab. It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now shelay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering,shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at thehall door, plainly ready to stampede. It's not contagious, Andy growled. Find some blankets or coats tocover her. And get a glass of water. The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up thefallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He useda chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with ablanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip ofwater and heard somebody murmur, Poor Janis. Now, Andy said brightly, how's that, Janis? She mustered a smile, and breathed, Better. I ... I was so scared.Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic. Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of, Andy said, feelingsuddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedsidemanner. You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conkedout with this stuff yet. Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed. Don't hurry, Andy said, but I want you to tell me everything thatyou did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelvehours. He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to seeBettijean standing there. He tried to smile. What time is it? Janis asked weakly. Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take. One of the girls said, It's three o'clock in the morning. She edgednearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center ofattention. Andy ignored her. I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine,Janis said. I came to work as usual and.... Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, thentold about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about stayingon her phone and typewriter for another five hours. It was abouteleven when the relief crew came in. What did you do then? Andy asked. I ... I took a break and.... Her ivory skin reddened, the colorspreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her faceaway from Andy. And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a littlenap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all. And that's not all, Andy prompted. What else? Nothing, Janis said too quickly. Andy shook his head. Tell it all and maybe it'll help. But ... but.... Was it something against regulations? I ... I don't know. I think.... I'll vouch for your job in this office. Well.... She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glancesought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally,resigned, she said, I ... I wrote a letter to my mother. Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. And you told herabout what we were doing here. Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes. Did you mail it? Y ... yes. You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp? Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me. She choked down a sob.Did I do wrong? No, I don't think so, Andy said, patting her shoulder. There'scertainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take iteasy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now. The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. Alab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could onlyshrug and indicate the girl. Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle ofthoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, societymatrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands ofpeople sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few governmentworkers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and morefrightened about a letter—and.... Hey, wait! Andy yelled. Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean'sdesk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it,straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. Hesnatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse.Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed throughthe pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the labtechnician, he said, Get me a report. Fast. The technician darted out. Andy wheeled to Bettijean. Get the brass in here. And call thegeneral first. To the doctor, he said, Give that girl the best ofeverything. Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. Hewas still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozenother brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. Thelab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handedhis hastily scribbled report to Andy. <doc-sep>It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittlesilence. Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it? Then she moved aroundthe desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers. Have you got something? the brigadier asked. Some girl outside wasbabbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students,and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established atrend? Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it wasweary. Our problem, he said, was in figuring out what a writer doesthat a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and whysenators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught thebug and people in a Tennessee community didn't. The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate thepoison and prescribe medication. But—he held up a four-centstamp—here's the villain, gentlemen. The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyesbugged at Andy, at the stamp. Bettijean said, Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parentsand especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots ofstamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices havepostage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking.And—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—Andy, you'rewonderful. The old American ingenuity, the colonel said, reaching for Andy'sphone. I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do— At ease, colonel, the brigadier said sharply. He waited until thecolonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. It's your show. What doyou suggest? Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks.Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking anystamps. Then— He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment,then hung up and said, But before the big announcement, get somebodychecking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where theyprint stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted yearsago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard. But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pureaccident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep thestickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phonecall. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should bequick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors.The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in sixhours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. United Stateswhips mystery virus, or something like that. And we could send theKremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped. <doc-sep>The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured intothe corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinklinghis granite brow. But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick. Andy chucked. That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerklick a stamp? They always use a sponge. The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned andthe grin became a rumbling laugh. How would you two like a thirty-dayfurlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted? Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand. And while you're gone, the general continued, I'll see what stringsI can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions,I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time topin on the bars. But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention offurlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into thedepths of each other's eyes. And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-centstamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched thestamp out of the office under guard. THE END <doc-sep></s>

Ten days prior to the epidemic, Colonel Patterson retired. He was Sergeant Andy McCloud’s superior, and his replacement has yet to show up. Andy theorizes that the replacement for the lieutenant got caught up in all the red tape, but, at the end of the day, the newly-coined Germ War Protection needed a leader. And Andy was stepping up to the job. He had worked at the Office of the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Coordinator for two years prior to the epidemic. He knew the ins and outs of the place, so, despite being a noncom, he was truly the best for the job. One of his colleagues, Corporal Bettijean Baker, had picked up the phone two days prior, and suddenly their whole words changed. An epidemic was sweeping the nation, infecting random people left and right with no underlying cause or trend, and, despite the absence of fatalities, panic was ensuing. Though some of the officers disapprove of Andy’s noncom position, he continues working tirelessly with his colleagues to try and figure out the cause of this terrifying disease. He and Corporal Bettijean Baker brainstorm throughout the story, desperately searching for a trend or place of infection. They realize that artists, poets, college students, and workers are the ones being infected; not necessarily doctors, dentists, and government employees. They try to figure out what activities each group does that could possibly have been the cause of their infection. They quickly rule out the disease traveling through water, wind, and food. And, later on, it’s revealed that the disease is not contagious. Bettijean and Andy put their heads together and think. Their time spent together brainstorming was also filled with flirtatious moments. Andy, with his freckles and messy hair, and Bettijean with her jet-black hair, share a kiss or two throughout the story. After exhausting themselves, Andy orders all the girls to redirect all calls to go out, not in. They are to focus on hospitals and relief crews, to discover more on who the virus is infecting. He and Bettijean are almost fired by the disgruntled colonel, who came with two replacements. Thankfully, just as Andy kisses Bettijean, the general walks in and dismisses the colonel. He reinstates Andy and Bettijean to their former and rightful positions, before telling them that the Iron Curtain has gone silent, except for one coded message from two days before, possibly hinting at the epidemic. After the brass left, Bettijean and Andy brainstormed some more, looking through new reports brought in by Janis, a colleague. Janis soon collapses, and it is revealed that she’s been infected. Andy questions her and soon discovers the transmitter of the virus. Stamps! He relates the news to his higher-ups, and rejoices with Bettijean. They are given a 30-day furloughed vacation together, leaving the reader with a future of romance and hope.

<s> THE PLAGUE By TEDDY KELLER Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plagueshowed up.... One that attacked only people within thepolitical borders of the United States! Illustrated by Schoenherr Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and theexcited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebodyhad to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip. Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had beenanswering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, huskyvoice that gave even generals pause—by saying, Good morning. Officeof the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator. Nowthere was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running toa dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. Andnow the harried girls answered with a hasty, Germ War Protection. All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this officedeep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quitecomprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, orat least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, AndyMcCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin. I told you, general, he snapped to the flustered brigadier, ColonelPatterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybethis replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, thebrand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm incharge. But this is incredible, a two-star general wailed. A mysteriousepidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attacktimed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on topof the whole powder keg. Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a momentbefore he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mopof hair that give him such a boyish look. May I remind you, general,he said, that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and Iknow what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority,we'll try to figure this thing out. But good heavens, a chicken colonel moaned, this is all soirregular. A noncom! He said it like a dirty word. Irregular, hell, the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let thesergeant get to work. He took a step toward the door, and the otherofficers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As theydrifted out, he turned and said, We'll clear your office for toppriority. Then dead serious, he added, Son, a whole nation couldpanic at any moment. You've got to come through. Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general,snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. Bettijean, willyou bring me all the latest reports, please? Then he peeled out ofhis be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himselfone moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal whoentered his office. <doc-sep>Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smileas she put down a thick sheaf of papers. You look beat, she said.Brass give you much trouble? Not much. We're top priority now. He ran fingers through the thick,brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation tohis wary and confused brain. What's new? I've gone though some of these, she said. Tried to save you alittle time. Thanks. Sit down. She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. So far, nofatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it'sspreading like ... well, like a plague. Fear flickered deep in herdark eyes. Any water reports? Andy asked. Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and abunch more. No indication there. Except—she fished out a one-pagereport—some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaignfor everybody to write their congressman about some deal and todaythey were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up atthe polls. They've all got it. Andy shrugged. You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that'sa big help. He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came upwith a crude chart. Any trends yet? It's hitting everybody, Bettijean said helplessly. Not many kids sofar, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers,teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when youcalled me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolatedmountain areas of the West and South. But reports are toofragmentary. What is it? he cried suddenly, banging the desk. People deathlyill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison untilthey have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part ofthe country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread? In food? How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packingplants over the country. How could they all goof at the sametime—even if it was sabotage? On the wind? But who could accurately predict every wind over the entirecountry—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? Andwhy wouldn't everybody get it in a given area? Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk togrip his icy, sweating hands. Andy, do ... do you think it's ...well, an enemy? I don't know, he said. I just don't know. For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her,punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking hishead, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf ofpapers. We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something. Henodded toward the outer office. Stop all in-coming calls. Get thosegirls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country.Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line upanother relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee andsandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, andoccupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington. Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strodefrom the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls onthe phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phoneand directory. He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke toworried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hystericalnurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legiblescrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burneddown to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart andbroken lines pointed vaguely to trends. <doc-sep>It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office withanother stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for acigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijeancried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers. Sergeant, the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office. Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers whotrailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp hisjaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just aninstant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version ofGeneral Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't aswagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a foldednewspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk. RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION, the scare headline screamed. Andy's firstglance caught such phrases as alleged Russian plot and germwarfare and authorities hopelessly baffled. Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. That'llhelp a lot, he growled hoarsely. Well, then, Sergeant. The colonel tried to relax his square face,but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind thepale gray eyes. So you finally recognize the gravity of thesituation. Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips.Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand onhis shoulder. Colonel, she said levelly, you should know better than that. A shocked young captain exploded, Corporal. Maybe you'd better reportto— All right, Andy said sharply. For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaledslowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook someof the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we'resurviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here thatmakes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic. He feltBettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave hera tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. So saywhat you came here to say and let us get back to work. Sergeant, the captain said, as if reading from a manual,insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions.Your conduct here will be noted and— Oh, good heavens! Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy'sshoulder. Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weightaround when this man— That's enough, the colonel snapped. I had hoped that you two wouldco-operate, but.... He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up abit with his own importance. I have turned Washington upside down toget these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant.Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You willreport to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action. Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.But you can't— Let's go, Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass,he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. Let them sweat awhile. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do tous, at least we can get some sleep. But you can't quit now, Bettijean protested. These brass hats don'tknow from— Corporal! the colonel roared. <doc-sep>And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel? The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just— I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone. But, general, I— The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier? Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess. The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared. Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him. I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works. A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it. It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within. The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do? Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him. Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation. The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here. But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned— The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work. <doc-sep>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>In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk,then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed. Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back toBettijean, Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab. It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now shelay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering,shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at thehall door, plainly ready to stampede. It's not contagious, Andy growled. Find some blankets or coats tocover her. And get a glass of water. The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up thefallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He useda chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with ablanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip ofwater and heard somebody murmur, Poor Janis. Now, Andy said brightly, how's that, Janis? She mustered a smile, and breathed, Better. I ... I was so scared.Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic. Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of, Andy said, feelingsuddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedsidemanner. You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conkedout with this stuff yet. Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed. Don't hurry, Andy said, but I want you to tell me everything thatyou did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelvehours. He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to seeBettijean standing there. He tried to smile. What time is it? Janis asked weakly. Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take. One of the girls said, It's three o'clock in the morning. She edgednearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center ofattention. Andy ignored her. I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine,Janis said. I came to work as usual and.... Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, thentold about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about stayingon her phone and typewriter for another five hours. It was abouteleven when the relief crew came in. What did you do then? Andy asked. I ... I took a break and.... Her ivory skin reddened, the colorspreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her faceaway from Andy. And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a littlenap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all. And that's not all, Andy prompted. What else? Nothing, Janis said too quickly. Andy shook his head. Tell it all and maybe it'll help. But ... but.... Was it something against regulations? I ... I don't know. I think.... I'll vouch for your job in this office. Well.... She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glancesought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally,resigned, she said, I ... I wrote a letter to my mother. Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. And you told herabout what we were doing here. Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes. Did you mail it? Y ... yes. You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp? Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me. She choked down a sob.Did I do wrong? No, I don't think so, Andy said, patting her shoulder. There'scertainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take iteasy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now. The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. Alab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could onlyshrug and indicate the girl. Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle ofthoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, societymatrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands ofpeople sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few governmentworkers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and morefrightened about a letter—and.... Hey, wait! Andy yelled. Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean'sdesk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it,straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. Hesnatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse.Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed throughthe pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the labtechnician, he said, Get me a report. Fast. The technician darted out. Andy wheeled to Bettijean. Get the brass in here. And call thegeneral first. To the doctor, he said, Give that girl the best ofeverything. Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. Hewas still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozenother brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. Thelab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handedhis hastily scribbled report to Andy. <doc-sep>It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittlesilence. Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it? Then she moved aroundthe desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers. Have you got something? the brigadier asked. Some girl outside wasbabbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students,and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established atrend? Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it wasweary. Our problem, he said, was in figuring out what a writer doesthat a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and whysenators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught thebug and people in a Tennessee community didn't. The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate thepoison and prescribe medication. But—he held up a four-centstamp—here's the villain, gentlemen. The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyesbugged at Andy, at the stamp. Bettijean said, Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parentsand especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots ofstamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices havepostage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking.And—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—Andy, you'rewonderful. The old American ingenuity, the colonel said, reaching for Andy'sphone. I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do— At ease, colonel, the brigadier said sharply. He waited until thecolonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. It's your show. What doyou suggest? Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks.Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking anystamps. Then— He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment,then hung up and said, But before the big announcement, get somebodychecking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where theyprint stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted yearsago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard. But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pureaccident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep thestickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phonecall. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should bequick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors.The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in sixhours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. United Stateswhips mystery virus, or something like that. And we could send theKremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped. <doc-sep>The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured intothe corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinklinghis granite brow. But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick. Andy chucked. That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerklick a stamp? They always use a sponge. The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned andthe grin became a rumbling laugh. How would you two like a thirty-dayfurlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted? Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand. And while you're gone, the general continued, I'll see what stringsI can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions,I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time topin on the bars. But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention offurlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into thedepths of each other's eyes. And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-centstamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched thestamp out of the office under guard. THE END <doc-sep></s>

Sergeant Andrew McCloud is Corporal Bettijean Baker’s superior, both in rank and position at the Germ War office. They have worked together before, perhaps for the two years that Andy has been stationed there. Their relationship ranges from colleagues to lovers, sharing kisses at work or gentle shoulder touches, while still maintaining a professional atmosphere. They begin the story extremely stressed, due to the sudden epidemic, and use their combined brain power to find the root cause of the disease. After hours of working together and defending each other to their higher-ups, they are able to identify different groups of people that have been infected, all of which are random and don’t show a clear trend. After the truth is discovered, that the disease is being spread through licking stamps, Corporal Bettijean and Sergeant Andrew are granted a 30-day vacation together, with the promises of getting to know each other better. They accept gratefully, and stare into each other’s eyes. Though their relationship may be inappropriate in the modern office, it’s clear through their constant defense of the other and dedication to the cause, that their romance is just as strong as their professional relationship.

<s> THE PLAGUE By TEDDY KELLER Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plagueshowed up.... One that attacked only people within thepolitical borders of the United States! Illustrated by Schoenherr Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and theexcited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebodyhad to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip. Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had beenanswering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, huskyvoice that gave even generals pause—by saying, Good morning. Officeof the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator. Nowthere was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running toa dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. Andnow the harried girls answered with a hasty, Germ War Protection. All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this officedeep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quitecomprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, orat least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, AndyMcCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin. I told you, general, he snapped to the flustered brigadier, ColonelPatterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybethis replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, thebrand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm incharge. But this is incredible, a two-star general wailed. A mysteriousepidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attacktimed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on topof the whole powder keg. Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a momentbefore he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mopof hair that give him such a boyish look. May I remind you, general,he said, that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and Iknow what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority,we'll try to figure this thing out. But good heavens, a chicken colonel moaned, this is all soirregular. A noncom! He said it like a dirty word. Irregular, hell, the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let thesergeant get to work. He took a step toward the door, and the otherofficers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As theydrifted out, he turned and said, We'll clear your office for toppriority. Then dead serious, he added, Son, a whole nation couldpanic at any moment. You've got to come through. Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general,snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. Bettijean, willyou bring me all the latest reports, please? Then he peeled out ofhis be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himselfone moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal whoentered his office. <doc-sep>Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smileas she put down a thick sheaf of papers. You look beat, she said.Brass give you much trouble? Not much. We're top priority now. He ran fingers through the thick,brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation tohis wary and confused brain. What's new? I've gone though some of these, she said. Tried to save you alittle time. Thanks. Sit down. She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. So far, nofatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it'sspreading like ... well, like a plague. Fear flickered deep in herdark eyes. Any water reports? Andy asked. Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and abunch more. No indication there. Except—she fished out a one-pagereport—some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaignfor everybody to write their congressman about some deal and todaythey were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up atthe polls. They've all got it. Andy shrugged. You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that'sa big help. He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came upwith a crude chart. Any trends yet? It's hitting everybody, Bettijean said helplessly. Not many kids sofar, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers,teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when youcalled me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolatedmountain areas of the West and South. But reports are toofragmentary. What is it? he cried suddenly, banging the desk. People deathlyill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison untilthey have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part ofthe country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread? In food? How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packingplants over the country. How could they all goof at the sametime—even if it was sabotage? On the wind? But who could accurately predict every wind over the entirecountry—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? Andwhy wouldn't everybody get it in a given area? Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk togrip his icy, sweating hands. Andy, do ... do you think it's ...well, an enemy? I don't know, he said. I just don't know. For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her,punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking hishead, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf ofpapers. We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something. Henodded toward the outer office. Stop all in-coming calls. Get thosegirls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country.Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line upanother relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee andsandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, andoccupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington. Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strodefrom the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls onthe phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phoneand directory. He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke toworried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hystericalnurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legiblescrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burneddown to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart andbroken lines pointed vaguely to trends. <doc-sep>It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office withanother stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for acigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijeancried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers. Sergeant, the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office. Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers whotrailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp hisjaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just aninstant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version ofGeneral Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't aswagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a foldednewspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk. RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION, the scare headline screamed. Andy's firstglance caught such phrases as alleged Russian plot and germwarfare and authorities hopelessly baffled. Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. That'llhelp a lot, he growled hoarsely. Well, then, Sergeant. The colonel tried to relax his square face,but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind thepale gray eyes. So you finally recognize the gravity of thesituation. Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips.Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand onhis shoulder. Colonel, she said levelly, you should know better than that. A shocked young captain exploded, Corporal. Maybe you'd better reportto— All right, Andy said sharply. For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaledslowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook someof the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we'resurviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here thatmakes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic. He feltBettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave hera tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. So saywhat you came here to say and let us get back to work. Sergeant, the captain said, as if reading from a manual,insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions.Your conduct here will be noted and— Oh, good heavens! Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy'sshoulder. Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weightaround when this man— That's enough, the colonel snapped. I had hoped that you two wouldco-operate, but.... He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up abit with his own importance. I have turned Washington upside down toget these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant.Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You willreport to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action. Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.But you can't— Let's go, Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass,he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. Let them sweat awhile. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do tous, at least we can get some sleep. But you can't quit now, Bettijean protested. These brass hats don'tknow from— Corporal! the colonel roared. <doc-sep>And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel? The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just— I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone. But, general, I— The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier? Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess. The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared. Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him. I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works. A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it. It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within. The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do? Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him. Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation. The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here. But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned— The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work. <doc-sep>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>In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk,then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed. Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back toBettijean, Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab. It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now shelay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering,shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at thehall door, plainly ready to stampede. It's not contagious, Andy growled. Find some blankets or coats tocover her. And get a glass of water. The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up thefallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He useda chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with ablanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip ofwater and heard somebody murmur, Poor Janis. Now, Andy said brightly, how's that, Janis? She mustered a smile, and breathed, Better. I ... I was so scared.Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic. Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of, Andy said, feelingsuddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedsidemanner. You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conkedout with this stuff yet. Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed. Don't hurry, Andy said, but I want you to tell me everything thatyou did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelvehours. He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to seeBettijean standing there. He tried to smile. What time is it? Janis asked weakly. Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take. One of the girls said, It's three o'clock in the morning. She edgednearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center ofattention. Andy ignored her. I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine,Janis said. I came to work as usual and.... Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, thentold about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about stayingon her phone and typewriter for another five hours. It was abouteleven when the relief crew came in. What did you do then? Andy asked. I ... I took a break and.... Her ivory skin reddened, the colorspreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her faceaway from Andy. And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a littlenap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all. And that's not all, Andy prompted. What else? Nothing, Janis said too quickly. Andy shook his head. Tell it all and maybe it'll help. But ... but.... Was it something against regulations? I ... I don't know. I think.... I'll vouch for your job in this office. Well.... She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glancesought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally,resigned, she said, I ... I wrote a letter to my mother. Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. And you told herabout what we were doing here. Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes. Did you mail it? Y ... yes. You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp? Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me. She choked down a sob.Did I do wrong? No, I don't think so, Andy said, patting her shoulder. There'scertainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take iteasy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now. The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. Alab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could onlyshrug and indicate the girl. Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle ofthoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, societymatrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands ofpeople sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few governmentworkers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and morefrightened about a letter—and.... Hey, wait! Andy yelled. Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean'sdesk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it,straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. Hesnatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse.Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed throughthe pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the labtechnician, he said, Get me a report. Fast. The technician darted out. Andy wheeled to Bettijean. Get the brass in here. And call thegeneral first. To the doctor, he said, Give that girl the best ofeverything. Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. Hewas still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozenother brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. Thelab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handedhis hastily scribbled report to Andy. <doc-sep>It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittlesilence. Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it? Then she moved aroundthe desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers. Have you got something? the brigadier asked. Some girl outside wasbabbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students,and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established atrend? Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it wasweary. Our problem, he said, was in figuring out what a writer doesthat a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and whysenators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught thebug and people in a Tennessee community didn't. The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate thepoison and prescribe medication. But—he held up a four-centstamp—here's the villain, gentlemen. The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyesbugged at Andy, at the stamp. Bettijean said, Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parentsand especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots ofstamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices havepostage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking.And—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—Andy, you'rewonderful. The old American ingenuity, the colonel said, reaching for Andy'sphone. I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do— At ease, colonel, the brigadier said sharply. He waited until thecolonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. It's your show. What doyou suggest? Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks.Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking anystamps. Then— He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment,then hung up and said, But before the big announcement, get somebodychecking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where theyprint stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted yearsago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard. But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pureaccident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep thestickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phonecall. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should bequick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors.The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in sixhours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. United Stateswhips mystery virus, or something like that. And we could send theKremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped. <doc-sep>The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured intothe corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinklinghis granite brow. But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick. Andy chucked. That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerklick a stamp? They always use a sponge. The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned andthe grin became a rumbling laugh. How would you two like a thirty-dayfurlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted? Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand. And while you're gone, the general continued, I'll see what stringsI can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions,I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time topin on the bars. But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention offurlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into thedepths of each other's eyes. And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-centstamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched thestamp out of the office under guard. THE END <doc-sep></s>

In short, without Janis, Sergeant Andrew McCloud would not have discovered the cause of the epidemic as quickly or at all. Near the end of the story, Janis, an attractive blonde woman, enters Sergeant Andy’s office to deliver another stack of reports before him and Corporal Bettijean. The two of them had been analyzing the reports and statistics for several hours now, desperate to find a trend amongst those infected. So far, they had come up with nothing concrete, except for the types of people who were getting infected. Working people, artists, poets, newly engaged women, and small office workers were all turning up sick. Bigger offices, postal workers, doctors, dentists, and government workers were all fine. So, what’s the connection? After nervously delivering the reports, Janis quickly scurries out of the office and back to her desk elsewhere. Bettijean and Andy notice that the adult population in Aspen, Colorado; Taos; and Santa Fe, New Mexico is rapidly falling ill, all towns with prominent artistic industries. They keep pouring over the reports, making new discoveries but still not coming up with any answers. Suddenly, a girl cries out from beyond his office. They hear a body fall to the floor, and they quickly rush out as the sounds of screaming emerge. Andy sends Bettijean to retrieve a doctor and a chemist, while he runs to help. Janis was lying on the floor, in pain and scared. Luckily, the virus is not contagious, so Andy and the others were able to help her. Andy interrogates her, asking detailed questions about her day and the past 12 hours. He tries to ascertain all the moments of her life, so he can pinpoint where and how she got infected. Her symptoms match up with the epidemic at hand (a fever and feeling dizzy), so Andy knows this is his best shot to find the origin. Slowly, she recounts her day and tells them all about what she did, where she was, and what she ate. She hides one thing though, which Andy quickly forces out of her. She wrote a letter to her mother, telling her about the epidemic and how scary it was. This is against regulations, as shown through Andy’s grunt of disapproval. She mailed it with her own stamps, not with a government envelope. Andy puts all the puzzle pieces together in his mind and realizes that all those people, Janis included, had one thing in common: writing letters. The poison was in the stamp. Without Janis, Andy would have struggled far longer to discover the illness and halt the production and sale of all stamps nationwide.

<s> THE PLAGUE By TEDDY KELLER Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plagueshowed up.... One that attacked only people within thepolitical borders of the United States! Illustrated by Schoenherr Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and theexcited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebodyhad to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip. Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had beenanswering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, huskyvoice that gave even generals pause—by saying, Good morning. Officeof the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator. Nowthere was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running toa dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. Andnow the harried girls answered with a hasty, Germ War Protection. All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this officedeep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quitecomprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, orat least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, AndyMcCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin. I told you, general, he snapped to the flustered brigadier, ColonelPatterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybethis replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, thebrand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm incharge. But this is incredible, a two-star general wailed. A mysteriousepidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attacktimed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on topof the whole powder keg. Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a momentbefore he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mopof hair that give him such a boyish look. May I remind you, general,he said, that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and Iknow what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority,we'll try to figure this thing out. But good heavens, a chicken colonel moaned, this is all soirregular. A noncom! He said it like a dirty word. Irregular, hell, the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let thesergeant get to work. He took a step toward the door, and the otherofficers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As theydrifted out, he turned and said, We'll clear your office for toppriority. Then dead serious, he added, Son, a whole nation couldpanic at any moment. You've got to come through. Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general,snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. Bettijean, willyou bring me all the latest reports, please? Then he peeled out ofhis be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himselfone moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal whoentered his office. <doc-sep>Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smileas she put down a thick sheaf of papers. You look beat, she said.Brass give you much trouble? Not much. We're top priority now. He ran fingers through the thick,brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation tohis wary and confused brain. What's new? I've gone though some of these, she said. Tried to save you alittle time. Thanks. Sit down. She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. So far, nofatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it'sspreading like ... well, like a plague. Fear flickered deep in herdark eyes. Any water reports? Andy asked. Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and abunch more. No indication there. Except—she fished out a one-pagereport—some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaignfor everybody to write their congressman about some deal and todaythey were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up atthe polls. They've all got it. Andy shrugged. You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that'sa big help. He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came upwith a crude chart. Any trends yet? It's hitting everybody, Bettijean said helplessly. Not many kids sofar, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers,teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when youcalled me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolatedmountain areas of the West and South. But reports are toofragmentary. What is it? he cried suddenly, banging the desk. People deathlyill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison untilthey have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part ofthe country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread? In food? How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packingplants over the country. How could they all goof at the sametime—even if it was sabotage? On the wind? But who could accurately predict every wind over the entirecountry—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? Andwhy wouldn't everybody get it in a given area? Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk togrip his icy, sweating hands. Andy, do ... do you think it's ...well, an enemy? I don't know, he said. I just don't know. For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her,punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking hishead, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf ofpapers. We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something. Henodded toward the outer office. Stop all in-coming calls. Get thosegirls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country.Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line upanother relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee andsandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, andoccupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington. Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strodefrom the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls onthe phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phoneand directory. He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke toworried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hystericalnurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legiblescrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burneddown to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart andbroken lines pointed vaguely to trends. <doc-sep>It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office withanother stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for acigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijeancried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers. Sergeant, the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office. Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers whotrailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp hisjaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just aninstant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version ofGeneral Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't aswagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a foldednewspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk. RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION, the scare headline screamed. Andy's firstglance caught such phrases as alleged Russian plot and germwarfare and authorities hopelessly baffled. Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. That'llhelp a lot, he growled hoarsely. Well, then, Sergeant. The colonel tried to relax his square face,but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind thepale gray eyes. So you finally recognize the gravity of thesituation. Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips.Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand onhis shoulder. Colonel, she said levelly, you should know better than that. A shocked young captain exploded, Corporal. Maybe you'd better reportto— All right, Andy said sharply. For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaledslowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook someof the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we'resurviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here thatmakes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic. He feltBettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave hera tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. So saywhat you came here to say and let us get back to work. Sergeant, the captain said, as if reading from a manual,insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions.Your conduct here will be noted and— Oh, good heavens! Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy'sshoulder. Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weightaround when this man— That's enough, the colonel snapped. I had hoped that you two wouldco-operate, but.... He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up abit with his own importance. I have turned Washington upside down toget these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant.Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You willreport to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action. Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.But you can't— Let's go, Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass,he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. Let them sweat awhile. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do tous, at least we can get some sleep. But you can't quit now, Bettijean protested. These brass hats don'tknow from— Corporal! the colonel roared. <doc-sep>And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel? The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just— I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone. But, general, I— The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier? Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess. The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared. Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him. I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works. A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it. It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within. The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do? Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him. Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation. The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here. But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned— The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work. <doc-sep>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>In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk,then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed. Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back toBettijean, Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab. It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now shelay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering,shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at thehall door, plainly ready to stampede. It's not contagious, Andy growled. Find some blankets or coats tocover her. And get a glass of water. The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up thefallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He useda chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with ablanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip ofwater and heard somebody murmur, Poor Janis. Now, Andy said brightly, how's that, Janis? She mustered a smile, and breathed, Better. I ... I was so scared.Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic. Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of, Andy said, feelingsuddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedsidemanner. You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conkedout with this stuff yet. Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed. Don't hurry, Andy said, but I want you to tell me everything thatyou did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelvehours. He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to seeBettijean standing there. He tried to smile. What time is it? Janis asked weakly. Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take. One of the girls said, It's three o'clock in the morning. She edgednearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center ofattention. Andy ignored her. I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine,Janis said. I came to work as usual and.... Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, thentold about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about stayingon her phone and typewriter for another five hours. It was abouteleven when the relief crew came in. What did you do then? Andy asked. I ... I took a break and.... Her ivory skin reddened, the colorspreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her faceaway from Andy. And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a littlenap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all. And that's not all, Andy prompted. What else? Nothing, Janis said too quickly. Andy shook his head. Tell it all and maybe it'll help. But ... but.... Was it something against regulations? I ... I don't know. I think.... I'll vouch for your job in this office. Well.... She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glancesought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally,resigned, she said, I ... I wrote a letter to my mother. Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. And you told herabout what we were doing here. Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes. Did you mail it? Y ... yes. You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp? Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me. She choked down a sob.Did I do wrong? No, I don't think so, Andy said, patting her shoulder. There'scertainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take iteasy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now. The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. Alab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could onlyshrug and indicate the girl. Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle ofthoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, societymatrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands ofpeople sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few governmentworkers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and morefrightened about a letter—and.... Hey, wait! Andy yelled. Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean'sdesk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it,straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. Hesnatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse.Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed throughthe pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the labtechnician, he said, Get me a report. Fast. The technician darted out. Andy wheeled to Bettijean. Get the brass in here. And call thegeneral first. To the doctor, he said, Give that girl the best ofeverything. Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. Hewas still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozenother brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. Thelab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handedhis hastily scribbled report to Andy. <doc-sep>It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittlesilence. Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it? Then she moved aroundthe desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers. Have you got something? the brigadier asked. Some girl outside wasbabbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students,and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established atrend? Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it wasweary. Our problem, he said, was in figuring out what a writer doesthat a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and whysenators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught thebug and people in a Tennessee community didn't. The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate thepoison and prescribe medication. But—he held up a four-centstamp—here's the villain, gentlemen. The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyesbugged at Andy, at the stamp. Bettijean said, Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parentsand especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots ofstamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices havepostage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking.And—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—Andy, you'rewonderful. The old American ingenuity, the colonel said, reaching for Andy'sphone. I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do— At ease, colonel, the brigadier said sharply. He waited until thecolonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. It's your show. What doyou suggest? Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks.Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking anystamps. Then— He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment,then hung up and said, But before the big announcement, get somebodychecking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where theyprint stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted yearsago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard. But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pureaccident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep thestickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phonecall. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should bequick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors.The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in sixhours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. United Stateswhips mystery virus, or something like that. And we could send theKremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped. <doc-sep>The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured intothe corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinklinghis granite brow. But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick. Andy chucked. That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerklick a stamp? They always use a sponge. The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned andthe grin became a rumbling laugh. How would you two like a thirty-dayfurlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted? Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand. And while you're gone, the general continued, I'll see what stringsI can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions,I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time topin on the bars. But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention offurlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into thedepths of each other's eyes. And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-centstamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched thestamp out of the office under guard. THE END <doc-sep></s>

From the start, the colonel does not approve of Sergeant Andrew McCloud. His gray eyes carry disapproval and irritation in them. As a member of the brass, the colonel strives for everything to be official and approved of, unlike the sergeant’s recent promotion. The replacement for the retired colonel had not yet arrived, and the chicken colonel is not thrilled. To have a noncom, defined as a noncommissioned officer, in charge of this office while in the midst of a national epidemic is ludicrous, in his eyes. Despite voicing his doubts and grievances, Sergeant Andy is allowed to continue working as the head-of-office, at least for the time being. The colonel steals away and plots his next move. Several hours later, he returns, this time with two officers in tow. He walks into Sergeant Andy’s office where he and Corporal Bettijean were looking through a stack of papers. With a defiant stride, the colonel tosses a newspaper onto the Sergeant’s desk. Andy reads it and quickly throws it across the room. The article tells the tale of a red plague taking over America, a possible plot from Russia, and baffled government officials. The colonel brought in the article--and possibly helped write it--to convey the seriousness of the situation, but Andy takes it as an offense instead. His colleague, Corporal Bettijean, defends Andy and reprimands the colonel at the same time. The captain behind him scolds her in return. After Sergeant Andy recites a list of excuses for his office, the colonel tells him that his insubordination will not be allowed. He calls for his removal, as well as Corporal Bettijean's, and promotes the two officers from the surgeon general’s office to take their positions. After some fight, Andy relents and stands up, releasing himself of his duty. He kisses his colleague once, before she tries to fight back again. The general walks in and quickly demotes the colonel and his men to working at the switchboard, where the reader can assume they stay for the rest of the story.

<s> 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> Herbert Hyrel settled himselfmore comfortably in hiseasy chair, extended his short legsfurther toward the fireplace, and lethis eyes travel cautiously in the generaldirection of his wife. She was in her chair as usual, herlong legs curled up beneath her,the upper half of her face hiddenin the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis,of a stereoscopic nature, seeminglybrought the performers withall their tinsel and color directlyinto the room of the watcher. Hyrel had no way of seeing intothe plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on thelower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-marketsex-operas. In any event,there would be no sound, movement,or sign of life from her forthe next three hours. To break thethread of the play for even a momentwould ruin all the previousemotional build-up. There had been a time when hehated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours duringwhich he was completely ignored.It was different now, however, forthose hours furnished him withtime for an escape of his own. His lips curled into a tight smileand his right hand fondled the unobtrusiveswitch beneath his trouserleg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minuteslonger. But it was comforting toknow that it was there, exhilaratingto know that he could escapefor a few hours by a mere flick ofhis finger. He let his eyes stray to the dimlight of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was notbounded merely by those lonelyhours she had forced upon him.No, it was far more encompassing. He hated her with a deep, burningsavagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for hermoney, the money she kept securelyfrom him. He hated her for thepaltry allowance she doled out tohim, as if he were an irresponsiblechild. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in everyglance and gesture, I made a badbargain when I married you. Youwanted me, my money, everything,and had nothing to give in returnexcept your own doltish self. Youset a trap for me, baited with liesand a false front. Now you arecaught in your own trap and willremain there like a mouse to eatfrom my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you. But some day his hate would beappeased. Yes, some day soon hewould kill her! He shot a sideways glance at her,wondering if by chance she suspected.... Shehadn't moved. Herlips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probablyreached one of its more pleasurablemoments. Hyrel let his eyes shift back tothe fireplace again. Yes, he wouldkill her. Then he would claima rightful share of her money, berid of her debasing dominance. <doc-sep> He let the thought runaround through his head, savoringit with mental taste buds.He would not kill her tonight. No,nor the next night. He would wait,wait until he had sucked the lastmeasure of pleasure from thethought. It was like having a bottle ofrare old wine on a shelf where itcould be viewed daily. It was likebeing able to pause again andagain before the bottle, hold it upto the light, and say to it, Someday, when my desire for you hasreached the ultimate, I shall unstopperyou quietly and sip youslowly to the last soul-satisfyingdrop. As long as the bottle remainedthere upon the shelf it wassymbolic of that pleasurable moment.... He snapped out of his reverieand realized he had been wastingprecious moments. There would betime enough tomorrow for gloating.Tonight, there were otherthings to do. Pleasurable things.He remembered the girl he hadmet the night before, and smiledsmugly. Perhaps she would beawaiting him even now. If not,there would be another one.... He settled himself deeper intothe chair, glanced once more at hiswife, then let his head lean comfortablyback against the chair'sheadrest. His hand upon his thighfelt the thin mesh that cloaked hisbody beneath his clothing like asheer stocking. His fingers wentagain to the tiny switch. Again hehesitated. Herbert Hyrel knew no moreabout the telporter suit he worethan he did about the radio in thecorner, the TV set against the wall,or the personalized telovis his wifewas wearing. You pressed one ofthe buttons on the radio; musiccame out. You pressed a buttonand clicked a dial on the TV;music and pictures came out. Youpressed a button and made an adjustmenton the telovis; three-dimensional,emotion-colored picturesleaped into the room. Youpressed a tiny switch on the telportersuit; you were whisked away toa receiving set you had previouslyset up in secret. He knew that the music and theimages of the performers on theTV and telovis were brought to hisroom by some form of electrical impulseor wave while the actual musiciansand performers remained inthe studio. He knew that when hepressed the switch on his thighsomething within him—his ectoplasm,higher self, the thing spiritsuse for materialization, whateverits real name—streamed out of himalong an invisible channel, leavinghis body behind in the chair in aconscious but dream-like state. Hisother self materialized in a smallcabin in a hidden nook between ahighway and a river where he hadinstalled the receiving set a monthago. He thought once more of the girlwho might be waiting for him,smiled, and pressed the switch. <doc-sep> The dank air of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away.... He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf.... Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high. Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter. The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades. The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls. Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste. When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult. He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect. A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face. Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time? He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed. This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old. The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land. The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them. Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening. Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ... <doc-sep> He looked at the heel of hisleft hand. There was a long,irregular scar there. It was the resultof a cut he had received nearlythree weeks ago when he hadfallen over this very table and hadrammed his hand into a sliver ofbroken champagne glass. Later thatevening, upon re-telporting backhome, the pain of the cut had remainedin his hand, but there wasno sign of the cut itself on the handof his outer self. The scar was peculiarto the shadowy body only.There was something about theshadowy body that carried thehurts to the outer body, but not thescars.... Sudden laughter broke out nearhim, and he turned quickly in thatdirection. A group of gaily costumedrevelers was standing in asemi-circle about a small mound ofclothing upon the floor. It was thecostume of the toreador. Hyrel laughed, too. It had happenedmany times before—a costumesuddenly left empty as itsowner, due to a threat of discoveryat home, had had to press theswitch in haste to bring his shadowyself—and complete consciousness—backto his outer self in ahurry. A waiter picked up the clothing.He would put it safely away so thatthe owner could claim it upon hisnext visit to the club. Anotherwaiter placed a fresh bottle ofwhiskey on the table before Hyrel,and Hyrel paid him for it. The whiskey, reaching his headnow in surges of warm cheerfulness,was filling him with abandonment,courage, and a desire formerriment. He pushed himself upfrom the table, joined the merrythrong, threw his arm about thePersian dancer, drew her close. They began dancing slowly tothe throbbing rhythm, dancing andholding on to each other tightly.Hyrel could feel her hot breaththrough her veil upon his neck, addingto the headiness of the liquor.His feeling of depression and inferiorityflowed suddenly from him.Once again he was the all-conqueringmale. His arm trembled as it drew herstill closer to him and he begandancing directly and purposefullytoward the shadows of a clump ofartificial palms near one corner ofthe room. There was an exit to thegarden behind the palms. Half way there they passed a secludedbooth from which protrudeda long leg clad in blackmesh stocking. Hyrel paused as herecognized that part of the costume.It was she! The girl! Theone he had met so briefly the nightbefore! His arm slid away from the Persiandancer, took hold of the mesh-cladleg, and pulled. A female formfollowed the leg from the boothand fell into his arms. He held hertightly, kissed her white neck, lether perfume send his thoughts reeling. Been looking for me, honey?she whispered, her voice deep andthroaty. You know it! He began whisking her away towardthe palms. The Persian girlwas pulled into the booth. Yes, she was wearing the samecostume she had worn the nightbefore, that of a can-can dancer ofthe 90's. The mesh hose that encasedher shapely legs were held upby flowered supporters in such amanner as to leave four inches ofwhite leg exposed between hose topand lacy panties. Her skirt, frilledto suggest innumerable petticoats,fell away at each hip, leaving thefront open to expose the full lengthof legs. She wore a wig of platinumhair encrusted with jewels thatsparkled in the lights. Her jewel-studdedmask was as white as herhair and covered the upper half ofher face, except for the largealmond slits for her eyes. A whitepurse, jewel crusted, dangled fromone arm. He stopped once before reachingthe palms, drew her closer, kissedher long and ardently. Then he beganpulling her on again. She drew back when theyreached the shelter of the fronds.Champagne, first, she whisperedhuskily into his ear. His heart sank. He had very littlemoney left. Well, it might buya cheap brand.... <doc-sep> She sipped her champagneslowly and provocatively acrossthe table from him. Her eyes sparkledbehind the almond slits of hermask, caught the color changes andcast them back. She was wearingcontact lenses of a garish green. He wished she would hurry withher drink. He had horrible visionsof his wife at home taking off hertelovis and coming to his chair. Hewould then have to press theswitch that would jerk his shadowyself back along its invisible connectingcord, jerk him back andleave but a small mound of clothesupon the chair at the table. Deep depression laid hold ofhim. He would not be able to seeher after tonight until he receivedhis monthly dole two weeks hence.She wouldn't wait that long. Someoneelse would have her. Unless ... Yes, he knew now that he wasgoing to kill his wife as soon as theopportunity presented itself. Itwould be a simple matter. With theaid of the telporter suit, he couldestablish an iron-clad alibi. He took a long drink of whiskeyand looked at the dancers abouthim. Sight of their gay costumesheightened his depression. He waswearing a cheap suit of satin, all hecould afford. But some day soon hewould show them! Some time soonhe would be dressed as gaily.... Something troubling you,honey? His gaze shot back to her andshe blurred slightly before his eyes.No. Nothing at all! He summoneda sickly smile and clutchedher hand in his. Come on. Let'sdance. He drew her from the chair andinto his arms. She melted towardhim as if desiring to become a partof him. A tremor of excitementsurged through him and threatenedto turn his knees into quiveringjelly. He could not make hisfeet conform to the floodingrhythm of the music. He half stumbled,half pushed her along past thebooths. In the shelter of the palms hedrew her savagely to him. Let's—let'sgo outside. His voice was littlemore than a croak. But, honey! She pushed herselfaway, her low voice maddeninghim. Don't you have a privateroom? A girl doesn't like to betaken outside.... Her words bit into his brain likethe blade of a hot knife. No, he didn't have a privateroom at the club like the others. Aprivate room for his telporter receiver,a private room where hecould take a willing guest. No! Hecouldn't afford it! No! No! NO!His lot was a cheap suit of satin!Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne!A cheap shack by theriver.... An inarticulate cry escaped histwisted lips. He clutched her roughlyto him and dragged her throughthe door and into the moonlight,whiskey and anger lending himbrutal strength. He pulled her through the desertedgarden. All the others hadprivate rooms! He pulled her tothe far end, behind a clump ofsquatty firs. His hands clawed ather. He tried to smother her mouthwith kisses. She eluded him deftly. But, honey ! Her voice had gone deeperinto her throat. I just want to besure about things. If you can't affordone of the private rooms—ifyou can't afford to show me a goodtime—if you can't come here realoften ... The whiskey pounded andthrobbed at his brain like blowsfrom an unseen club. His egocurled and twisted within him likea headless serpent. I'll have money! he shouted,struggling to hold her. I'll haveplenty of money! After tonight! Then we'll wait, she said.We'll wait until tomorrow night. No! he screamed. You don'tbelieve me! You're like the others!You think I'm no good! But I'llshow you! I'll show all of you! <doc-sep> She had gone coldly rigid inhis arms, unyielding. Madness added to the poundingin his brain. Tears welled into hiseyes. I'll show you! I'll kill her! ThenI'll have money! The handsclutching her shoulders shook herdrunkenly. You wait here! I'll gohome and kill her now! Then I'llbe back! Silly boy! Her low laughterrang hollowly in his ears. And justwho is it you are going to kill? My wife! he cried. My wife!I'll ... A sudden sobering thoughtstruck him. He was talking toomuch. And he wasn't making sense.He shouldn't be telling her this.Anyway, he couldn't get the moneytonight even if he did kill his wife. And so you are going to killyour wife.... He blinked the tears from hiseyes. His chest was heaving, hisheart pounding. He looked at hershimmering form. Y-yes, he whispered. Her eyes glinted strangely in thelight of the moon. Her handbagglinted as she opened it, and somethingshe took from it glitteredcoldly in her hand. Fool! The first shot tore squarelythrough his heart. And while hestood staring at her, mouth agape,a second shot burned its waythrough his bewildered brain. <doc-sep> Mrs. Herbert Hyrel removedthe telovis from herhead and laid it carefully aside.She uncoiled her long legs from beneathher, walked to her husband'schair, and stood for a long momentlooking down at him, her lipsdrawn back in contempt. Then shebent over him and reached downhis thigh until her fingers contactedthe small switch. Seconds later, a slight tremorshook Hyrel's body. His eyessnapped open, air escaped his lungs,his lower jaw sagged inanely, andhis head lolled to one side. She stood a moment longer,watching his eyes become glazedand sightless. Then she walked tothe telephone. Police? she said. This is Mrs.Herbert Hyrel. Something horriblehas happened to my husband.Please come over immediately.Bring a doctor. She hung up, went to her bathroom,stripped off her clothing,and slid carefully out of her telportersuit. This she folded neatlyand tucked away into the false backof the medicine cabinet. She founda fresh pair of blue, plastifur pajamasand got into them. She was just arriving back intothe living room, tying the cord ofher dressing gown about her slimwaist, when she heard the sound ofthe police siren out front. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction July 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note. <doc-sep></s>

The story begins in a living room where a husband and wife sit in their respective chairs, the wife wearing a headset called a telovis. The husband, Herbert Hyrel, figures she is watching a sex-opera as her escapist entertainment of choice, and waits a few minutes to start his own entertainment. As we waits, he considers his anger towards his wife: he no longer resented the time she spent not talking to him, while utilizing her telovis, but he did hate that she controlled the purse-strings in the household and gave him a small allowance. His anger had been pent up for some time, enough that he wanted to kill his wife, but for now he was satisfied with the idea of killing her. Once enough time had passed, he flicked a switch on the teleporter suit he was wearing and a version of his body appeared in a cabin in the woods that he was renting, where he had left himself a fresh outfit. He headed to the Riverside Club where he hoped to encounter a woman he had met recently, and when he got there he sat down and drank some cheap whiskey. He encountered a costumed woman who teased him, pulled away to dance with someone else, but came back to dance with him once the man she was with disappeared. This man had flipped the switch on his suit, disappearing and leaving behind a pile of clothes, presumably because he would have been discovered wherever his original body was. As Herbert danced and moved outside, he spotted the woman he had been looking for, wearing a suggestive costume and a platinum wig, her body and her purse all covered in jewels. She asked him for champagne, which he was upset about because he did not have much money, but he obliged and tried to move the night forward after he had had something to drink. Again, though, she requested he spend more money on her--this time, for a private room at the club so they did not have to be outside. She said she was asking him to prove to her that she could be spoiled, but this pressure reminded him how angry he was that he had to spend the little money he had trying to escape from his wife, budgeting in a way that limited his nights out just to have some privacy. He started yelling about how he would have more money soon, and eventually admitted that he would kill his wife to get it. Hearing this, the woman he was with pulled a gun out of her purse and shot him--it was his wife all along. The scene jumps back to the house, where the wife pulls off her telovis set, smugly turns off her husband's teleporter suit, and watches him gasp for air and die. She called the police to call for a doctor, hid her own teleporter suit, and waited for the police to show.

<s> 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> Herbert Hyrel settled himselfmore comfortably in hiseasy chair, extended his short legsfurther toward the fireplace, and lethis eyes travel cautiously in the generaldirection of his wife. She was in her chair as usual, herlong legs curled up beneath her,the upper half of her face hiddenin the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis,of a stereoscopic nature, seeminglybrought the performers withall their tinsel and color directlyinto the room of the watcher. Hyrel had no way of seeing intothe plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on thelower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-marketsex-operas. In any event,there would be no sound, movement,or sign of life from her forthe next three hours. To break thethread of the play for even a momentwould ruin all the previousemotional build-up. There had been a time when hehated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours duringwhich he was completely ignored.It was different now, however, forthose hours furnished him withtime for an escape of his own. His lips curled into a tight smileand his right hand fondled the unobtrusiveswitch beneath his trouserleg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minuteslonger. But it was comforting toknow that it was there, exhilaratingto know that he could escapefor a few hours by a mere flick ofhis finger. He let his eyes stray to the dimlight of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was notbounded merely by those lonelyhours she had forced upon him.No, it was far more encompassing. He hated her with a deep, burningsavagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for hermoney, the money she kept securelyfrom him. He hated her for thepaltry allowance she doled out tohim, as if he were an irresponsiblechild. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in everyglance and gesture, I made a badbargain when I married you. Youwanted me, my money, everything,and had nothing to give in returnexcept your own doltish self. Youset a trap for me, baited with liesand a false front. Now you arecaught in your own trap and willremain there like a mouse to eatfrom my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you. But some day his hate would beappeased. Yes, some day soon hewould kill her! He shot a sideways glance at her,wondering if by chance she suspected.... Shehadn't moved. Herlips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probablyreached one of its more pleasurablemoments. Hyrel let his eyes shift back tothe fireplace again. Yes, he wouldkill her. Then he would claima rightful share of her money, berid of her debasing dominance. <doc-sep> He let the thought runaround through his head, savoringit with mental taste buds.He would not kill her tonight. No,nor the next night. He would wait,wait until he had sucked the lastmeasure of pleasure from thethought. It was like having a bottle ofrare old wine on a shelf where itcould be viewed daily. It was likebeing able to pause again andagain before the bottle, hold it upto the light, and say to it, Someday, when my desire for you hasreached the ultimate, I shall unstopperyou quietly and sip youslowly to the last soul-satisfyingdrop. As long as the bottle remainedthere upon the shelf it wassymbolic of that pleasurable moment.... He snapped out of his reverieand realized he had been wastingprecious moments. There would betime enough tomorrow for gloating.Tonight, there were otherthings to do. Pleasurable things.He remembered the girl he hadmet the night before, and smiledsmugly. Perhaps she would beawaiting him even now. If not,there would be another one.... He settled himself deeper intothe chair, glanced once more at hiswife, then let his head lean comfortablyback against the chair'sheadrest. His hand upon his thighfelt the thin mesh that cloaked hisbody beneath his clothing like asheer stocking. His fingers wentagain to the tiny switch. Again hehesitated. Herbert Hyrel knew no moreabout the telporter suit he worethan he did about the radio in thecorner, the TV set against the wall,or the personalized telovis his wifewas wearing. You pressed one ofthe buttons on the radio; musiccame out. You pressed a buttonand clicked a dial on the TV;music and pictures came out. Youpressed a button and made an adjustmenton the telovis; three-dimensional,emotion-colored picturesleaped into the room. Youpressed a tiny switch on the telportersuit; you were whisked away toa receiving set you had previouslyset up in secret. He knew that the music and theimages of the performers on theTV and telovis were brought to hisroom by some form of electrical impulseor wave while the actual musiciansand performers remained inthe studio. He knew that when hepressed the switch on his thighsomething within him—his ectoplasm,higher self, the thing spiritsuse for materialization, whateverits real name—streamed out of himalong an invisible channel, leavinghis body behind in the chair in aconscious but dream-like state. Hisother self materialized in a smallcabin in a hidden nook between ahighway and a river where he hadinstalled the receiving set a monthago. He thought once more of the girlwho might be waiting for him,smiled, and pressed the switch. <doc-sep> The dank air of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away.... He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf.... Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high. Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter. The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades. The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls. Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste. When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult. He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect. A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face. Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time? He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed. This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old. The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land. The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them. Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening. Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ... <doc-sep> He looked at the heel of hisleft hand. There was a long,irregular scar there. It was the resultof a cut he had received nearlythree weeks ago when he hadfallen over this very table and hadrammed his hand into a sliver ofbroken champagne glass. Later thatevening, upon re-telporting backhome, the pain of the cut had remainedin his hand, but there wasno sign of the cut itself on the handof his outer self. The scar was peculiarto the shadowy body only.There was something about theshadowy body that carried thehurts to the outer body, but not thescars.... Sudden laughter broke out nearhim, and he turned quickly in thatdirection. A group of gaily costumedrevelers was standing in asemi-circle about a small mound ofclothing upon the floor. It was thecostume of the toreador. Hyrel laughed, too. It had happenedmany times before—a costumesuddenly left empty as itsowner, due to a threat of discoveryat home, had had to press theswitch in haste to bring his shadowyself—and complete consciousness—backto his outer self in ahurry. A waiter picked up the clothing.He would put it safely away so thatthe owner could claim it upon hisnext visit to the club. Anotherwaiter placed a fresh bottle ofwhiskey on the table before Hyrel,and Hyrel paid him for it. The whiskey, reaching his headnow in surges of warm cheerfulness,was filling him with abandonment,courage, and a desire formerriment. He pushed himself upfrom the table, joined the merrythrong, threw his arm about thePersian dancer, drew her close. They began dancing slowly tothe throbbing rhythm, dancing andholding on to each other tightly.Hyrel could feel her hot breaththrough her veil upon his neck, addingto the headiness of the liquor.His feeling of depression and inferiorityflowed suddenly from him.Once again he was the all-conqueringmale. His arm trembled as it drew herstill closer to him and he begandancing directly and purposefullytoward the shadows of a clump ofartificial palms near one corner ofthe room. There was an exit to thegarden behind the palms. Half way there they passed a secludedbooth from which protrudeda long leg clad in blackmesh stocking. Hyrel paused as herecognized that part of the costume.It was she! The girl! Theone he had met so briefly the nightbefore! His arm slid away from the Persiandancer, took hold of the mesh-cladleg, and pulled. A female formfollowed the leg from the boothand fell into his arms. He held hertightly, kissed her white neck, lether perfume send his thoughts reeling. Been looking for me, honey?she whispered, her voice deep andthroaty. You know it! He began whisking her away towardthe palms. The Persian girlwas pulled into the booth. Yes, she was wearing the samecostume she had worn the nightbefore, that of a can-can dancer ofthe 90's. The mesh hose that encasedher shapely legs were held upby flowered supporters in such amanner as to leave four inches ofwhite leg exposed between hose topand lacy panties. Her skirt, frilledto suggest innumerable petticoats,fell away at each hip, leaving thefront open to expose the full lengthof legs. She wore a wig of platinumhair encrusted with jewels thatsparkled in the lights. Her jewel-studdedmask was as white as herhair and covered the upper half ofher face, except for the largealmond slits for her eyes. A whitepurse, jewel crusted, dangled fromone arm. He stopped once before reachingthe palms, drew her closer, kissedher long and ardently. Then he beganpulling her on again. She drew back when theyreached the shelter of the fronds.Champagne, first, she whisperedhuskily into his ear. His heart sank. He had very littlemoney left. Well, it might buya cheap brand.... <doc-sep> She sipped her champagneslowly and provocatively acrossthe table from him. Her eyes sparkledbehind the almond slits of hermask, caught the color changes andcast them back. She was wearingcontact lenses of a garish green. He wished she would hurry withher drink. He had horrible visionsof his wife at home taking off hertelovis and coming to his chair. Hewould then have to press theswitch that would jerk his shadowyself back along its invisible connectingcord, jerk him back andleave but a small mound of clothesupon the chair at the table. Deep depression laid hold ofhim. He would not be able to seeher after tonight until he receivedhis monthly dole two weeks hence.She wouldn't wait that long. Someoneelse would have her. Unless ... Yes, he knew now that he wasgoing to kill his wife as soon as theopportunity presented itself. Itwould be a simple matter. With theaid of the telporter suit, he couldestablish an iron-clad alibi. He took a long drink of whiskeyand looked at the dancers abouthim. Sight of their gay costumesheightened his depression. He waswearing a cheap suit of satin, all hecould afford. But some day soon hewould show them! Some time soonhe would be dressed as gaily.... Something troubling you,honey? His gaze shot back to her andshe blurred slightly before his eyes.No. Nothing at all! He summoneda sickly smile and clutchedher hand in his. Come on. Let'sdance. He drew her from the chair andinto his arms. She melted towardhim as if desiring to become a partof him. A tremor of excitementsurged through him and threatenedto turn his knees into quiveringjelly. He could not make hisfeet conform to the floodingrhythm of the music. He half stumbled,half pushed her along past thebooths. In the shelter of the palms hedrew her savagely to him. Let's—let'sgo outside. His voice was littlemore than a croak. But, honey! She pushed herselfaway, her low voice maddeninghim. Don't you have a privateroom? A girl doesn't like to betaken outside.... Her words bit into his brain likethe blade of a hot knife. No, he didn't have a privateroom at the club like the others. Aprivate room for his telporter receiver,a private room where hecould take a willing guest. No! Hecouldn't afford it! No! No! NO!His lot was a cheap suit of satin!Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne!A cheap shack by theriver.... An inarticulate cry escaped histwisted lips. He clutched her roughlyto him and dragged her throughthe door and into the moonlight,whiskey and anger lending himbrutal strength. He pulled her through the desertedgarden. All the others hadprivate rooms! He pulled her tothe far end, behind a clump ofsquatty firs. His hands clawed ather. He tried to smother her mouthwith kisses. She eluded him deftly. But, honey ! Her voice had gone deeperinto her throat. I just want to besure about things. If you can't affordone of the private rooms—ifyou can't afford to show me a goodtime—if you can't come here realoften ... The whiskey pounded andthrobbed at his brain like blowsfrom an unseen club. His egocurled and twisted within him likea headless serpent. I'll have money! he shouted,struggling to hold her. I'll haveplenty of money! After tonight! Then we'll wait, she said.We'll wait until tomorrow night. No! he screamed. You don'tbelieve me! You're like the others!You think I'm no good! But I'llshow you! I'll show all of you! <doc-sep> She had gone coldly rigid inhis arms, unyielding. Madness added to the poundingin his brain. Tears welled into hiseyes. I'll show you! I'll kill her! ThenI'll have money! The handsclutching her shoulders shook herdrunkenly. You wait here! I'll gohome and kill her now! Then I'llbe back! Silly boy! Her low laughterrang hollowly in his ears. And justwho is it you are going to kill? My wife! he cried. My wife!I'll ... A sudden sobering thoughtstruck him. He was talking toomuch. And he wasn't making sense.He shouldn't be telling her this.Anyway, he couldn't get the moneytonight even if he did kill his wife. And so you are going to killyour wife.... He blinked the tears from hiseyes. His chest was heaving, hisheart pounding. He looked at hershimmering form. Y-yes, he whispered. Her eyes glinted strangely in thelight of the moon. Her handbagglinted as she opened it, and somethingshe took from it glitteredcoldly in her hand. Fool! The first shot tore squarelythrough his heart. And while hestood staring at her, mouth agape,a second shot burned its waythrough his bewildered brain. <doc-sep> Mrs. Herbert Hyrel removedthe telovis from herhead and laid it carefully aside.She uncoiled her long legs from beneathher, walked to her husband'schair, and stood for a long momentlooking down at him, her lipsdrawn back in contempt. Then shebent over him and reached downhis thigh until her fingers contactedthe small switch. Seconds later, a slight tremorshook Hyrel's body. His eyessnapped open, air escaped his lungs,his lower jaw sagged inanely, andhis head lolled to one side. She stood a moment longer,watching his eyes become glazedand sightless. Then she walked tothe telephone. Police? she said. This is Mrs.Herbert Hyrel. Something horriblehas happened to my husband.Please come over immediately.Bring a doctor. She hung up, went to her bathroom,stripped off her clothing,and slid carefully out of her telportersuit. This she folded neatlyand tucked away into the false backof the medicine cabinet. She founda fresh pair of blue, plastifur pajamasand got into them. She was just arriving back intothe living room, tying the cord ofher dressing gown about her slimwaist, when she heard the sound ofthe police siren out front. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction July 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note. <doc-sep></s>

Herbert's wife controls the financial affairs in their household. She is a fan of her telovis set, her preferred medium for escapist entertainment, and Herbert is under the impression that she likes to watch sex-operas, which are a longer experience that rely on emotional build-up. She makes most of the money but also controls it all, which Herbert resents her for--he thinks she is keeping it from him, and feels looked down upon when she gives him his allowance. This infantilizing attitude makes him extremely angry. She is devious and cunning, and hatches a plan to catch him in his act. It is her, after all, that drove him to want to escape. Either to confirm suspicions of a murder plot or to disrupt his own escapist time, she has her own teleporter suit that she uses to position herself to seduce her husband in the one place he figured he would be free from her. She dresses up covered in jewels and insists that he spend money on her to pressure him to admitting that he has none, which eventually pushes him to admit his plan. She kills him once she hears this, and calmly puts everything back in order as she reports something being wrong with her husband to the police, clearly not upset that her husband is dead.

<s> 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> Herbert Hyrel settled himselfmore comfortably in hiseasy chair, extended his short legsfurther toward the fireplace, and lethis eyes travel cautiously in the generaldirection of his wife. She was in her chair as usual, herlong legs curled up beneath her,the upper half of her face hiddenin the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis,of a stereoscopic nature, seeminglybrought the performers withall their tinsel and color directlyinto the room of the watcher. Hyrel had no way of seeing intothe plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on thelower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-marketsex-operas. In any event,there would be no sound, movement,or sign of life from her forthe next three hours. To break thethread of the play for even a momentwould ruin all the previousemotional build-up. There had been a time when hehated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours duringwhich he was completely ignored.It was different now, however, forthose hours furnished him withtime for an escape of his own. His lips curled into a tight smileand his right hand fondled the unobtrusiveswitch beneath his trouserleg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minuteslonger. But it was comforting toknow that it was there, exhilaratingto know that he could escapefor a few hours by a mere flick ofhis finger. He let his eyes stray to the dimlight of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was notbounded merely by those lonelyhours she had forced upon him.No, it was far more encompassing. He hated her with a deep, burningsavagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for hermoney, the money she kept securelyfrom him. He hated her for thepaltry allowance she doled out tohim, as if he were an irresponsiblechild. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in everyglance and gesture, I made a badbargain when I married you. Youwanted me, my money, everything,and had nothing to give in returnexcept your own doltish self. Youset a trap for me, baited with liesand a false front. Now you arecaught in your own trap and willremain there like a mouse to eatfrom my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you. But some day his hate would beappeased. Yes, some day soon hewould kill her! He shot a sideways glance at her,wondering if by chance she suspected.... Shehadn't moved. Herlips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probablyreached one of its more pleasurablemoments. Hyrel let his eyes shift back tothe fireplace again. Yes, he wouldkill her. Then he would claima rightful share of her money, berid of her debasing dominance. <doc-sep> He let the thought runaround through his head, savoringit with mental taste buds.He would not kill her tonight. No,nor the next night. He would wait,wait until he had sucked the lastmeasure of pleasure from thethought. It was like having a bottle ofrare old wine on a shelf where itcould be viewed daily. It was likebeing able to pause again andagain before the bottle, hold it upto the light, and say to it, Someday, when my desire for you hasreached the ultimate, I shall unstopperyou quietly and sip youslowly to the last soul-satisfyingdrop. As long as the bottle remainedthere upon the shelf it wassymbolic of that pleasurable moment.... He snapped out of his reverieand realized he had been wastingprecious moments. There would betime enough tomorrow for gloating.Tonight, there were otherthings to do. Pleasurable things.He remembered the girl he hadmet the night before, and smiledsmugly. Perhaps she would beawaiting him even now. If not,there would be another one.... He settled himself deeper intothe chair, glanced once more at hiswife, then let his head lean comfortablyback against the chair'sheadrest. His hand upon his thighfelt the thin mesh that cloaked hisbody beneath his clothing like asheer stocking. His fingers wentagain to the tiny switch. Again hehesitated. Herbert Hyrel knew no moreabout the telporter suit he worethan he did about the radio in thecorner, the TV set against the wall,or the personalized telovis his wifewas wearing. You pressed one ofthe buttons on the radio; musiccame out. You pressed a buttonand clicked a dial on the TV;music and pictures came out. Youpressed a button and made an adjustmenton the telovis; three-dimensional,emotion-colored picturesleaped into the room. Youpressed a tiny switch on the telportersuit; you were whisked away toa receiving set you had previouslyset up in secret. He knew that the music and theimages of the performers on theTV and telovis were brought to hisroom by some form of electrical impulseor wave while the actual musiciansand performers remained inthe studio. He knew that when hepressed the switch on his thighsomething within him—his ectoplasm,higher self, the thing spiritsuse for materialization, whateverits real name—streamed out of himalong an invisible channel, leavinghis body behind in the chair in aconscious but dream-like state. Hisother self materialized in a smallcabin in a hidden nook between ahighway and a river where he hadinstalled the receiving set a monthago. He thought once more of the girlwho might be waiting for him,smiled, and pressed the switch. <doc-sep> The dank air of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away.... He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf.... Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high. Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter. The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades. The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls. Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste. When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult. He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect. A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face. Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time? He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed. This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old. The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land. The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them. Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening. Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ... <doc-sep> He looked at the heel of hisleft hand. There was a long,irregular scar there. It was the resultof a cut he had received nearlythree weeks ago when he hadfallen over this very table and hadrammed his hand into a sliver ofbroken champagne glass. Later thatevening, upon re-telporting backhome, the pain of the cut had remainedin his hand, but there wasno sign of the cut itself on the handof his outer self. The scar was peculiarto the shadowy body only.There was something about theshadowy body that carried thehurts to the outer body, but not thescars.... Sudden laughter broke out nearhim, and he turned quickly in thatdirection. A group of gaily costumedrevelers was standing in asemi-circle about a small mound ofclothing upon the floor. It was thecostume of the toreador. Hyrel laughed, too. It had happenedmany times before—a costumesuddenly left empty as itsowner, due to a threat of discoveryat home, had had to press theswitch in haste to bring his shadowyself—and complete consciousness—backto his outer self in ahurry. A waiter picked up the clothing.He would put it safely away so thatthe owner could claim it upon hisnext visit to the club. Anotherwaiter placed a fresh bottle ofwhiskey on the table before Hyrel,and Hyrel paid him for it. The whiskey, reaching his headnow in surges of warm cheerfulness,was filling him with abandonment,courage, and a desire formerriment. He pushed himself upfrom the table, joined the merrythrong, threw his arm about thePersian dancer, drew her close. They began dancing slowly tothe throbbing rhythm, dancing andholding on to each other tightly.Hyrel could feel her hot breaththrough her veil upon his neck, addingto the headiness of the liquor.His feeling of depression and inferiorityflowed suddenly from him.Once again he was the all-conqueringmale. His arm trembled as it drew herstill closer to him and he begandancing directly and purposefullytoward the shadows of a clump ofartificial palms near one corner ofthe room. There was an exit to thegarden behind the palms. Half way there they passed a secludedbooth from which protrudeda long leg clad in blackmesh stocking. Hyrel paused as herecognized that part of the costume.It was she! The girl! Theone he had met so briefly the nightbefore! His arm slid away from the Persiandancer, took hold of the mesh-cladleg, and pulled. A female formfollowed the leg from the boothand fell into his arms. He held hertightly, kissed her white neck, lether perfume send his thoughts reeling. Been looking for me, honey?she whispered, her voice deep andthroaty. You know it! He began whisking her away towardthe palms. The Persian girlwas pulled into the booth. Yes, she was wearing the samecostume she had worn the nightbefore, that of a can-can dancer ofthe 90's. The mesh hose that encasedher shapely legs were held upby flowered supporters in such amanner as to leave four inches ofwhite leg exposed between hose topand lacy panties. Her skirt, frilledto suggest innumerable petticoats,fell away at each hip, leaving thefront open to expose the full lengthof legs. She wore a wig of platinumhair encrusted with jewels thatsparkled in the lights. Her jewel-studdedmask was as white as herhair and covered the upper half ofher face, except for the largealmond slits for her eyes. A whitepurse, jewel crusted, dangled fromone arm. He stopped once before reachingthe palms, drew her closer, kissedher long and ardently. Then he beganpulling her on again. She drew back when theyreached the shelter of the fronds.Champagne, first, she whisperedhuskily into his ear. His heart sank. He had very littlemoney left. Well, it might buya cheap brand.... <doc-sep> She sipped her champagneslowly and provocatively acrossthe table from him. Her eyes sparkledbehind the almond slits of hermask, caught the color changes andcast them back. She was wearingcontact lenses of a garish green. He wished she would hurry withher drink. He had horrible visionsof his wife at home taking off hertelovis and coming to his chair. Hewould then have to press theswitch that would jerk his shadowyself back along its invisible connectingcord, jerk him back andleave but a small mound of clothesupon the chair at the table. Deep depression laid hold ofhim. He would not be able to seeher after tonight until he receivedhis monthly dole two weeks hence.She wouldn't wait that long. Someoneelse would have her. Unless ... Yes, he knew now that he wasgoing to kill his wife as soon as theopportunity presented itself. Itwould be a simple matter. With theaid of the telporter suit, he couldestablish an iron-clad alibi. He took a long drink of whiskeyand looked at the dancers abouthim. Sight of their gay costumesheightened his depression. He waswearing a cheap suit of satin, all hecould afford. But some day soon hewould show them! Some time soonhe would be dressed as gaily.... Something troubling you,honey? His gaze shot back to her andshe blurred slightly before his eyes.No. Nothing at all! He summoneda sickly smile and clutchedher hand in his. Come on. Let'sdance. He drew her from the chair andinto his arms. She melted towardhim as if desiring to become a partof him. A tremor of excitementsurged through him and threatenedto turn his knees into quiveringjelly. He could not make hisfeet conform to the floodingrhythm of the music. He half stumbled,half pushed her along past thebooths. In the shelter of the palms hedrew her savagely to him. Let's—let'sgo outside. His voice was littlemore than a croak. But, honey! She pushed herselfaway, her low voice maddeninghim. Don't you have a privateroom? A girl doesn't like to betaken outside.... Her words bit into his brain likethe blade of a hot knife. No, he didn't have a privateroom at the club like the others. Aprivate room for his telporter receiver,a private room where hecould take a willing guest. No! Hecouldn't afford it! No! No! NO!His lot was a cheap suit of satin!Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne!A cheap shack by theriver.... An inarticulate cry escaped histwisted lips. He clutched her roughlyto him and dragged her throughthe door and into the moonlight,whiskey and anger lending himbrutal strength. He pulled her through the desertedgarden. All the others hadprivate rooms! He pulled her tothe far end, behind a clump ofsquatty firs. His hands clawed ather. He tried to smother her mouthwith kisses. She eluded him deftly. But, honey ! Her voice had gone deeperinto her throat. I just want to besure about things. If you can't affordone of the private rooms—ifyou can't afford to show me a goodtime—if you can't come here realoften ... The whiskey pounded andthrobbed at his brain like blowsfrom an unseen club. His egocurled and twisted within him likea headless serpent. I'll have money! he shouted,struggling to hold her. I'll haveplenty of money! After tonight! Then we'll wait, she said.We'll wait until tomorrow night. No! he screamed. You don'tbelieve me! You're like the others!You think I'm no good! But I'llshow you! I'll show all of you! <doc-sep> She had gone coldly rigid inhis arms, unyielding. Madness added to the poundingin his brain. Tears welled into hiseyes. I'll show you! I'll kill her! ThenI'll have money! The handsclutching her shoulders shook herdrunkenly. You wait here! I'll gohome and kill her now! Then I'llbe back! Silly boy! Her low laughterrang hollowly in his ears. And justwho is it you are going to kill? My wife! he cried. My wife!I'll ... A sudden sobering thoughtstruck him. He was talking toomuch. And he wasn't making sense.He shouldn't be telling her this.Anyway, he couldn't get the moneytonight even if he did kill his wife. And so you are going to killyour wife.... He blinked the tears from hiseyes. His chest was heaving, hisheart pounding. He looked at hershimmering form. Y-yes, he whispered. Her eyes glinted strangely in thelight of the moon. Her handbagglinted as she opened it, and somethingshe took from it glitteredcoldly in her hand. Fool! The first shot tore squarelythrough his heart. And while hestood staring at her, mouth agape,a second shot burned its waythrough his bewildered brain. <doc-sep> Mrs. Herbert Hyrel removedthe telovis from herhead and laid it carefully aside.She uncoiled her long legs from beneathher, walked to her husband'schair, and stood for a long momentlooking down at him, her lipsdrawn back in contempt. Then shebent over him and reached downhis thigh until her fingers contactedthe small switch. Seconds later, a slight tremorshook Hyrel's body. His eyessnapped open, air escaped his lungs,his lower jaw sagged inanely, andhis head lolled to one side. She stood a moment longer,watching his eyes become glazedand sightless. Then she walked tothe telephone. Police? she said. This is Mrs.Herbert Hyrel. Something horriblehas happened to my husband.Please come over immediately.Bring a doctor. She hung up, went to her bathroom,stripped off her clothing,and slid carefully out of her telportersuit. This she folded neatlyand tucked away into the false backof the medicine cabinet. She founda fresh pair of blue, plastifur pajamasand got into them. She was just arriving back intothe living room, tying the cord ofher dressing gown about her slimwaist, when she heard the sound ofthe police siren out front. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction July 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note. <doc-sep></s>

The relationship Herbert and his wife have seems to have an infantilizing or patronizing tone to it. His wife seems to be fairly cold towards him, at least from the way she interacts with his death in the last scene of the story, but Herbert is harboring a large amount of hate and anger. A lot of this dynamic is driven by the control of money in the household, as Herbert's wife is in charge of these decisions, and Herbert does not agree with her on how much money he should have access to. His anger increases as he works on a plan to get away from her, as he spends what little he has to maintain access to the Riverside Club, paying rent on a cabin, buying a teleporter suit, and similar expenses. He is finally pushed to make the choice to finally want to kill her when he finds he does not have the spending money to be able to buy nice drinks or private rooms for himself and the woman he meets at the club, who turns out to be his wife.

<s> 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> Herbert Hyrel settled himselfmore comfortably in hiseasy chair, extended his short legsfurther toward the fireplace, and lethis eyes travel cautiously in the generaldirection of his wife. She was in her chair as usual, herlong legs curled up beneath her,the upper half of her face hiddenin the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis,of a stereoscopic nature, seeminglybrought the performers withall their tinsel and color directlyinto the room of the watcher. Hyrel had no way of seeing intothe plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on thelower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-marketsex-operas. In any event,there would be no sound, movement,or sign of life from her forthe next three hours. To break thethread of the play for even a momentwould ruin all the previousemotional build-up. There had been a time when hehated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours duringwhich he was completely ignored.It was different now, however, forthose hours furnished him withtime for an escape of his own. His lips curled into a tight smileand his right hand fondled the unobtrusiveswitch beneath his trouserleg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minuteslonger. But it was comforting toknow that it was there, exhilaratingto know that he could escapefor a few hours by a mere flick ofhis finger. He let his eyes stray to the dimlight of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was notbounded merely by those lonelyhours she had forced upon him.No, it was far more encompassing. He hated her with a deep, burningsavagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for hermoney, the money she kept securelyfrom him. He hated her for thepaltry allowance she doled out tohim, as if he were an irresponsiblechild. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in everyglance and gesture, I made a badbargain when I married you. Youwanted me, my money, everything,and had nothing to give in returnexcept your own doltish self. Youset a trap for me, baited with liesand a false front. Now you arecaught in your own trap and willremain there like a mouse to eatfrom my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you. But some day his hate would beappeased. Yes, some day soon hewould kill her! He shot a sideways glance at her,wondering if by chance she suspected.... Shehadn't moved. Herlips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probablyreached one of its more pleasurablemoments. Hyrel let his eyes shift back tothe fireplace again. Yes, he wouldkill her. Then he would claima rightful share of her money, berid of her debasing dominance. <doc-sep> He let the thought runaround through his head, savoringit with mental taste buds.He would not kill her tonight. No,nor the next night. He would wait,wait until he had sucked the lastmeasure of pleasure from thethought. It was like having a bottle ofrare old wine on a shelf where itcould be viewed daily. It was likebeing able to pause again andagain before the bottle, hold it upto the light, and say to it, Someday, when my desire for you hasreached the ultimate, I shall unstopperyou quietly and sip youslowly to the last soul-satisfyingdrop. As long as the bottle remainedthere upon the shelf it wassymbolic of that pleasurable moment.... He snapped out of his reverieand realized he had been wastingprecious moments. There would betime enough tomorrow for gloating.Tonight, there were otherthings to do. Pleasurable things.He remembered the girl he hadmet the night before, and smiledsmugly. Perhaps she would beawaiting him even now. If not,there would be another one.... He settled himself deeper intothe chair, glanced once more at hiswife, then let his head lean comfortablyback against the chair'sheadrest. His hand upon his thighfelt the thin mesh that cloaked hisbody beneath his clothing like asheer stocking. His fingers wentagain to the tiny switch. Again hehesitated. Herbert Hyrel knew no moreabout the telporter suit he worethan he did about the radio in thecorner, the TV set against the wall,or the personalized telovis his wifewas wearing. You pressed one ofthe buttons on the radio; musiccame out. You pressed a buttonand clicked a dial on the TV;music and pictures came out. Youpressed a button and made an adjustmenton the telovis; three-dimensional,emotion-colored picturesleaped into the room. Youpressed a tiny switch on the telportersuit; you were whisked away toa receiving set you had previouslyset up in secret. He knew that the music and theimages of the performers on theTV and telovis were brought to hisroom by some form of electrical impulseor wave while the actual musiciansand performers remained inthe studio. He knew that when hepressed the switch on his thighsomething within him—his ectoplasm,higher self, the thing spiritsuse for materialization, whateverits real name—streamed out of himalong an invisible channel, leavinghis body behind in the chair in aconscious but dream-like state. Hisother self materialized in a smallcabin in a hidden nook between ahighway and a river where he hadinstalled the receiving set a monthago. He thought once more of the girlwho might be waiting for him,smiled, and pressed the switch. <doc-sep> The dank air of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away.... He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf.... Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high. Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter. The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades. The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls. Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste. When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult. He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect. A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face. Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time? He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed. This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old. The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land. The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them. Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening. Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ... <doc-sep> He looked at the heel of hisleft hand. There was a long,irregular scar there. It was the resultof a cut he had received nearlythree weeks ago when he hadfallen over this very table and hadrammed his hand into a sliver ofbroken champagne glass. Later thatevening, upon re-telporting backhome, the pain of the cut had remainedin his hand, but there wasno sign of the cut itself on the handof his outer self. The scar was peculiarto the shadowy body only.There was something about theshadowy body that carried thehurts to the outer body, but not thescars.... Sudden laughter broke out nearhim, and he turned quickly in thatdirection. A group of gaily costumedrevelers was standing in asemi-circle about a small mound ofclothing upon the floor. It was thecostume of the toreador. Hyrel laughed, too. It had happenedmany times before—a costumesuddenly left empty as itsowner, due to a threat of discoveryat home, had had to press theswitch in haste to bring his shadowyself—and complete consciousness—backto his outer self in ahurry. A waiter picked up the clothing.He would put it safely away so thatthe owner could claim it upon hisnext visit to the club. Anotherwaiter placed a fresh bottle ofwhiskey on the table before Hyrel,and Hyrel paid him for it. The whiskey, reaching his headnow in surges of warm cheerfulness,was filling him with abandonment,courage, and a desire formerriment. He pushed himself upfrom the table, joined the merrythrong, threw his arm about thePersian dancer, drew her close. They began dancing slowly tothe throbbing rhythm, dancing andholding on to each other tightly.Hyrel could feel her hot breaththrough her veil upon his neck, addingto the headiness of the liquor.His feeling of depression and inferiorityflowed suddenly from him.Once again he was the all-conqueringmale. His arm trembled as it drew herstill closer to him and he begandancing directly and purposefullytoward the shadows of a clump ofartificial palms near one corner ofthe room. There was an exit to thegarden behind the palms. Half way there they passed a secludedbooth from which protrudeda long leg clad in blackmesh stocking. Hyrel paused as herecognized that part of the costume.It was she! The girl! Theone he had met so briefly the nightbefore! His arm slid away from the Persiandancer, took hold of the mesh-cladleg, and pulled. A female formfollowed the leg from the boothand fell into his arms. He held hertightly, kissed her white neck, lether perfume send his thoughts reeling. Been looking for me, honey?she whispered, her voice deep andthroaty. You know it! He began whisking her away towardthe palms. The Persian girlwas pulled into the booth. Yes, she was wearing the samecostume she had worn the nightbefore, that of a can-can dancer ofthe 90's. The mesh hose that encasedher shapely legs were held upby flowered supporters in such amanner as to leave four inches ofwhite leg exposed between hose topand lacy panties. Her skirt, frilledto suggest innumerable petticoats,fell away at each hip, leaving thefront open to expose the full lengthof legs. She wore a wig of platinumhair encrusted with jewels thatsparkled in the lights. Her jewel-studdedmask was as white as herhair and covered the upper half ofher face, except for the largealmond slits for her eyes. A whitepurse, jewel crusted, dangled fromone arm. He stopped once before reachingthe palms, drew her closer, kissedher long and ardently. Then he beganpulling her on again. She drew back when theyreached the shelter of the fronds.Champagne, first, she whisperedhuskily into his ear. His heart sank. He had very littlemoney left. Well, it might buya cheap brand.... <doc-sep> She sipped her champagneslowly and provocatively acrossthe table from him. Her eyes sparkledbehind the almond slits of hermask, caught the color changes andcast them back. She was wearingcontact lenses of a garish green. He wished she would hurry withher drink. He had horrible visionsof his wife at home taking off hertelovis and coming to his chair. Hewould then have to press theswitch that would jerk his shadowyself back along its invisible connectingcord, jerk him back andleave but a small mound of clothesupon the chair at the table. Deep depression laid hold ofhim. He would not be able to seeher after tonight until he receivedhis monthly dole two weeks hence.She wouldn't wait that long. Someoneelse would have her. Unless ... Yes, he knew now that he wasgoing to kill his wife as soon as theopportunity presented itself. Itwould be a simple matter. With theaid of the telporter suit, he couldestablish an iron-clad alibi. He took a long drink of whiskeyand looked at the dancers abouthim. Sight of their gay costumesheightened his depression. He waswearing a cheap suit of satin, all hecould afford. But some day soon hewould show them! Some time soonhe would be dressed as gaily.... Something troubling you,honey? His gaze shot back to her andshe blurred slightly before his eyes.No. Nothing at all! He summoneda sickly smile and clutchedher hand in his. Come on. Let'sdance. He drew her from the chair andinto his arms. She melted towardhim as if desiring to become a partof him. A tremor of excitementsurged through him and threatenedto turn his knees into quiveringjelly. He could not make hisfeet conform to the floodingrhythm of the music. He half stumbled,half pushed her along past thebooths. In the shelter of the palms hedrew her savagely to him. Let's—let'sgo outside. His voice was littlemore than a croak. But, honey! She pushed herselfaway, her low voice maddeninghim. Don't you have a privateroom? A girl doesn't like to betaken outside.... Her words bit into his brain likethe blade of a hot knife. No, he didn't have a privateroom at the club like the others. Aprivate room for his telporter receiver,a private room where hecould take a willing guest. No! Hecouldn't afford it! No! No! NO!His lot was a cheap suit of satin!Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne!A cheap shack by theriver.... An inarticulate cry escaped histwisted lips. He clutched her roughlyto him and dragged her throughthe door and into the moonlight,whiskey and anger lending himbrutal strength. He pulled her through the desertedgarden. All the others hadprivate rooms! He pulled her tothe far end, behind a clump ofsquatty firs. His hands clawed ather. He tried to smother her mouthwith kisses. She eluded him deftly. But, honey ! Her voice had gone deeperinto her throat. I just want to besure about things. If you can't affordone of the private rooms—ifyou can't afford to show me a goodtime—if you can't come here realoften ... The whiskey pounded andthrobbed at his brain like blowsfrom an unseen club. His egocurled and twisted within him likea headless serpent. I'll have money! he shouted,struggling to hold her. I'll haveplenty of money! After tonight! Then we'll wait, she said.We'll wait until tomorrow night. No! he screamed. You don'tbelieve me! You're like the others!You think I'm no good! But I'llshow you! I'll show all of you! <doc-sep> She had gone coldly rigid inhis arms, unyielding. Madness added to the poundingin his brain. Tears welled into hiseyes. I'll show you! I'll kill her! ThenI'll have money! The handsclutching her shoulders shook herdrunkenly. You wait here! I'll gohome and kill her now! Then I'llbe back! Silly boy! Her low laughterrang hollowly in his ears. And justwho is it you are going to kill? My wife! he cried. My wife!I'll ... A sudden sobering thoughtstruck him. He was talking toomuch. And he wasn't making sense.He shouldn't be telling her this.Anyway, he couldn't get the moneytonight even if he did kill his wife. And so you are going to killyour wife.... He blinked the tears from hiseyes. His chest was heaving, hisheart pounding. He looked at hershimmering form. Y-yes, he whispered. Her eyes glinted strangely in thelight of the moon. Her handbagglinted as she opened it, and somethingshe took from it glitteredcoldly in her hand. Fool! The first shot tore squarelythrough his heart. And while hestood staring at her, mouth agape,a second shot burned its waythrough his bewildered brain. <doc-sep> Mrs. Herbert Hyrel removedthe telovis from herhead and laid it carefully aside.She uncoiled her long legs from beneathher, walked to her husband'schair, and stood for a long momentlooking down at him, her lipsdrawn back in contempt. Then shebent over him and reached downhis thigh until her fingers contactedthe small switch. Seconds later, a slight tremorshook Hyrel's body. His eyessnapped open, air escaped his lungs,his lower jaw sagged inanely, andhis head lolled to one side. She stood a moment longer,watching his eyes become glazedand sightless. Then she walked tothe telephone. Police? she said. This is Mrs.Herbert Hyrel. Something horriblehas happened to my husband.Please come over immediately.Bring a doctor. She hung up, went to her bathroom,stripped off her clothing,and slid carefully out of her telportersuit. This she folded neatlyand tucked away into the false backof the medicine cabinet. She founda fresh pair of blue, plastifur pajamasand got into them. She was just arriving back intothe living room, tying the cord ofher dressing gown about her slimwaist, when she heard the sound ofthe police siren out front. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction July 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note. <doc-sep></s>

Teleporter suits play an important role in the relationship of Herbert and his wife, but also in the society that they live in more broadly. In terms of broad significance, the teleporter suits are important to the Riverside Club, as only people who own one are allowed to enter. They are illegal to own, so the club had to be careful about who they let in. Even though they are frowned upon, it seems they are a popular purchase for those who can afford them. Both Herbert and his wife own one, though we don't learn that his wife has one until the end of the story. For Herbert, the teleporter suit is his ticket to spend time outside of the house that he feels trapped in, in a relationship that he is not happy in. It allows him to visit this club and meet other people. At the same time, it is these suits that allowed his wife to follow him to the club and convince him to admit his plans, eventually ending in his death. After she shoots him, she hides her own suit but leaves his on his person. Because the body in the suit and the other copy of the body experience things differently, it was a sneaky way to kill her husband.

<s> 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> Herbert Hyrel settled himselfmore comfortably in hiseasy chair, extended his short legsfurther toward the fireplace, and lethis eyes travel cautiously in the generaldirection of his wife. She was in her chair as usual, herlong legs curled up beneath her,the upper half of her face hiddenin the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis,of a stereoscopic nature, seeminglybrought the performers withall their tinsel and color directlyinto the room of the watcher. Hyrel had no way of seeing intothe plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on thelower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-marketsex-operas. In any event,there would be no sound, movement,or sign of life from her forthe next three hours. To break thethread of the play for even a momentwould ruin all the previousemotional build-up. There had been a time when hehated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours duringwhich he was completely ignored.It was different now, however, forthose hours furnished him withtime for an escape of his own. His lips curled into a tight smileand his right hand fondled the unobtrusiveswitch beneath his trouserleg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minuteslonger. But it was comforting toknow that it was there, exhilaratingto know that he could escapefor a few hours by a mere flick ofhis finger. He let his eyes stray to the dimlight of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was notbounded merely by those lonelyhours she had forced upon him.No, it was far more encompassing. He hated her with a deep, burningsavagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for hermoney, the money she kept securelyfrom him. He hated her for thepaltry allowance she doled out tohim, as if he were an irresponsiblechild. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in everyglance and gesture, I made a badbargain when I married you. Youwanted me, my money, everything,and had nothing to give in returnexcept your own doltish self. Youset a trap for me, baited with liesand a false front. Now you arecaught in your own trap and willremain there like a mouse to eatfrom my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you. But some day his hate would beappeased. Yes, some day soon hewould kill her! He shot a sideways glance at her,wondering if by chance she suspected.... Shehadn't moved. Herlips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probablyreached one of its more pleasurablemoments. Hyrel let his eyes shift back tothe fireplace again. Yes, he wouldkill her. Then he would claima rightful share of her money, berid of her debasing dominance. <doc-sep> He let the thought runaround through his head, savoringit with mental taste buds.He would not kill her tonight. No,nor the next night. He would wait,wait until he had sucked the lastmeasure of pleasure from thethought. It was like having a bottle ofrare old wine on a shelf where itcould be viewed daily. It was likebeing able to pause again andagain before the bottle, hold it upto the light, and say to it, Someday, when my desire for you hasreached the ultimate, I shall unstopperyou quietly and sip youslowly to the last soul-satisfyingdrop. As long as the bottle remainedthere upon the shelf it wassymbolic of that pleasurable moment.... He snapped out of his reverieand realized he had been wastingprecious moments. There would betime enough tomorrow for gloating.Tonight, there were otherthings to do. Pleasurable things.He remembered the girl he hadmet the night before, and smiledsmugly. Perhaps she would beawaiting him even now. If not,there would be another one.... He settled himself deeper intothe chair, glanced once more at hiswife, then let his head lean comfortablyback against the chair'sheadrest. His hand upon his thighfelt the thin mesh that cloaked hisbody beneath his clothing like asheer stocking. His fingers wentagain to the tiny switch. Again hehesitated. Herbert Hyrel knew no moreabout the telporter suit he worethan he did about the radio in thecorner, the TV set against the wall,or the personalized telovis his wifewas wearing. You pressed one ofthe buttons on the radio; musiccame out. You pressed a buttonand clicked a dial on the TV;music and pictures came out. Youpressed a button and made an adjustmenton the telovis; three-dimensional,emotion-colored picturesleaped into the room. Youpressed a tiny switch on the telportersuit; you were whisked away toa receiving set you had previouslyset up in secret. He knew that the music and theimages of the performers on theTV and telovis were brought to hisroom by some form of electrical impulseor wave while the actual musiciansand performers remained inthe studio. He knew that when hepressed the switch on his thighsomething within him—his ectoplasm,higher self, the thing spiritsuse for materialization, whateverits real name—streamed out of himalong an invisible channel, leavinghis body behind in the chair in aconscious but dream-like state. Hisother self materialized in a smallcabin in a hidden nook between ahighway and a river where he hadinstalled the receiving set a monthago. He thought once more of the girlwho might be waiting for him,smiled, and pressed the switch. <doc-sep> The dank air of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away.... He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf.... Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high. Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter. The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades. The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls. Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste. When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult. He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect. A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face. Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time? He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed. This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old. The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land. The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them. Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening. Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ... <doc-sep> He looked at the heel of hisleft hand. There was a long,irregular scar there. It was the resultof a cut he had received nearlythree weeks ago when he hadfallen over this very table and hadrammed his hand into a sliver ofbroken champagne glass. Later thatevening, upon re-telporting backhome, the pain of the cut had remainedin his hand, but there wasno sign of the cut itself on the handof his outer self. The scar was peculiarto the shadowy body only.There was something about theshadowy body that carried thehurts to the outer body, but not thescars.... Sudden laughter broke out nearhim, and he turned quickly in thatdirection. A group of gaily costumedrevelers was standing in asemi-circle about a small mound ofclothing upon the floor. It was thecostume of the toreador. Hyrel laughed, too. It had happenedmany times before—a costumesuddenly left empty as itsowner, due to a threat of discoveryat home, had had to press theswitch in haste to bring his shadowyself—and complete consciousness—backto his outer self in ahurry. A waiter picked up the clothing.He would put it safely away so thatthe owner could claim it upon hisnext visit to the club. Anotherwaiter placed a fresh bottle ofwhiskey on the table before Hyrel,and Hyrel paid him for it. The whiskey, reaching his headnow in surges of warm cheerfulness,was filling him with abandonment,courage, and a desire formerriment. He pushed himself upfrom the table, joined the merrythrong, threw his arm about thePersian dancer, drew her close. They began dancing slowly tothe throbbing rhythm, dancing andholding on to each other tightly.Hyrel could feel her hot breaththrough her veil upon his neck, addingto the headiness of the liquor.His feeling of depression and inferiorityflowed suddenly from him.Once again he was the all-conqueringmale. His arm trembled as it drew herstill closer to him and he begandancing directly and purposefullytoward the shadows of a clump ofartificial palms near one corner ofthe room. There was an exit to thegarden behind the palms. Half way there they passed a secludedbooth from which protrudeda long leg clad in blackmesh stocking. Hyrel paused as herecognized that part of the costume.It was she! The girl! Theone he had met so briefly the nightbefore! His arm slid away from the Persiandancer, took hold of the mesh-cladleg, and pulled. A female formfollowed the leg from the boothand fell into his arms. He held hertightly, kissed her white neck, lether perfume send his thoughts reeling. Been looking for me, honey?she whispered, her voice deep andthroaty. You know it! He began whisking her away towardthe palms. The Persian girlwas pulled into the booth. Yes, she was wearing the samecostume she had worn the nightbefore, that of a can-can dancer ofthe 90's. The mesh hose that encasedher shapely legs were held upby flowered supporters in such amanner as to leave four inches ofwhite leg exposed between hose topand lacy panties. Her skirt, frilledto suggest innumerable petticoats,fell away at each hip, leaving thefront open to expose the full lengthof legs. She wore a wig of platinumhair encrusted with jewels thatsparkled in the lights. Her jewel-studdedmask was as white as herhair and covered the upper half ofher face, except for the largealmond slits for her eyes. A whitepurse, jewel crusted, dangled fromone arm. He stopped once before reachingthe palms, drew her closer, kissedher long and ardently. Then he beganpulling her on again. She drew back when theyreached the shelter of the fronds.Champagne, first, she whisperedhuskily into his ear. His heart sank. He had very littlemoney left. Well, it might buya cheap brand.... <doc-sep> She sipped her champagneslowly and provocatively acrossthe table from him. Her eyes sparkledbehind the almond slits of hermask, caught the color changes andcast them back. She was wearingcontact lenses of a garish green. He wished she would hurry withher drink. He had horrible visionsof his wife at home taking off hertelovis and coming to his chair. Hewould then have to press theswitch that would jerk his shadowyself back along its invisible connectingcord, jerk him back andleave but a small mound of clothesupon the chair at the table. Deep depression laid hold ofhim. He would not be able to seeher after tonight until he receivedhis monthly dole two weeks hence.She wouldn't wait that long. Someoneelse would have her. Unless ... Yes, he knew now that he wasgoing to kill his wife as soon as theopportunity presented itself. Itwould be a simple matter. With theaid of the telporter suit, he couldestablish an iron-clad alibi. He took a long drink of whiskeyand looked at the dancers abouthim. Sight of their gay costumesheightened his depression. He waswearing a cheap suit of satin, all hecould afford. But some day soon hewould show them! Some time soonhe would be dressed as gaily.... Something troubling you,honey? His gaze shot back to her andshe blurred slightly before his eyes.No. Nothing at all! He summoneda sickly smile and clutchedher hand in his. Come on. Let'sdance. He drew her from the chair andinto his arms. She melted towardhim as if desiring to become a partof him. A tremor of excitementsurged through him and threatenedto turn his knees into quiveringjelly. He could not make hisfeet conform to the floodingrhythm of the music. He half stumbled,half pushed her along past thebooths. In the shelter of the palms hedrew her savagely to him. Let's—let'sgo outside. His voice was littlemore than a croak. But, honey! She pushed herselfaway, her low voice maddeninghim. Don't you have a privateroom? A girl doesn't like to betaken outside.... Her words bit into his brain likethe blade of a hot knife. No, he didn't have a privateroom at the club like the others. Aprivate room for his telporter receiver,a private room where hecould take a willing guest. No! Hecouldn't afford it! No! No! NO!His lot was a cheap suit of satin!Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne!A cheap shack by theriver.... An inarticulate cry escaped histwisted lips. He clutched her roughlyto him and dragged her throughthe door and into the moonlight,whiskey and anger lending himbrutal strength. He pulled her through the desertedgarden. All the others hadprivate rooms! He pulled her tothe far end, behind a clump ofsquatty firs. His hands clawed ather. He tried to smother her mouthwith kisses. She eluded him deftly. But, honey ! Her voice had gone deeperinto her throat. I just want to besure about things. If you can't affordone of the private rooms—ifyou can't afford to show me a goodtime—if you can't come here realoften ... The whiskey pounded andthrobbed at his brain like blowsfrom an unseen club. His egocurled and twisted within him likea headless serpent. I'll have money! he shouted,struggling to hold her. I'll haveplenty of money! After tonight! Then we'll wait, she said.We'll wait until tomorrow night. No! he screamed. You don'tbelieve me! You're like the others!You think I'm no good! But I'llshow you! I'll show all of you! <doc-sep> She had gone coldly rigid inhis arms, unyielding. Madness added to the poundingin his brain. Tears welled into hiseyes. I'll show you! I'll kill her! ThenI'll have money! The handsclutching her shoulders shook herdrunkenly. You wait here! I'll gohome and kill her now! Then I'llbe back! Silly boy! Her low laughterrang hollowly in his ears. And justwho is it you are going to kill? My wife! he cried. My wife!I'll ... A sudden sobering thoughtstruck him. He was talking toomuch. And he wasn't making sense.He shouldn't be telling her this.Anyway, he couldn't get the moneytonight even if he did kill his wife. And so you are going to killyour wife.... He blinked the tears from hiseyes. His chest was heaving, hisheart pounding. He looked at hershimmering form. Y-yes, he whispered. Her eyes glinted strangely in thelight of the moon. Her handbagglinted as she opened it, and somethingshe took from it glitteredcoldly in her hand. Fool! The first shot tore squarelythrough his heart. And while hestood staring at her, mouth agape,a second shot burned its waythrough his bewildered brain. <doc-sep> Mrs. Herbert Hyrel removedthe telovis from herhead and laid it carefully aside.She uncoiled her long legs from beneathher, walked to her husband'schair, and stood for a long momentlooking down at him, her lipsdrawn back in contempt. Then shebent over him and reached downhis thigh until her fingers contactedthe small switch. Seconds later, a slight tremorshook Hyrel's body. His eyessnapped open, air escaped his lungs,his lower jaw sagged inanely, andhis head lolled to one side. She stood a moment longer,watching his eyes become glazedand sightless. Then she walked tothe telephone. Police? she said. This is Mrs.Herbert Hyrel. Something horriblehas happened to my husband.Please come over immediately.Bring a doctor. She hung up, went to her bathroom,stripped off her clothing,and slid carefully out of her telportersuit. This she folded neatlyand tucked away into the false backof the medicine cabinet. She founda fresh pair of blue, plastifur pajamasand got into them. She was just arriving back intothe living room, tying the cord ofher dressing gown about her slimwaist, when she heard the sound ofthe police siren out front. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction July 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note. <doc-sep></s>

The Riverside Club is a place that only the wealthy can escape to: all of the clientele have a lot of money, but they also needed a lot of money to gain access, as they have to prove that they own a teleporter suit to get in. Everyone who goes there is looking to escape themselves, but ironically Herbert escapes his wife to end up right back in front of her. Besides being a point of interest because it offered the clearest path of escape for Herbert, the club is also important because it shows glimpses into how the suits work: when someone has to leave suddenly, their clothes are left behind because it is just the copy of the body that moves. The club also was significant to the story because it provided a place for Herbert's wife to play out her plan to catch Herbert in his own plot.

<s> TIME IN THE ROUND By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator in history: everybody gave in to him because he was so puny and they were so impregnable! From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the PeacePark, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly atthe towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, theeffect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning ofcivilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught upwith the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and thescene was normal again. The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studiedthe dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid andpoked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened hisgrip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushionypavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his gripand suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stifftube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in anupside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a longblack tongue lolled. The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tubewith a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someonecalled: Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em! A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across theluxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog. Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:Kill 'em, Brute. <doc-sep>The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necksso short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like afanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue andone pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard. Butch yawned. What's the matter? inquired Darter's master. I thought you liked dogfights, Butch. I do like dog fights, Butch said somberly, without looking around. Idon't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else.Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy—and you, too, Hal—when youtalk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see? That's not exactly a functional name, Hal observed with thejudiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: Allright, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when peoplewere hurting each other all the time so the blood came out? I certainly would, the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned backskeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwedup his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. Hesqueaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight. A kid can't do anything any more, he announced dramatically. Can'tbreak anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose.Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen—and they graduate him from thatwhen he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj—it's contraprogrammed. Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt? Hal asked in a gentle voiceacquired from a robot adolescer. I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn, theButcher replied airily. A swell book. That guy got dirtier thananything. His eyes became dreamy. He even ate out of a garbage pail. What's a garbage pail? I don't know, but it sounds great. The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the earand was whirling him around hilariously. Aw, quit it, Brute, the Butcher said in annoyance. Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying noattention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight. The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. You're making too muchof a rumpus, he said. I want to think. <doc-sep>He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet. Look, Joggy said, you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, wouldyou? How can you hurt something that's uninjurable? the Butcher demandedscathingly. An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuitsand a micropack bedded in hyperplastic. He looked at Brute withguarded wistfulness. I don't know about that, Hal put in. I've heard an uninj isprogrammed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practicallyhas racial memory. I mean if you could hurt an uninj, Joggy amended. Well, maybe I wouldn't, the Butcher admitted grudgingly. But shutup—I want to think. About what? Hal asked with saintly reasonableness. The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. When I'm World Director, hesaid slowly, I'm going to have warfare again. You think so now, Hal told him. We all do at your age. We do not, the Butcher retorted. I bet you didn't. Oh, yes, I was foolish, too, the older boy confessed readily. Allnewborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and deathgames and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adultconditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, peoplekept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition themdifferently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man'sgreatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject allviolent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older. I will not! the Butcher countered hotly. I'm not going to be asissy. Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. And what if wewere attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System? The Space Fleet would take care of them, Hal replied calmly. That'swhat it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions toproblems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did toviruses. But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble? They can't. It's impossible. Yes, but suppose they did all the same. You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enoughyet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasonswhy it's impossible, Hal replied with friendly factuality. The TimeBubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just intothe past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can'tchange the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff. I don't care, the Butcher asserted obstinately. I'm still going tohave warfare when I'm World Director. They'll condition you out of the idea, Hal assured him. They will not. I won't let 'em. It doesn't matter what you think now, Hal said with finality. You'llhave an altogether different opinion when you're six. Well, what if I will? the Butcher snapped back. You don't have tokeep telling me about it, do you? <doc-sep>The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedlyon the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and saidin soothing tones: Joggy and I are going to swim over to the TimeTheater. Want to walk us there, Butch? Butch scowled. How about it, Butch? Still Butch did not seem to hear. The older boy shrugged and said: Oh, well, how about it—Butcher? The Butcher swung around. They won't let me in the Time Theater. Yousaid so yourself. You could walk us over there. Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't. While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy. Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulgingpocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made ablack mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS. He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownupswanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it upor tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of thecrayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFFTHE GRASS. With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after theothers. Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air atshoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was awide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjesavoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, lookingup inquiringly at his master. Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride! the Butcher called. The older boyignored him. Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy. Oh, all right. Joggy touched the small box attached to the front ofhis broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcherclimbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, duringwhich each boy accused the other of trying to upset them. Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim alongsecurely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up afterhis master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a fewminutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts toclimb the hemispherical repulsor field. Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down theAvenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When hewas about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away. <doc-sep>It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walkingand quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsorhemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it wouldbe nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was thesimplest way to make progress. The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators wereamong the most prized of toys. There's the Theater, Joggy announced. I know , the Butcher said irritably. But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Rampto the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a godrealized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods tothe adults drifting up and down the ramp. My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater, Hal said softlyas he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. Say, they'reviewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D.time scale. It should be interesting. Will it be about Napoleon? the Butcher asked eagerly. Or Hitler? Ared-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hairhad fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he satJoggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of thegrim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era. Wrong millennium, Hal said. Tamerlane then? the Butcher pressed. He killed cities and piled theskulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of theNavies. Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. Well, evenif it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy? They won't let me in, either. Yes, they will. You're five years old now. But I don't feel any older, Joggy replied doubtfully. The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice thedifference. Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to theirfeet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He openedhis mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain intight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier—like Stalin, maybe, hethought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy. Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor whichdrank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcherlimped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot hisbattle injury. <doc-sep>Hal looked back. Honestly, the usher will stop you. The Butcher shook his head. I'm going to think my way in. I'm going tothink old. You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fivessimply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason forit—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside. Why? I don't exactly know, but something. Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble andhave some excitement. They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander awayfrom your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronicsor something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will takecare of you. Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director, the Butcher informed them,contorting his face diabolically. Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.Obediently four of them lined up. But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into adeeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed toretreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhedback to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar soundissued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The otheruninjes moved uneasily. Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits? Joggywhispered. Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands. Of course not, Hal said irritably. Brute, get over there, the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes stillfixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed. The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguelyelectrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall. I told you you couldn't fool the usher, Hal said. The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, thenbounced him back with equal force. I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway, the Butcher said, not givingup, but not trying again. And I still don't think the usher can tellhow old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on youthrough a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on theusher. <doc-sep>But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited andthen sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee andgrowled faintly down the corridor. Take it easy, Brute, the Butcher consoled him. I don't thinkTamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow. Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through theusher as if it weren't there. The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips.There were two closely spaced faint plops and a large green stainappeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped fromthe close-cropped hair of the other. They glared at him and one of them said: A cub! But he had his armsfolded and wasn't looking at them. Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from themain entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they foundthemselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watchthe show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped theirlevitators, laid them on the floor and sat down. The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low centralplatform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhatflattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around thebubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the palecentral glow. But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention ofthe boys. Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by thebubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliageappeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble,a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside alittle fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round aboutwere wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blondbeards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather. Here and there were scattered weapons and armor—long swords glisteningwith oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, andhelmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean,wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony. <doc-sep>Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peerdown the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Onlythe hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonderand fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant. The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbariccultures of the Dawn Era, a soft voice explained, so casually thatJoggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: Don't do that,Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our developmentand hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billionmicrotapes, though. The interpreter continued: The skin-clad men we are viewing in Timein the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who livedby pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. Webelieve it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forcesof nature and see into the future. Joggy whispered: How is it that we can't see the audience through theother side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right. The bubble only shines light out, Hal told him hurriedly, to show heknew some things as well as the interpreter. Nothing, not even light,can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side ofthe bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the otherway—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in theway. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky. Joggy nodded. You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it'sa kind of hole through time? That's right. Hal cleared his throat and recited: The bubble is thelocus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around twopoints in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completelyopen, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so wouldan atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintainthe bubble, let alone maneuver it. I see, I guess, Joggy whispered. But if the hole works for light,why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world? Why—er—you see, Joggy— The interpreter took over. The holes are one-way for light, but no-wayfor matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked towardyou, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on theopposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walkedaway along the vista down which they are peering. <doc-sep>As if to provide an example, a figure suddenly materialized ontheir side of the bubble. The wolflike dogs bared their fangs. Foran instant, there was only an eerie, distorted, rapidly growingsilhouette, changing from blood-red to black as the boundary of thebubble cross-sectioned the intruding figure. Then they recognized theback of another long-haired warrior and realized that the audience onthe other side of the bubble had probably seen him approaching for sometime. He bowed to the hooded figure and handed him a small bag. More atavistic cubs, big and little! Hold still, Cynthia, a new voicecut in. Hal turned and saw that two cold-eyed girls had been ushered into thecubicle. One was wiping her close-cropped hair with one hand whilemopping a green stain from her friend's back with the other. Hal nudged Joggy and whispered: Butch! But Joggy was still hypnotized by the Time Bubble. Then how is it, Hal, he asked, that light comes out of the bubble,if the people don't? What I mean is, if one of the people walks towardus, he shrinks to a red blot and disappears. Why doesn't the lightcoming our way disappear, too? Well—you see, Joggy, it isn't real light. It's— Once more the interpreter helped him out. The light that comes from the bubble is an isotope. Like atoms ofone element, photons of a single frequency also have isotopes. It'smore than a matter of polarization. One of these isotopes of lighttends to leak futureward through holes in space-time. Most of thelight goes down the vistas visible to the other side of the audience.But one isotope is diverted through the walls of the bubble into theTime Theater. Perhaps, because of the intense darkness of the theater,you haven't realized how dimly lit the scene is. That's because we'regetting only a single isotope of the original light. Incidentally, noisotopes have been discovered that leak pastward, though attempts arebeing made to synthesize them. Oh, explanations! murmured one of the newly arrived girls. The cubsare always angling for them. Apple-polishers! I like this show, a familiar voice announced serenely. They cutanybody yet with those choppers? Hal looked down beside him. Butch! How did you manage to get in? I don't see any blood. Where's the bodies? But how did you get in—Butcher? <doc-sep>The Butcher replied airily: A red-headed man talked to me and said itcertainly was sad for a future dictator not to be able to enjoy scenesof carnage in his youth, so I told him I'd been inside the Time Theaterand just come out to get a drink of water and go to the eliminator, butthen my sprained ankle had got worse—I kind of tried to get up andfell down again—so he picked me up and carried me right through theusher. Butcher, that wasn't honest, Hal said a little worriedly. Youtricked him into thinking you were older and his brain waves blanketedyours, going through the usher. I really have heard it's dangerousfor you under-fives to be in here. The way those cubs beg for babying and get it! one of the girlscommented. Talk about sex favoritism! She and her companion withdrewto the far end of the cubicle. The Butcher grinned at them briefly and concentrated his attention onthe scene in the Time Bubble. Those big dogs— he began suddenly. Brute must have smelled 'em. Don't be silly, Hal said. Smells can't come out of the Time Bubble.Smells haven't any isotopes and— I don't care, the Butcher asserted. I bet somebody'll figure outsomeday how to use the bubble for time traveling. You can't travel in a point of view, Hal contradicted, and that'sall the bubble is. Besides, some scientists think the bubble isn't realat all, but a—uh— I believe, the interpreter cut in smoothly, that you're thinkingof the theory that the Time Bubble operates by hypermemory. Somescientists would have us believe that all memory is time traveling andthat the basic location of the bubble is not space-time at all, butever-present eternity. Some of them go so far as to state that it isonly a mental inability that prevents the Time Bubble from being usedfor time traveling—just as it may be a similar disability that keepsa robot with the same or even more scopeful memories from being a realman or animal. It is because of this minority theory that under-age individuals andother beings with impulsive mentalities are barred from the TimeTheater. But do not be alarmed. Even if the minority theory shouldprove true—and no evidence for it has ever appeared—there areautomatically operating safeguards to protect the audience from anyharmful consequences of time traveling (almost certainly impossible,remember) in either direction. Sissies! was the Butcher's comment. <doc-sep>You're rather young to be here, aren't you? the interpreter inquired. The Butcher folded his arms and scowled. The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through aquarter-million microtapes. Well, you wouldn't have got in unless aqualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself. There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubblehad acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking uptheir swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back,revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to belooking straight out of the bubble at the future. This is getting good, the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge ofhis seat. Stop being an impulsive mentality, Hal warned him a little nervously. Hah! The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud ofsmoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand wavedwildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. Thewarriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate thesorcerer. That's right, the Butcher approved loudly. Sock it to 'em! Butcher! Hal admonished. Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shoneforth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down. A viewing anomaly has occurred, the interpreter announced. It may benecessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period. In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushedat one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment hemust cross-section. Attaboy! the Butcher encouraged. Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward theshadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs. Oh, boy ! the Butcher cheered in ecstasy. Butcher, you've done it! Hal said, aghast. I sure did, the Butcher agreed blandly, but that old guy in thebubble helped me. Must take two to work it. Keep your seats! the interpreter said loudly. We are energizing thesafeguards! <doc-sep>The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after theone who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,pushing them in his direction. Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emergedfrom the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth. The safeguards are now energized, the interpreter said. A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front rowof the audience. The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant stepforward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over hisleft shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in hisright hand. I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!the interpreter enjoined. In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but theButcher yelled a Hey! of disapproval, snatched up something from thefloor and darted out through the sphincter. Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emergedwarriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Betweentheir legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.Then the warriors began to fan out. There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards, theinterpreter said. Please be patient. At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing alevitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. Athis heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilizationvoice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: Hey,you! You quit that! The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake toquiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple hissword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc. Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staringat him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisiblean arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backeda step. The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat anddigging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. Sic'em, Brute! he shrilled. Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitieand Blue! Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth. <doc-sep>Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselvesforward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the firstencounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, andtossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. Butthen Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly theface of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked andtouched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror. The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. Butalready the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter hadthe advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so manyfoxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninjclamped on a throat, that throat was torn out. Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all thewarriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully.That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, handclenching the levitator above his head. Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady! The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately,a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher. We are working to energize the safeguards, the interpreter said inmechanical panic. Remain patient and in your seats. The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur thanflesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. Theycame yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle.He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out ascreech. Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which theButcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drewback, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs.At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the TimeBubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wastedno time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, andno repulsor field stayed them. Brute, come back! the Butcher yelled. <doc-sep>The gray uninj let go his hold on the leader's ankle and scamperedout of the Time Bubble, which swiftly dimmed to its original lightintensity and then winked out. For once in their very mature lives, all of the adults in theauditorium began to jabber at each other simultaneously. We are sorry, but the anomaly has made it necessary to collapse theTime Bubble, the interpreter said. There will be no viewing untilfurther announcement. Thank you for your patience. Hal and Joggy caught up with the Butcher just as Brute jumped into hisarms and the woman in gold picked him up and hugged him fiercely. TheButcher started to pull away, then grudgingly submitted. Cubs! came a small cold voice from behind Hal and Joggy. Alwaysplaying hero! Say, what's that awful smell, Cynthia? It must have comefrom those dirty past men. Hal and Joggy were shouting at the Butcher, but he wasn't listeningto them or to the older voices clamoring about revised theories ofreality and other important things. He didn't even squirm as Brutelicked his cheek and the woman in gold planted a big kiss practicallyon his mouth. He smiled dreamily and stroked Brute's muzzle and murmured softly: Wecame, we saw, we conquered, didn't we, Brute? <doc-sep></s>

The story starts in a park, where we meet a a young boy who goes by the Butcher ("Butch"), and his dog Brute. The boy is trying to do something to the dog with a small metal tube when Hal, another boy, shows up with his own dogs, and another boy named Joggy. It turns out these are not normal dogs, but are "uninj", machines created to be like dogs but not able to be hurt. Butch seems bored with these countermeasures against violence, and intent on putting violence back in the world. His interactions with Hal show us that they live in a civilization where the children are given opportunities to work out any violent and angry tendencies or impulses before they are conditioned as adults. They are only allowed to visit the Time Theater to see glimpses into other societies (and thus evidence of violence) after age five, and the change in mentality happens at age six. Butch wants to use Time Bubble to travel through time, but Hal insists that this is impossible. The boys head to this theater, an incredible crystal building with an important place in this society, choosing to fly there with their hover technology. Joggy is five, so he is allowed to enter with Hal, but Butch is blocked from entering by the ushers, which Hal says is for his own protection. Joggy and Hal take a seat in a children's viewing area to look into the glowing orb of light that sits in the middle of the round theater. The orb acts as a viewport into various times and places, and is currently showing a view of Earth, Scandanavia more specifically, around year zero according to Earth calendars. There are a number of warriors in the forest scene, along with some dogs and a sorcerer, and the boys watch in earnest. As the electronic interpreter for the viewing gives the boys more information about cultural context, Butch manages to sneak in to the theater by lying to the ushers. Shortly after Butch and two young girls join the viewing, something happened that no-one thought possible: the sorcerer pushed one of the warriors through the orb of the Time Bubble, throwing him into the theater. Panic falls on the audience, and warriors and dogs continue to enter the theater as Butch and the uninjes start to fight off the time-travelers with their design keeping them from being injured. Hal is convinced that this happened because an under-five (Butch specifically) was in the theater, but the rest of the public does not know he is young and they thank him for saving the day as he fights off the warriors and the Time Bubble collapses. This is the first piece of chaos the adults have experienced in their adult lives, and the Butcher is content with how it all played out, getting to play hero in a violent setting for a day with Brute.

<s> TIME IN THE ROUND By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator in history: everybody gave in to him because he was so puny and they were so impregnable! From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the PeacePark, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly atthe towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, theeffect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning ofcivilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught upwith the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and thescene was normal again. The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studiedthe dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid andpoked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened hisgrip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushionypavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his gripand suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stifftube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in anupside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a longblack tongue lolled. The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tubewith a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someonecalled: Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em! A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across theluxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog. Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:Kill 'em, Brute. <doc-sep>The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necksso short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like afanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue andone pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard. Butch yawned. What's the matter? inquired Darter's master. I thought you liked dogfights, Butch. I do like dog fights, Butch said somberly, without looking around. Idon't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else.Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy—and you, too, Hal—when youtalk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see? That's not exactly a functional name, Hal observed with thejudiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: Allright, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when peoplewere hurting each other all the time so the blood came out? I certainly would, the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned backskeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwedup his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. Hesqueaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight. A kid can't do anything any more, he announced dramatically. Can'tbreak anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose.Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen—and they graduate him from thatwhen he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj—it's contraprogrammed. Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt? Hal asked in a gentle voiceacquired from a robot adolescer. I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn, theButcher replied airily. A swell book. That guy got dirtier thananything. His eyes became dreamy. He even ate out of a garbage pail. What's a garbage pail? I don't know, but it sounds great. The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the earand was whirling him around hilariously. Aw, quit it, Brute, the Butcher said in annoyance. Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying noattention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight. The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. You're making too muchof a rumpus, he said. I want to think. <doc-sep>He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet. Look, Joggy said, you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, wouldyou? How can you hurt something that's uninjurable? the Butcher demandedscathingly. An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuitsand a micropack bedded in hyperplastic. He looked at Brute withguarded wistfulness. I don't know about that, Hal put in. I've heard an uninj isprogrammed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practicallyhas racial memory. I mean if you could hurt an uninj, Joggy amended. Well, maybe I wouldn't, the Butcher admitted grudgingly. But shutup—I want to think. About what? Hal asked with saintly reasonableness. The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. When I'm World Director, hesaid slowly, I'm going to have warfare again. You think so now, Hal told him. We all do at your age. We do not, the Butcher retorted. I bet you didn't. Oh, yes, I was foolish, too, the older boy confessed readily. Allnewborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and deathgames and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adultconditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, peoplekept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition themdifferently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man'sgreatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject allviolent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older. I will not! the Butcher countered hotly. I'm not going to be asissy. Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. And what if wewere attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System? The Space Fleet would take care of them, Hal replied calmly. That'swhat it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions toproblems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did toviruses. But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble? They can't. It's impossible. Yes, but suppose they did all the same. You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enoughyet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasonswhy it's impossible, Hal replied with friendly factuality. The TimeBubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just intothe past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can'tchange the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff. I don't care, the Butcher asserted obstinately. I'm still going tohave warfare when I'm World Director. They'll condition you out of the idea, Hal assured him. They will not. I won't let 'em. It doesn't matter what you think now, Hal said with finality. You'llhave an altogether different opinion when you're six. Well, what if I will? the Butcher snapped back. You don't have tokeep telling me about it, do you? <doc-sep>The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedlyon the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and saidin soothing tones: Joggy and I are going to swim over to the TimeTheater. Want to walk us there, Butch? Butch scowled. How about it, Butch? Still Butch did not seem to hear. The older boy shrugged and said: Oh, well, how about it—Butcher? The Butcher swung around. They won't let me in the Time Theater. Yousaid so yourself. You could walk us over there. Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't. While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy. Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulgingpocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made ablack mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS. He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownupswanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it upor tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of thecrayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFFTHE GRASS. With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after theothers. Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air atshoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was awide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjesavoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, lookingup inquiringly at his master. Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride! the Butcher called. The older boyignored him. Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy. Oh, all right. Joggy touched the small box attached to the front ofhis broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcherclimbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, duringwhich each boy accused the other of trying to upset them. Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim alongsecurely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up afterhis master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a fewminutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts toclimb the hemispherical repulsor field. Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down theAvenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When hewas about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away. <doc-sep>It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walkingand quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsorhemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it wouldbe nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was thesimplest way to make progress. The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators wereamong the most prized of toys. There's the Theater, Joggy announced. I know , the Butcher said irritably. But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Rampto the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a godrealized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods tothe adults drifting up and down the ramp. My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater, Hal said softlyas he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. Say, they'reviewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D.time scale. It should be interesting. Will it be about Napoleon? the Butcher asked eagerly. Or Hitler? Ared-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hairhad fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he satJoggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of thegrim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era. Wrong millennium, Hal said. Tamerlane then? the Butcher pressed. He killed cities and piled theskulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of theNavies. Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. Well, evenif it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy? They won't let me in, either. Yes, they will. You're five years old now. But I don't feel any older, Joggy replied doubtfully. The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice thedifference. Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to theirfeet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He openedhis mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain intight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier—like Stalin, maybe, hethought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy. Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor whichdrank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcherlimped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot hisbattle injury. <doc-sep>Hal looked back. Honestly, the usher will stop you. The Butcher shook his head. I'm going to think my way in. I'm going tothink old. You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fivessimply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason forit—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside. Why? I don't exactly know, but something. Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble andhave some excitement. They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander awayfrom your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronicsor something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will takecare of you. Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director, the Butcher informed them,contorting his face diabolically. Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.Obediently four of them lined up. But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into adeeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed toretreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhedback to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar soundissued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The otheruninjes moved uneasily. Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits? Joggywhispered. Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands. Of course not, Hal said irritably. Brute, get over there, the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes stillfixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed. The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguelyelectrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall. I told you you couldn't fool the usher, Hal said. The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, thenbounced him back with equal force. I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway, the Butcher said, not givingup, but not trying again. And I still don't think the usher can tellhow old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on youthrough a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on theusher. <doc-sep>But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited andthen sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee andgrowled faintly down the corridor. Take it easy, Brute, the Butcher consoled him. I don't thinkTamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow. Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through theusher as if it weren't there. The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips.There were two closely spaced faint plops and a large green stainappeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped fromthe close-cropped hair of the other. They glared at him and one of them said: A cub! But he had his armsfolded and wasn't looking at them. Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from themain entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they foundthemselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watchthe show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped theirlevitators, laid them on the floor and sat down. The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low centralplatform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhatflattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around thebubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the palecentral glow. But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention ofthe boys. Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by thebubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliageappeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble,a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside alittle fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round aboutwere wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blondbeards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather. Here and there were scattered weapons and armor—long swords glisteningwith oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, andhelmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean,wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony. <doc-sep>Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peerdown the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Onlythe hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonderand fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant. The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbariccultures of the Dawn Era, a soft voice explained, so casually thatJoggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: Don't do that,Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our developmentand hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billionmicrotapes, though. The interpreter continued: The skin-clad men we are viewing in Timein the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who livedby pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. Webelieve it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forcesof nature and see into the future. Joggy whispered: How is it that we can't see the audience through theother side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right. The bubble only shines light out, Hal told him hurriedly, to show heknew some things as well as the interpreter. Nothing, not even light,can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side ofthe bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the otherway—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in theway. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky. Joggy nodded. You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it'sa kind of hole through time? That's right. Hal cleared his throat and recited: The bubble is thelocus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around twopoints in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completelyopen, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so wouldan atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintainthe bubble, let alone maneuver it. I see, I guess, Joggy whispered. But if the hole works for light,why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world? Why—er—you see, Joggy— The interpreter took over. The holes are one-way for light, but no-wayfor matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked towardyou, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on theopposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walkedaway along the vista down which they are peering. <doc-sep>As if to provide an example, a figure suddenly materialized ontheir side of the bubble. The wolflike dogs bared their fangs. Foran instant, there was only an eerie, distorted, rapidly growingsilhouette, changing from blood-red to black as the boundary of thebubble cross-sectioned the intruding figure. Then they recognized theback of another long-haired warrior and realized that the audience onthe other side of the bubble had probably seen him approaching for sometime. He bowed to the hooded figure and handed him a small bag. More atavistic cubs, big and little! Hold still, Cynthia, a new voicecut in. Hal turned and saw that two cold-eyed girls had been ushered into thecubicle. One was wiping her close-cropped hair with one hand whilemopping a green stain from her friend's back with the other. Hal nudged Joggy and whispered: Butch! But Joggy was still hypnotized by the Time Bubble. Then how is it, Hal, he asked, that light comes out of the bubble,if the people don't? What I mean is, if one of the people walks towardus, he shrinks to a red blot and disappears. Why doesn't the lightcoming our way disappear, too? Well—you see, Joggy, it isn't real light. It's— Once more the interpreter helped him out. The light that comes from the bubble is an isotope. Like atoms ofone element, photons of a single frequency also have isotopes. It'smore than a matter of polarization. One of these isotopes of lighttends to leak futureward through holes in space-time. Most of thelight goes down the vistas visible to the other side of the audience.But one isotope is diverted through the walls of the bubble into theTime Theater. Perhaps, because of the intense darkness of the theater,you haven't realized how dimly lit the scene is. That's because we'regetting only a single isotope of the original light. Incidentally, noisotopes have been discovered that leak pastward, though attempts arebeing made to synthesize them. Oh, explanations! murmured one of the newly arrived girls. The cubsare always angling for them. Apple-polishers! I like this show, a familiar voice announced serenely. They cutanybody yet with those choppers? Hal looked down beside him. Butch! How did you manage to get in? I don't see any blood. Where's the bodies? But how did you get in—Butcher? <doc-sep>The Butcher replied airily: A red-headed man talked to me and said itcertainly was sad for a future dictator not to be able to enjoy scenesof carnage in his youth, so I told him I'd been inside the Time Theaterand just come out to get a drink of water and go to the eliminator, butthen my sprained ankle had got worse—I kind of tried to get up andfell down again—so he picked me up and carried me right through theusher. Butcher, that wasn't honest, Hal said a little worriedly. Youtricked him into thinking you were older and his brain waves blanketedyours, going through the usher. I really have heard it's dangerousfor you under-fives to be in here. The way those cubs beg for babying and get it! one of the girlscommented. Talk about sex favoritism! She and her companion withdrewto the far end of the cubicle. The Butcher grinned at them briefly and concentrated his attention onthe scene in the Time Bubble. Those big dogs— he began suddenly. Brute must have smelled 'em. Don't be silly, Hal said. Smells can't come out of the Time Bubble.Smells haven't any isotopes and— I don't care, the Butcher asserted. I bet somebody'll figure outsomeday how to use the bubble for time traveling. You can't travel in a point of view, Hal contradicted, and that'sall the bubble is. Besides, some scientists think the bubble isn't realat all, but a—uh— I believe, the interpreter cut in smoothly, that you're thinkingof the theory that the Time Bubble operates by hypermemory. Somescientists would have us believe that all memory is time traveling andthat the basic location of the bubble is not space-time at all, butever-present eternity. Some of them go so far as to state that it isonly a mental inability that prevents the Time Bubble from being usedfor time traveling—just as it may be a similar disability that keepsa robot with the same or even more scopeful memories from being a realman or animal. It is because of this minority theory that under-age individuals andother beings with impulsive mentalities are barred from the TimeTheater. But do not be alarmed. Even if the minority theory shouldprove true—and no evidence for it has ever appeared—there areautomatically operating safeguards to protect the audience from anyharmful consequences of time traveling (almost certainly impossible,remember) in either direction. Sissies! was the Butcher's comment. <doc-sep>You're rather young to be here, aren't you? the interpreter inquired. The Butcher folded his arms and scowled. The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through aquarter-million microtapes. Well, you wouldn't have got in unless aqualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself. There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubblehad acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking uptheir swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back,revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to belooking straight out of the bubble at the future. This is getting good, the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge ofhis seat. Stop being an impulsive mentality, Hal warned him a little nervously. Hah! The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud ofsmoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand wavedwildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. Thewarriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate thesorcerer. That's right, the Butcher approved loudly. Sock it to 'em! Butcher! Hal admonished. Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shoneforth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down. A viewing anomaly has occurred, the interpreter announced. It may benecessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period. In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushedat one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment hemust cross-section. Attaboy! the Butcher encouraged. Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward theshadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs. Oh, boy ! the Butcher cheered in ecstasy. Butcher, you've done it! Hal said, aghast. I sure did, the Butcher agreed blandly, but that old guy in thebubble helped me. Must take two to work it. Keep your seats! the interpreter said loudly. We are energizing thesafeguards! <doc-sep>The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after theone who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,pushing them in his direction. Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emergedfrom the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth. The safeguards are now energized, the interpreter said. A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front rowof the audience. The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant stepforward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over hisleft shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in hisright hand. I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!the interpreter enjoined. In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but theButcher yelled a Hey! of disapproval, snatched up something from thefloor and darted out through the sphincter. Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emergedwarriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Betweentheir legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.Then the warriors began to fan out. There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards, theinterpreter said. Please be patient. At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing alevitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. Athis heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilizationvoice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: Hey,you! You quit that! The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake toquiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple hissword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc. Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staringat him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisiblean arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backeda step. The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat anddigging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. Sic'em, Brute! he shrilled. Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitieand Blue! Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth. <doc-sep>Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselvesforward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the firstencounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, andtossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. Butthen Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly theface of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked andtouched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror. The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. Butalready the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter hadthe advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so manyfoxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninjclamped on a throat, that throat was torn out. Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all thewarriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully.That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, handclenching the levitator above his head. Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady! The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately,a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher. We are working to energize the safeguards, the interpreter said inmechanical panic. Remain patient and in your seats. The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur thanflesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. Theycame yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle.He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out ascreech. Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which theButcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drewback, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs.At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the TimeBubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wastedno time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, andno repulsor field stayed them. Brute, come back! the Butcher yelled. <doc-sep>The gray uninj let go his hold on the leader's ankle and scamperedout of the Time Bubble, which swiftly dimmed to its original lightintensity and then winked out. For once in their very mature lives, all of the adults in theauditorium began to jabber at each other simultaneously. We are sorry, but the anomaly has made it necessary to collapse theTime Bubble, the interpreter said. There will be no viewing untilfurther announcement. Thank you for your patience. Hal and Joggy caught up with the Butcher just as Brute jumped into hisarms and the woman in gold picked him up and hugged him fiercely. TheButcher started to pull away, then grudgingly submitted. Cubs! came a small cold voice from behind Hal and Joggy. Alwaysplaying hero! Say, what's that awful smell, Cynthia? It must have comefrom those dirty past men. Hal and Joggy were shouting at the Butcher, but he wasn't listeningto them or to the older voices clamoring about revised theories ofreality and other important things. He didn't even squirm as Brutelicked his cheek and the woman in gold planted a big kiss practicallyon his mouth. He smiled dreamily and stroked Brute's muzzle and murmured softly: Wecame, we saw, we conquered, didn't we, Brute? <doc-sep></s>

Hal is one of the three boys who drives the narrative of the story; he is the oldest of the three, with the most experience and knowledge. He acts as a mentor to the Butcher and Joggy, the other two boys. Joggy is five, so he is able to go to the Time Theater for the first time, but the Butcher is not yet old enough. Hal tells the Butcher that his violent impulses will pass given time and conditioning, and tries to dissuade him from trying to enter the TIme Theater for the sake of safety. He is the one that wants to go to the theater, and asks the Butcher to walk with him. He scolds the Butcher once he reveals how he snuck into the theater, and is worried about the potential danger. Throughout the time in the theater, it is Hal who explains how the different beings in the society fit together, and the technology (and theories) around the Time Bubble, though the electronic narrator in the viewing box at the theater also helps fill in some details. Throughout the story more broadly, Hal maintains a patient tone with the Butcher, as he tries to be very understanding about his youthful inclinations towards violence, admitting his past urges but pointing towards positive change towards a more calm mindset.

<s> TIME IN THE ROUND By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator in history: everybody gave in to him because he was so puny and they were so impregnable! From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the PeacePark, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly atthe towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, theeffect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning ofcivilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught upwith the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and thescene was normal again. The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studiedthe dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid andpoked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened hisgrip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushionypavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his gripand suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stifftube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in anupside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a longblack tongue lolled. The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tubewith a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someonecalled: Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em! A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across theluxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog. Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:Kill 'em, Brute. <doc-sep>The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necksso short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like afanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue andone pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard. Butch yawned. What's the matter? inquired Darter's master. I thought you liked dogfights, Butch. I do like dog fights, Butch said somberly, without looking around. Idon't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else.Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy—and you, too, Hal—when youtalk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see? That's not exactly a functional name, Hal observed with thejudiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: Allright, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when peoplewere hurting each other all the time so the blood came out? I certainly would, the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned backskeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwedup his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. Hesqueaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight. A kid can't do anything any more, he announced dramatically. Can'tbreak anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose.Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen—and they graduate him from thatwhen he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj—it's contraprogrammed. Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt? Hal asked in a gentle voiceacquired from a robot adolescer. I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn, theButcher replied airily. A swell book. That guy got dirtier thananything. His eyes became dreamy. He even ate out of a garbage pail. What's a garbage pail? I don't know, but it sounds great. The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the earand was whirling him around hilariously. Aw, quit it, Brute, the Butcher said in annoyance. Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying noattention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight. The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. You're making too muchof a rumpus, he said. I want to think. <doc-sep>He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet. Look, Joggy said, you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, wouldyou? How can you hurt something that's uninjurable? the Butcher demandedscathingly. An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuitsand a micropack bedded in hyperplastic. He looked at Brute withguarded wistfulness. I don't know about that, Hal put in. I've heard an uninj isprogrammed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practicallyhas racial memory. I mean if you could hurt an uninj, Joggy amended. Well, maybe I wouldn't, the Butcher admitted grudgingly. But shutup—I want to think. About what? Hal asked with saintly reasonableness. The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. When I'm World Director, hesaid slowly, I'm going to have warfare again. You think so now, Hal told him. We all do at your age. We do not, the Butcher retorted. I bet you didn't. Oh, yes, I was foolish, too, the older boy confessed readily. Allnewborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and deathgames and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adultconditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, peoplekept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition themdifferently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man'sgreatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject allviolent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older. I will not! the Butcher countered hotly. I'm not going to be asissy. Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. And what if wewere attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System? The Space Fleet would take care of them, Hal replied calmly. That'swhat it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions toproblems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did toviruses. But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble? They can't. It's impossible. Yes, but suppose they did all the same. You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enoughyet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasonswhy it's impossible, Hal replied with friendly factuality. The TimeBubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just intothe past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can'tchange the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff. I don't care, the Butcher asserted obstinately. I'm still going tohave warfare when I'm World Director. They'll condition you out of the idea, Hal assured him. They will not. I won't let 'em. It doesn't matter what you think now, Hal said with finality. You'llhave an altogether different opinion when you're six. Well, what if I will? the Butcher snapped back. You don't have tokeep telling me about it, do you? <doc-sep>The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedlyon the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and saidin soothing tones: Joggy and I are going to swim over to the TimeTheater. Want to walk us there, Butch? Butch scowled. How about it, Butch? Still Butch did not seem to hear. The older boy shrugged and said: Oh, well, how about it—Butcher? The Butcher swung around. They won't let me in the Time Theater. Yousaid so yourself. You could walk us over there. Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't. While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy. Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulgingpocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made ablack mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS. He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownupswanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it upor tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of thecrayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFFTHE GRASS. With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after theothers. Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air atshoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was awide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjesavoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, lookingup inquiringly at his master. Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride! the Butcher called. The older boyignored him. Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy. Oh, all right. Joggy touched the small box attached to the front ofhis broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcherclimbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, duringwhich each boy accused the other of trying to upset them. Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim alongsecurely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up afterhis master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a fewminutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts toclimb the hemispherical repulsor field. Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down theAvenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When hewas about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away. <doc-sep>It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walkingand quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsorhemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it wouldbe nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was thesimplest way to make progress. The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators wereamong the most prized of toys. There's the Theater, Joggy announced. I know , the Butcher said irritably. But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Rampto the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a godrealized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods tothe adults drifting up and down the ramp. My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater, Hal said softlyas he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. Say, they'reviewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D.time scale. It should be interesting. Will it be about Napoleon? the Butcher asked eagerly. Or Hitler? Ared-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hairhad fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he satJoggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of thegrim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era. Wrong millennium, Hal said. Tamerlane then? the Butcher pressed. He killed cities and piled theskulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of theNavies. Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. Well, evenif it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy? They won't let me in, either. Yes, they will. You're five years old now. But I don't feel any older, Joggy replied doubtfully. The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice thedifference. Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to theirfeet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He openedhis mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain intight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier—like Stalin, maybe, hethought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy. Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor whichdrank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcherlimped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot hisbattle injury. <doc-sep>Hal looked back. Honestly, the usher will stop you. The Butcher shook his head. I'm going to think my way in. I'm going tothink old. You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fivessimply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason forit—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside. Why? I don't exactly know, but something. Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble andhave some excitement. They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander awayfrom your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronicsor something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will takecare of you. Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director, the Butcher informed them,contorting his face diabolically. Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.Obediently four of them lined up. But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into adeeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed toretreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhedback to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar soundissued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The otheruninjes moved uneasily. Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits? Joggywhispered. Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands. Of course not, Hal said irritably. Brute, get over there, the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes stillfixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed. The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguelyelectrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall. I told you you couldn't fool the usher, Hal said. The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, thenbounced him back with equal force. I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway, the Butcher said, not givingup, but not trying again. And I still don't think the usher can tellhow old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on youthrough a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on theusher. <doc-sep>But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited andthen sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee andgrowled faintly down the corridor. Take it easy, Brute, the Butcher consoled him. I don't thinkTamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow. Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through theusher as if it weren't there. The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips.There were two closely spaced faint plops and a large green stainappeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped fromthe close-cropped hair of the other. They glared at him and one of them said: A cub! But he had his armsfolded and wasn't looking at them. Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from themain entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they foundthemselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watchthe show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped theirlevitators, laid them on the floor and sat down. The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low centralplatform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhatflattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around thebubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the palecentral glow. But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention ofthe boys. Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by thebubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliageappeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble,a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside alittle fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round aboutwere wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blondbeards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather. Here and there were scattered weapons and armor—long swords glisteningwith oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, andhelmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean,wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony. <doc-sep>Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peerdown the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Onlythe hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonderand fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant. The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbariccultures of the Dawn Era, a soft voice explained, so casually thatJoggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: Don't do that,Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our developmentand hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billionmicrotapes, though. The interpreter continued: The skin-clad men we are viewing in Timein the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who livedby pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. Webelieve it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forcesof nature and see into the future. Joggy whispered: How is it that we can't see the audience through theother side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right. The bubble only shines light out, Hal told him hurriedly, to show heknew some things as well as the interpreter. Nothing, not even light,can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side ofthe bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the otherway—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in theway. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky. Joggy nodded. You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it'sa kind of hole through time? That's right. Hal cleared his throat and recited: The bubble is thelocus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around twopoints in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completelyopen, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so wouldan atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintainthe bubble, let alone maneuver it. I see, I guess, Joggy whispered. But if the hole works for light,why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world? Why—er—you see, Joggy— The interpreter took over. The holes are one-way for light, but no-wayfor matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked towardyou, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on theopposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walkedaway along the vista down which they are peering. <doc-sep>As if to provide an example, a figure suddenly materialized ontheir side of the bubble. The wolflike dogs bared their fangs. Foran instant, there was only an eerie, distorted, rapidly growingsilhouette, changing from blood-red to black as the boundary of thebubble cross-sectioned the intruding figure. Then they recognized theback of another long-haired warrior and realized that the audience onthe other side of the bubble had probably seen him approaching for sometime. He bowed to the hooded figure and handed him a small bag. More atavistic cubs, big and little! Hold still, Cynthia, a new voicecut in. Hal turned and saw that two cold-eyed girls had been ushered into thecubicle. One was wiping her close-cropped hair with one hand whilemopping a green stain from her friend's back with the other. Hal nudged Joggy and whispered: Butch! But Joggy was still hypnotized by the Time Bubble. Then how is it, Hal, he asked, that light comes out of the bubble,if the people don't? What I mean is, if one of the people walks towardus, he shrinks to a red blot and disappears. Why doesn't the lightcoming our way disappear, too? Well—you see, Joggy, it isn't real light. It's— Once more the interpreter helped him out. The light that comes from the bubble is an isotope. Like atoms ofone element, photons of a single frequency also have isotopes. It'smore than a matter of polarization. One of these isotopes of lighttends to leak futureward through holes in space-time. Most of thelight goes down the vistas visible to the other side of the audience.But one isotope is diverted through the walls of the bubble into theTime Theater. Perhaps, because of the intense darkness of the theater,you haven't realized how dimly lit the scene is. That's because we'regetting only a single isotope of the original light. Incidentally, noisotopes have been discovered that leak pastward, though attempts arebeing made to synthesize them. Oh, explanations! murmured one of the newly arrived girls. The cubsare always angling for them. Apple-polishers! I like this show, a familiar voice announced serenely. They cutanybody yet with those choppers? Hal looked down beside him. Butch! How did you manage to get in? I don't see any blood. Where's the bodies? But how did you get in—Butcher? <doc-sep>The Butcher replied airily: A red-headed man talked to me and said itcertainly was sad for a future dictator not to be able to enjoy scenesof carnage in his youth, so I told him I'd been inside the Time Theaterand just come out to get a drink of water and go to the eliminator, butthen my sprained ankle had got worse—I kind of tried to get up andfell down again—so he picked me up and carried me right through theusher. Butcher, that wasn't honest, Hal said a little worriedly. Youtricked him into thinking you were older and his brain waves blanketedyours, going through the usher. I really have heard it's dangerousfor you under-fives to be in here. The way those cubs beg for babying and get it! one of the girlscommented. Talk about sex favoritism! She and her companion withdrewto the far end of the cubicle. The Butcher grinned at them briefly and concentrated his attention onthe scene in the Time Bubble. Those big dogs— he began suddenly. Brute must have smelled 'em. Don't be silly, Hal said. Smells can't come out of the Time Bubble.Smells haven't any isotopes and— I don't care, the Butcher asserted. I bet somebody'll figure outsomeday how to use the bubble for time traveling. You can't travel in a point of view, Hal contradicted, and that'sall the bubble is. Besides, some scientists think the bubble isn't realat all, but a—uh— I believe, the interpreter cut in smoothly, that you're thinkingof the theory that the Time Bubble operates by hypermemory. Somescientists would have us believe that all memory is time traveling andthat the basic location of the bubble is not space-time at all, butever-present eternity. Some of them go so far as to state that it isonly a mental inability that prevents the Time Bubble from being usedfor time traveling—just as it may be a similar disability that keepsa robot with the same or even more scopeful memories from being a realman or animal. It is because of this minority theory that under-age individuals andother beings with impulsive mentalities are barred from the TimeTheater. But do not be alarmed. Even if the minority theory shouldprove true—and no evidence for it has ever appeared—there areautomatically operating safeguards to protect the audience from anyharmful consequences of time traveling (almost certainly impossible,remember) in either direction. Sissies! was the Butcher's comment. <doc-sep>You're rather young to be here, aren't you? the interpreter inquired. The Butcher folded his arms and scowled. The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through aquarter-million microtapes. Well, you wouldn't have got in unless aqualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself. There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubblehad acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking uptheir swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back,revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to belooking straight out of the bubble at the future. This is getting good, the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge ofhis seat. Stop being an impulsive mentality, Hal warned him a little nervously. Hah! The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud ofsmoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand wavedwildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. Thewarriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate thesorcerer. That's right, the Butcher approved loudly. Sock it to 'em! Butcher! Hal admonished. Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shoneforth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down. A viewing anomaly has occurred, the interpreter announced. It may benecessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period. In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushedat one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment hemust cross-section. Attaboy! the Butcher encouraged. Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward theshadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs. Oh, boy ! the Butcher cheered in ecstasy. Butcher, you've done it! Hal said, aghast. I sure did, the Butcher agreed blandly, but that old guy in thebubble helped me. Must take two to work it. Keep your seats! the interpreter said loudly. We are energizing thesafeguards! <doc-sep>The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after theone who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,pushing them in his direction. Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emergedfrom the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth. The safeguards are now energized, the interpreter said. A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front rowof the audience. The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant stepforward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over hisleft shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in hisright hand. I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!the interpreter enjoined. In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but theButcher yelled a Hey! of disapproval, snatched up something from thefloor and darted out through the sphincter. Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emergedwarriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Betweentheir legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.Then the warriors began to fan out. There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards, theinterpreter said. Please be patient. At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing alevitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. Athis heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilizationvoice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: Hey,you! You quit that! The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake toquiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple hissword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc. Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staringat him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisiblean arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backeda step. The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat anddigging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. Sic'em, Brute! he shrilled. Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitieand Blue! Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth. <doc-sep>Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselvesforward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the firstencounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, andtossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. Butthen Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly theface of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked andtouched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror. The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. Butalready the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter hadthe advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so manyfoxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninjclamped on a throat, that throat was torn out. Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all thewarriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully.That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, handclenching the levitator above his head. Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady! The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately,a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher. We are working to energize the safeguards, the interpreter said inmechanical panic. Remain patient and in your seats. The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur thanflesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. Theycame yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle.He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out ascreech. Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which theButcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drewback, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs.At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the TimeBubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wastedno time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, andno repulsor field stayed them. Brute, come back! the Butcher yelled. <doc-sep>The gray uninj let go his hold on the leader's ankle and scamperedout of the Time Bubble, which swiftly dimmed to its original lightintensity and then winked out. For once in their very mature lives, all of the adults in theauditorium began to jabber at each other simultaneously. We are sorry, but the anomaly has made it necessary to collapse theTime Bubble, the interpreter said. There will be no viewing untilfurther announcement. Thank you for your patience. Hal and Joggy caught up with the Butcher just as Brute jumped into hisarms and the woman in gold picked him up and hugged him fiercely. TheButcher started to pull away, then grudgingly submitted. Cubs! came a small cold voice from behind Hal and Joggy. Alwaysplaying hero! Say, what's that awful smell, Cynthia? It must have comefrom those dirty past men. Hal and Joggy were shouting at the Butcher, but he wasn't listeningto them or to the older voices clamoring about revised theories ofreality and other important things. He didn't even squirm as Brutelicked his cheek and the woman in gold planted a big kiss practicallyon his mouth. He smiled dreamily and stroked Brute's muzzle and murmured softly: Wecame, we saw, we conquered, didn't we, Brute? <doc-sep></s>

There are two major types of technology highlighted in the story: the first is the mechanical kind that allows for hovering travel, the development of uninjes, and the systems in place in the theater like the ushers and the protective mechanisms. The other major thing that could be categorized as technology is the Time Bubble itself; it acts as a form of entertainment but also as a warning to avoid the habits of people of the past. Focusing on the engineering technology that does not directly relate to potential time-travel, it is strongly hinted that the children in the story might be partly mechanical themselves, though this is not clarified. It is pointed out that there are "adolescers" and "kinderobots", which could be referring to the age groups of these children, and the dogs that follow the people around are also technological creations. The "uninjes" are like dogs, and are built to have canine reactions to be as close to real dogs as possible, but cannot be harmed and in the end are still collections of circuits with a battery and molded plastic. There are a number of pieces of technology in the theater, including forcefields used by ushers to block children who are too young to enter, and a number of safeguards like forcefields to protect people inc ase something went wrong with the Time Bubble. The bubble itself is a marvel of technology but nobody understands exactly how it works. Most of the discourse surrounding this is about the theories of time travel.

<s> TIME IN THE ROUND By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator in history: everybody gave in to him because he was so puny and they were so impregnable! From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the PeacePark, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly atthe towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, theeffect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning ofcivilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught upwith the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and thescene was normal again. The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studiedthe dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid andpoked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened hisgrip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushionypavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his gripand suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stifftube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in anupside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a longblack tongue lolled. The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tubewith a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someonecalled: Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em! A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across theluxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog. Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:Kill 'em, Brute. <doc-sep>The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necksso short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like afanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue andone pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard. Butch yawned. What's the matter? inquired Darter's master. I thought you liked dogfights, Butch. I do like dog fights, Butch said somberly, without looking around. Idon't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else.Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy—and you, too, Hal—when youtalk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see? That's not exactly a functional name, Hal observed with thejudiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: Allright, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when peoplewere hurting each other all the time so the blood came out? I certainly would, the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned backskeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwedup his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. Hesqueaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight. A kid can't do anything any more, he announced dramatically. Can'tbreak anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose.Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen—and they graduate him from thatwhen he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj—it's contraprogrammed. Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt? Hal asked in a gentle voiceacquired from a robot adolescer. I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn, theButcher replied airily. A swell book. That guy got dirtier thananything. His eyes became dreamy. He even ate out of a garbage pail. What's a garbage pail? I don't know, but it sounds great. The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the earand was whirling him around hilariously. Aw, quit it, Brute, the Butcher said in annoyance. Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying noattention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight. The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. You're making too muchof a rumpus, he said. I want to think. <doc-sep>He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet. Look, Joggy said, you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, wouldyou? How can you hurt something that's uninjurable? the Butcher demandedscathingly. An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuitsand a micropack bedded in hyperplastic. He looked at Brute withguarded wistfulness. I don't know about that, Hal put in. I've heard an uninj isprogrammed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practicallyhas racial memory. I mean if you could hurt an uninj, Joggy amended. Well, maybe I wouldn't, the Butcher admitted grudgingly. But shutup—I want to think. About what? Hal asked with saintly reasonableness. The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. When I'm World Director, hesaid slowly, I'm going to have warfare again. You think so now, Hal told him. We all do at your age. We do not, the Butcher retorted. I bet you didn't. Oh, yes, I was foolish, too, the older boy confessed readily. Allnewborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and deathgames and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adultconditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, peoplekept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition themdifferently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man'sgreatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject allviolent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older. I will not! the Butcher countered hotly. I'm not going to be asissy. Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. And what if wewere attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System? The Space Fleet would take care of them, Hal replied calmly. That'swhat it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions toproblems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did toviruses. But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble? They can't. It's impossible. Yes, but suppose they did all the same. You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enoughyet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasonswhy it's impossible, Hal replied with friendly factuality. The TimeBubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just intothe past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can'tchange the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff. I don't care, the Butcher asserted obstinately. I'm still going tohave warfare when I'm World Director. They'll condition you out of the idea, Hal assured him. They will not. I won't let 'em. It doesn't matter what you think now, Hal said with finality. You'llhave an altogether different opinion when you're six. Well, what if I will? the Butcher snapped back. You don't have tokeep telling me about it, do you? <doc-sep>The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedlyon the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and saidin soothing tones: Joggy and I are going to swim over to the TimeTheater. Want to walk us there, Butch? Butch scowled. How about it, Butch? Still Butch did not seem to hear. The older boy shrugged and said: Oh, well, how about it—Butcher? The Butcher swung around. They won't let me in the Time Theater. Yousaid so yourself. You could walk us over there. Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't. While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy. Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulgingpocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made ablack mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS. He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownupswanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it upor tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of thecrayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFFTHE GRASS. With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after theothers. Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air atshoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was awide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjesavoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, lookingup inquiringly at his master. Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride! the Butcher called. The older boyignored him. Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy. Oh, all right. Joggy touched the small box attached to the front ofhis broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcherclimbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, duringwhich each boy accused the other of trying to upset them. Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim alongsecurely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up afterhis master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a fewminutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts toclimb the hemispherical repulsor field. Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down theAvenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When hewas about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away. <doc-sep>It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walkingand quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsorhemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it wouldbe nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was thesimplest way to make progress. The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators wereamong the most prized of toys. There's the Theater, Joggy announced. I know , the Butcher said irritably. But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Rampto the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a godrealized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods tothe adults drifting up and down the ramp. My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater, Hal said softlyas he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. Say, they'reviewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D.time scale. It should be interesting. Will it be about Napoleon? the Butcher asked eagerly. Or Hitler? Ared-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hairhad fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he satJoggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of thegrim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era. Wrong millennium, Hal said. Tamerlane then? the Butcher pressed. He killed cities and piled theskulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of theNavies. Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. Well, evenif it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy? They won't let me in, either. Yes, they will. You're five years old now. But I don't feel any older, Joggy replied doubtfully. The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice thedifference. Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to theirfeet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He openedhis mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain intight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier—like Stalin, maybe, hethought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy. Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor whichdrank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcherlimped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot hisbattle injury. <doc-sep>Hal looked back. Honestly, the usher will stop you. The Butcher shook his head. I'm going to think my way in. I'm going tothink old. You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fivessimply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason forit—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside. Why? I don't exactly know, but something. Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble andhave some excitement. They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander awayfrom your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronicsor something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will takecare of you. Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director, the Butcher informed them,contorting his face diabolically. Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.Obediently four of them lined up. But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into adeeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed toretreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhedback to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar soundissued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The otheruninjes moved uneasily. Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits? Joggywhispered. Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands. Of course not, Hal said irritably. Brute, get over there, the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes stillfixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed. The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguelyelectrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall. I told you you couldn't fool the usher, Hal said. The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, thenbounced him back with equal force. I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway, the Butcher said, not givingup, but not trying again. And I still don't think the usher can tellhow old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on youthrough a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on theusher. <doc-sep>But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited andthen sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee andgrowled faintly down the corridor. Take it easy, Brute, the Butcher consoled him. I don't thinkTamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow. Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through theusher as if it weren't there. The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips.There were two closely spaced faint plops and a large green stainappeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped fromthe close-cropped hair of the other. They glared at him and one of them said: A cub! But he had his armsfolded and wasn't looking at them. Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from themain entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they foundthemselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watchthe show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped theirlevitators, laid them on the floor and sat down. The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low centralplatform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhatflattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around thebubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the palecentral glow. But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention ofthe boys. Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by thebubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliageappeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble,a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside alittle fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round aboutwere wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blondbeards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather. Here and there were scattered weapons and armor—long swords glisteningwith oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, andhelmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean,wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony. <doc-sep>Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peerdown the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Onlythe hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonderand fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant. The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbariccultures of the Dawn Era, a soft voice explained, so casually thatJoggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: Don't do that,Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our developmentand hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billionmicrotapes, though. The interpreter continued: The skin-clad men we are viewing in Timein the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who livedby pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. Webelieve it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forcesof nature and see into the future. Joggy whispered: How is it that we can't see the audience through theother side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right. The bubble only shines light out, Hal told him hurriedly, to show heknew some things as well as the interpreter. Nothing, not even light,can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side ofthe bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the otherway—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in theway. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky. Joggy nodded. You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it'sa kind of hole through time? That's right. Hal cleared his throat and recited: The bubble is thelocus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around twopoints in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completelyopen, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so wouldan atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintainthe bubble, let alone maneuver it. I see, I guess, Joggy whispered. But if the hole works for light,why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world? Why—er—you see, Joggy— The interpreter took over. The holes are one-way for light, but no-wayfor matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked towardyou, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on theopposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walkedaway along the vista down which they are peering. <doc-sep>As if to provide an example, a figure suddenly materialized ontheir side of the bubble. The wolflike dogs bared their fangs. Foran instant, there was only an eerie, distorted, rapidly growingsilhouette, changing from blood-red to black as the boundary of thebubble cross-sectioned the intruding figure. Then they recognized theback of another long-haired warrior and realized that the audience onthe other side of the bubble had probably seen him approaching for sometime. He bowed to the hooded figure and handed him a small bag. More atavistic cubs, big and little! Hold still, Cynthia, a new voicecut in. Hal turned and saw that two cold-eyed girls had been ushered into thecubicle. One was wiping her close-cropped hair with one hand whilemopping a green stain from her friend's back with the other. Hal nudged Joggy and whispered: Butch! But Joggy was still hypnotized by the Time Bubble. Then how is it, Hal, he asked, that light comes out of the bubble,if the people don't? What I mean is, if one of the people walks towardus, he shrinks to a red blot and disappears. Why doesn't the lightcoming our way disappear, too? Well—you see, Joggy, it isn't real light. It's— Once more the interpreter helped him out. The light that comes from the bubble is an isotope. Like atoms ofone element, photons of a single frequency also have isotopes. It'smore than a matter of polarization. One of these isotopes of lighttends to leak futureward through holes in space-time. Most of thelight goes down the vistas visible to the other side of the audience.But one isotope is diverted through the walls of the bubble into theTime Theater. Perhaps, because of the intense darkness of the theater,you haven't realized how dimly lit the scene is. That's because we'regetting only a single isotope of the original light. Incidentally, noisotopes have been discovered that leak pastward, though attempts arebeing made to synthesize them. Oh, explanations! murmured one of the newly arrived girls. The cubsare always angling for them. Apple-polishers! I like this show, a familiar voice announced serenely. They cutanybody yet with those choppers? Hal looked down beside him. Butch! How did you manage to get in? I don't see any blood. Where's the bodies? But how did you get in—Butcher? <doc-sep>The Butcher replied airily: A red-headed man talked to me and said itcertainly was sad for a future dictator not to be able to enjoy scenesof carnage in his youth, so I told him I'd been inside the Time Theaterand just come out to get a drink of water and go to the eliminator, butthen my sprained ankle had got worse—I kind of tried to get up andfell down again—so he picked me up and carried me right through theusher. Butcher, that wasn't honest, Hal said a little worriedly. Youtricked him into thinking you were older and his brain waves blanketedyours, going through the usher. I really have heard it's dangerousfor you under-fives to be in here. The way those cubs beg for babying and get it! one of the girlscommented. Talk about sex favoritism! She and her companion withdrewto the far end of the cubicle. The Butcher grinned at them briefly and concentrated his attention onthe scene in the Time Bubble. Those big dogs— he began suddenly. Brute must have smelled 'em. Don't be silly, Hal said. Smells can't come out of the Time Bubble.Smells haven't any isotopes and— I don't care, the Butcher asserted. I bet somebody'll figure outsomeday how to use the bubble for time traveling. You can't travel in a point of view, Hal contradicted, and that'sall the bubble is. Besides, some scientists think the bubble isn't realat all, but a—uh— I believe, the interpreter cut in smoothly, that you're thinkingof the theory that the Time Bubble operates by hypermemory. Somescientists would have us believe that all memory is time traveling andthat the basic location of the bubble is not space-time at all, butever-present eternity. Some of them go so far as to state that it isonly a mental inability that prevents the Time Bubble from being usedfor time traveling—just as it may be a similar disability that keepsa robot with the same or even more scopeful memories from being a realman or animal. It is because of this minority theory that under-age individuals andother beings with impulsive mentalities are barred from the TimeTheater. But do not be alarmed. Even if the minority theory shouldprove true—and no evidence for it has ever appeared—there areautomatically operating safeguards to protect the audience from anyharmful consequences of time traveling (almost certainly impossible,remember) in either direction. Sissies! was the Butcher's comment. <doc-sep>You're rather young to be here, aren't you? the interpreter inquired. The Butcher folded his arms and scowled. The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through aquarter-million microtapes. Well, you wouldn't have got in unless aqualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself. There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubblehad acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking uptheir swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back,revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to belooking straight out of the bubble at the future. This is getting good, the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge ofhis seat. Stop being an impulsive mentality, Hal warned him a little nervously. Hah! The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud ofsmoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand wavedwildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. Thewarriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate thesorcerer. That's right, the Butcher approved loudly. Sock it to 'em! Butcher! Hal admonished. Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shoneforth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down. A viewing anomaly has occurred, the interpreter announced. It may benecessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period. In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushedat one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment hemust cross-section. Attaboy! the Butcher encouraged. Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward theshadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs. Oh, boy ! the Butcher cheered in ecstasy. Butcher, you've done it! Hal said, aghast. I sure did, the Butcher agreed blandly, but that old guy in thebubble helped me. Must take two to work it. Keep your seats! the interpreter said loudly. We are energizing thesafeguards! <doc-sep>The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after theone who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,pushing them in his direction. Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emergedfrom the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth. The safeguards are now energized, the interpreter said. A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front rowof the audience. The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant stepforward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over hisleft shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in hisright hand. I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!the interpreter enjoined. In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but theButcher yelled a Hey! of disapproval, snatched up something from thefloor and darted out through the sphincter. Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emergedwarriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Betweentheir legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.Then the warriors began to fan out. There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards, theinterpreter said. Please be patient. At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing alevitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. Athis heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilizationvoice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: Hey,you! You quit that! The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake toquiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple hissword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc. Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staringat him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisiblean arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backeda step. The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat anddigging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. Sic'em, Brute! he shrilled. Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitieand Blue! Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth. <doc-sep>Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselvesforward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the firstencounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, andtossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. Butthen Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly theface of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked andtouched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror. The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. Butalready the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter hadthe advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so manyfoxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninjclamped on a throat, that throat was torn out. Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all thewarriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully.That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, handclenching the levitator above his head. Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady! The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately,a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher. We are working to energize the safeguards, the interpreter said inmechanical panic. Remain patient and in your seats. The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur thanflesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. Theycame yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle.He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out ascreech. Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which theButcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drewback, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs.At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the TimeBubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wastedno time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, andno repulsor field stayed them. Brute, come back! the Butcher yelled. <doc-sep>The gray uninj let go his hold on the leader's ankle and scamperedout of the Time Bubble, which swiftly dimmed to its original lightintensity and then winked out. For once in their very mature lives, all of the adults in theauditorium began to jabber at each other simultaneously. We are sorry, but the anomaly has made it necessary to collapse theTime Bubble, the interpreter said. There will be no viewing untilfurther announcement. Thank you for your patience. Hal and Joggy caught up with the Butcher just as Brute jumped into hisarms and the woman in gold picked him up and hugged him fiercely. TheButcher started to pull away, then grudgingly submitted. Cubs! came a small cold voice from behind Hal and Joggy. Alwaysplaying hero! Say, what's that awful smell, Cynthia? It must have comefrom those dirty past men. Hal and Joggy were shouting at the Butcher, but he wasn't listeningto them or to the older voices clamoring about revised theories ofreality and other important things. He didn't even squirm as Brutelicked his cheek and the woman in gold planted a big kiss practicallyon his mouth. He smiled dreamily and stroked Brute's muzzle and murmured softly: Wecame, we saw, we conquered, didn't we, Brute? <doc-sep></s>

This society is organized around a reconditioning of thoughts that happens as children transition into adulthood, starting at age six. Adults who have already been reconditioned are passive and polite members of society, who supposedly do not have traces of violent tendencies anymore. Before this, however, there are a few levels of separation from the rest of the society. Five year olds are allowed to go to the Time Theater to view whatever is showing through the Time Bubble, a view into other societies throughout time, but anyone younger than five is not allowed. This is presumably because of safety concerns--Hal thinks that young children are a nuisance to adults in these settings. The society has a number of systems in place specifically for these younger children who have not yet been conditioned. There are things called death games and fear houses, which we do not see details of in this story, that are meant to clear out the childrens' emotional space. It also seems that uninjes, the robotic dogs that the boys have, are also for this purpose: Hal says that they are part of the society's options for letting kids work out their ruthless and inconsiderate impulses. These impulses are restructured when they are aimed at other people, but violent alien beings and viruses or other medical concerns are still considered threats worth responding to in full force. The particular focus on avoiding violent patterns seen in other civilizations is highlighted by the grand nature of the Time Theater, and its position at the end of a major street in a large public park.

<s> TIME IN THE ROUND By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator in history: everybody gave in to him because he was so puny and they were so impregnable! From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the PeacePark, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly atthe towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, theeffect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning ofcivilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught upwith the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and thescene was normal again. The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studiedthe dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid andpoked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened hisgrip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushionypavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his gripand suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stifftube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in anupside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a longblack tongue lolled. The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tubewith a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someonecalled: Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em! A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across theluxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog. Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:Kill 'em, Brute. <doc-sep>The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necksso short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like afanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue andone pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard. Butch yawned. What's the matter? inquired Darter's master. I thought you liked dogfights, Butch. I do like dog fights, Butch said somberly, without looking around. Idon't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else.Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy—and you, too, Hal—when youtalk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see? That's not exactly a functional name, Hal observed with thejudiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: Allright, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when peoplewere hurting each other all the time so the blood came out? I certainly would, the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned backskeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwedup his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. Hesqueaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight. A kid can't do anything any more, he announced dramatically. Can'tbreak anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose.Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen—and they graduate him from thatwhen he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj—it's contraprogrammed. Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt? Hal asked in a gentle voiceacquired from a robot adolescer. I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn, theButcher replied airily. A swell book. That guy got dirtier thananything. His eyes became dreamy. He even ate out of a garbage pail. What's a garbage pail? I don't know, but it sounds great. The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the earand was whirling him around hilariously. Aw, quit it, Brute, the Butcher said in annoyance. Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying noattention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight. The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. You're making too muchof a rumpus, he said. I want to think. <doc-sep>He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet. Look, Joggy said, you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, wouldyou? How can you hurt something that's uninjurable? the Butcher demandedscathingly. An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuitsand a micropack bedded in hyperplastic. He looked at Brute withguarded wistfulness. I don't know about that, Hal put in. I've heard an uninj isprogrammed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practicallyhas racial memory. I mean if you could hurt an uninj, Joggy amended. Well, maybe I wouldn't, the Butcher admitted grudgingly. But shutup—I want to think. About what? Hal asked with saintly reasonableness. The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. When I'm World Director, hesaid slowly, I'm going to have warfare again. You think so now, Hal told him. We all do at your age. We do not, the Butcher retorted. I bet you didn't. Oh, yes, I was foolish, too, the older boy confessed readily. Allnewborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and deathgames and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adultconditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, peoplekept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition themdifferently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man'sgreatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject allviolent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older. I will not! the Butcher countered hotly. I'm not going to be asissy. Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. And what if wewere attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System? The Space Fleet would take care of them, Hal replied calmly. That'swhat it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions toproblems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did toviruses. But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble? They can't. It's impossible. Yes, but suppose they did all the same. You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enoughyet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasonswhy it's impossible, Hal replied with friendly factuality. The TimeBubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just intothe past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can'tchange the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff. I don't care, the Butcher asserted obstinately. I'm still going tohave warfare when I'm World Director. They'll condition you out of the idea, Hal assured him. They will not. I won't let 'em. It doesn't matter what you think now, Hal said with finality. You'llhave an altogether different opinion when you're six. Well, what if I will? the Butcher snapped back. You don't have tokeep telling me about it, do you? <doc-sep>The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedlyon the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and saidin soothing tones: Joggy and I are going to swim over to the TimeTheater. Want to walk us there, Butch? Butch scowled. How about it, Butch? Still Butch did not seem to hear. The older boy shrugged and said: Oh, well, how about it—Butcher? The Butcher swung around. They won't let me in the Time Theater. Yousaid so yourself. You could walk us over there. Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't. While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy. Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulgingpocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made ablack mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS. He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownupswanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it upor tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of thecrayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFFTHE GRASS. With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after theothers. Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air atshoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was awide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjesavoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, lookingup inquiringly at his master. Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride! the Butcher called. The older boyignored him. Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy. Oh, all right. Joggy touched the small box attached to the front ofhis broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcherclimbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, duringwhich each boy accused the other of trying to upset them. Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim alongsecurely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up afterhis master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a fewminutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts toclimb the hemispherical repulsor field. Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down theAvenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When hewas about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away. <doc-sep>It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walkingand quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsorhemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it wouldbe nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was thesimplest way to make progress. The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators wereamong the most prized of toys. There's the Theater, Joggy announced. I know , the Butcher said irritably. But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Rampto the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a godrealized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods tothe adults drifting up and down the ramp. My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater, Hal said softlyas he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. Say, they'reviewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D.time scale. It should be interesting. Will it be about Napoleon? the Butcher asked eagerly. Or Hitler? Ared-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hairhad fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he satJoggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of thegrim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era. Wrong millennium, Hal said. Tamerlane then? the Butcher pressed. He killed cities and piled theskulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of theNavies. Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. Well, evenif it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy? They won't let me in, either. Yes, they will. You're five years old now. But I don't feel any older, Joggy replied doubtfully. The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice thedifference. Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to theirfeet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He openedhis mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain intight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier—like Stalin, maybe, hethought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy. Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor whichdrank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcherlimped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot hisbattle injury. <doc-sep>Hal looked back. Honestly, the usher will stop you. The Butcher shook his head. I'm going to think my way in. I'm going tothink old. You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fivessimply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason forit—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside. Why? I don't exactly know, but something. Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble andhave some excitement. They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander awayfrom your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronicsor something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will takecare of you. Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director, the Butcher informed them,contorting his face diabolically. Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.Obediently four of them lined up. But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into adeeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed toretreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhedback to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar soundissued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The otheruninjes moved uneasily. Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits? Joggywhispered. Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands. Of course not, Hal said irritably. Brute, get over there, the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes stillfixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed. The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguelyelectrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall. I told you you couldn't fool the usher, Hal said. The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, thenbounced him back with equal force. I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway, the Butcher said, not givingup, but not trying again. And I still don't think the usher can tellhow old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on youthrough a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on theusher. <doc-sep>But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited andthen sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee andgrowled faintly down the corridor. Take it easy, Brute, the Butcher consoled him. I don't thinkTamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow. Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through theusher as if it weren't there. The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips.There were two closely spaced faint plops and a large green stainappeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped fromthe close-cropped hair of the other. They glared at him and one of them said: A cub! But he had his armsfolded and wasn't looking at them. Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from themain entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they foundthemselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watchthe show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped theirlevitators, laid them on the floor and sat down. The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low centralplatform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhatflattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around thebubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the palecentral glow. But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention ofthe boys. Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by thebubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliageappeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble,a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside alittle fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round aboutwere wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blondbeards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather. Here and there were scattered weapons and armor—long swords glisteningwith oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, andhelmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean,wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony. <doc-sep>Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peerdown the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Onlythe hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonderand fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant. The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbariccultures of the Dawn Era, a soft voice explained, so casually thatJoggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: Don't do that,Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our developmentand hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billionmicrotapes, though. The interpreter continued: The skin-clad men we are viewing in Timein the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who livedby pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. Webelieve it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forcesof nature and see into the future. Joggy whispered: How is it that we can't see the audience through theother side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right. The bubble only shines light out, Hal told him hurriedly, to show heknew some things as well as the interpreter. Nothing, not even light,can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side ofthe bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the otherway—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in theway. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky. Joggy nodded. You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it'sa kind of hole through time? That's right. Hal cleared his throat and recited: The bubble is thelocus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around twopoints in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completelyopen, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so wouldan atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintainthe bubble, let alone maneuver it. I see, I guess, Joggy whispered. But if the hole works for light,why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world? Why—er—you see, Joggy— The interpreter took over. The holes are one-way for light, but no-wayfor matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked towardyou, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on theopposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walkedaway along the vista down which they are peering. <doc-sep>As if to provide an example, a figure suddenly materialized ontheir side of the bubble. The wolflike dogs bared their fangs. Foran instant, there was only an eerie, distorted, rapidly growingsilhouette, changing from blood-red to black as the boundary of thebubble cross-sectioned the intruding figure. Then they recognized theback of another long-haired warrior and realized that the audience onthe other side of the bubble had probably seen him approaching for sometime. He bowed to the hooded figure and handed him a small bag. More atavistic cubs, big and little! Hold still, Cynthia, a new voicecut in. Hal turned and saw that two cold-eyed girls had been ushered into thecubicle. One was wiping her close-cropped hair with one hand whilemopping a green stain from her friend's back with the other. Hal nudged Joggy and whispered: Butch! But Joggy was still hypnotized by the Time Bubble. Then how is it, Hal, he asked, that light comes out of the bubble,if the people don't? What I mean is, if one of the people walks towardus, he shrinks to a red blot and disappears. Why doesn't the lightcoming our way disappear, too? Well—you see, Joggy, it isn't real light. It's— Once more the interpreter helped him out. The light that comes from the bubble is an isotope. Like atoms ofone element, photons of a single frequency also have isotopes. It'smore than a matter of polarization. One of these isotopes of lighttends to leak futureward through holes in space-time. Most of thelight goes down the vistas visible to the other side of the audience.But one isotope is diverted through the walls of the bubble into theTime Theater. Perhaps, because of the intense darkness of the theater,you haven't realized how dimly lit the scene is. That's because we'regetting only a single isotope of the original light. Incidentally, noisotopes have been discovered that leak pastward, though attempts arebeing made to synthesize them. Oh, explanations! murmured one of the newly arrived girls. The cubsare always angling for them. Apple-polishers! I like this show, a familiar voice announced serenely. They cutanybody yet with those choppers? Hal looked down beside him. Butch! How did you manage to get in? I don't see any blood. Where's the bodies? But how did you get in—Butcher? <doc-sep>The Butcher replied airily: A red-headed man talked to me and said itcertainly was sad for a future dictator not to be able to enjoy scenesof carnage in his youth, so I told him I'd been inside the Time Theaterand just come out to get a drink of water and go to the eliminator, butthen my sprained ankle had got worse—I kind of tried to get up andfell down again—so he picked me up and carried me right through theusher. Butcher, that wasn't honest, Hal said a little worriedly. Youtricked him into thinking you were older and his brain waves blanketedyours, going through the usher. I really have heard it's dangerousfor you under-fives to be in here. The way those cubs beg for babying and get it! one of the girlscommented. Talk about sex favoritism! She and her companion withdrewto the far end of the cubicle. The Butcher grinned at them briefly and concentrated his attention onthe scene in the Time Bubble. Those big dogs— he began suddenly. Brute must have smelled 'em. Don't be silly, Hal said. Smells can't come out of the Time Bubble.Smells haven't any isotopes and— I don't care, the Butcher asserted. I bet somebody'll figure outsomeday how to use the bubble for time traveling. You can't travel in a point of view, Hal contradicted, and that'sall the bubble is. Besides, some scientists think the bubble isn't realat all, but a—uh— I believe, the interpreter cut in smoothly, that you're thinkingof the theory that the Time Bubble operates by hypermemory. Somescientists would have us believe that all memory is time traveling andthat the basic location of the bubble is not space-time at all, butever-present eternity. Some of them go so far as to state that it isonly a mental inability that prevents the Time Bubble from being usedfor time traveling—just as it may be a similar disability that keepsa robot with the same or even more scopeful memories from being a realman or animal. It is because of this minority theory that under-age individuals andother beings with impulsive mentalities are barred from the TimeTheater. But do not be alarmed. Even if the minority theory shouldprove true—and no evidence for it has ever appeared—there areautomatically operating safeguards to protect the audience from anyharmful consequences of time traveling (almost certainly impossible,remember) in either direction. Sissies! was the Butcher's comment. <doc-sep>You're rather young to be here, aren't you? the interpreter inquired. The Butcher folded his arms and scowled. The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through aquarter-million microtapes. Well, you wouldn't have got in unless aqualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself. There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubblehad acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking uptheir swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back,revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to belooking straight out of the bubble at the future. This is getting good, the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge ofhis seat. Stop being an impulsive mentality, Hal warned him a little nervously. Hah! The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud ofsmoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand wavedwildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. Thewarriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate thesorcerer. That's right, the Butcher approved loudly. Sock it to 'em! Butcher! Hal admonished. Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shoneforth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down. A viewing anomaly has occurred, the interpreter announced. It may benecessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period. In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushedat one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment hemust cross-section. Attaboy! the Butcher encouraged. Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward theshadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs. Oh, boy ! the Butcher cheered in ecstasy. Butcher, you've done it! Hal said, aghast. I sure did, the Butcher agreed blandly, but that old guy in thebubble helped me. Must take two to work it. Keep your seats! the interpreter said loudly. We are energizing thesafeguards! <doc-sep>The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after theone who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,pushing them in his direction. Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emergedfrom the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth. The safeguards are now energized, the interpreter said. A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front rowof the audience. The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant stepforward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over hisleft shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in hisright hand. I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!the interpreter enjoined. In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but theButcher yelled a Hey! of disapproval, snatched up something from thefloor and darted out through the sphincter. Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emergedwarriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Betweentheir legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.Then the warriors began to fan out. There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards, theinterpreter said. Please be patient. At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing alevitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. Athis heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilizationvoice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: Hey,you! You quit that! The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake toquiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple hissword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc. Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staringat him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisiblean arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backeda step. The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat anddigging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. Sic'em, Brute! he shrilled. Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitieand Blue! Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth. <doc-sep>Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselvesforward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the firstencounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, andtossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. Butthen Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly theface of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked andtouched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror. The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. Butalready the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter hadthe advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so manyfoxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninjclamped on a throat, that throat was torn out. Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all thewarriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully.That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, handclenching the levitator above his head. Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady! The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately,a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher. We are working to energize the safeguards, the interpreter said inmechanical panic. Remain patient and in your seats. The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur thanflesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. Theycame yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle.He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out ascreech. Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which theButcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drewback, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs.At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the TimeBubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wastedno time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, andno repulsor field stayed them. Brute, come back! the Butcher yelled. <doc-sep>The gray uninj let go his hold on the leader's ankle and scamperedout of the Time Bubble, which swiftly dimmed to its original lightintensity and then winked out. For once in their very mature lives, all of the adults in theauditorium began to jabber at each other simultaneously. We are sorry, but the anomaly has made it necessary to collapse theTime Bubble, the interpreter said. There will be no viewing untilfurther announcement. Thank you for your patience. Hal and Joggy caught up with the Butcher just as Brute jumped into hisarms and the woman in gold picked him up and hugged him fiercely. TheButcher started to pull away, then grudgingly submitted. Cubs! came a small cold voice from behind Hal and Joggy. Alwaysplaying hero! Say, what's that awful smell, Cynthia? It must have comefrom those dirty past men. Hal and Joggy were shouting at the Butcher, but he wasn't listeningto them or to the older voices clamoring about revised theories ofreality and other important things. He didn't even squirm as Brutelicked his cheek and the woman in gold planted a big kiss practicallyon his mouth. He smiled dreamily and stroked Brute's muzzle and murmured softly: Wecame, we saw, we conquered, didn't we, Brute? <doc-sep></s>

The term pre-civilization points to anything that has a sense of violence or chaos in the lives of adults. For instance, raised voices and people talking over each other is considered pre-civilization, but so are violent wars. The society is built to get rid of these tendencies in children and recondition them as adults to be calm and peaceful members of society. When the Butcher is referred to as looking pre-civilization at the beginning of the story, it is because he seems to be up to something he isn't supposed to do, as he is potentially hurting or controlling Brute in some way with the use of a metal tube.

<s> Saboteur of Space By ROBERT ABERNATHY Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships. Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight. Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive. The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America. The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face. Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened. Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered. No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd. The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since— Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you. He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply. The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl. <doc-sep>Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of anyplain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybodyhe had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with abeak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak forthe thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over theface, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert andalmost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-graycellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'. Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you. What's the idea? demanded Ryd, his small store of natural couragefloated to the top by alcohol. The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself.He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly anddistinctly. Would you care to make some money, my friend? Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so— Then come with me. The hand still on his arm was insistent. In hisdaze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggishcrowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and madefrantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall strangerfumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out,past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out itsendlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark. Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in onthem. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath,long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air. So you're Ryd Randl, repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight. Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. Look, he gasped. Ifyou're a cop, say so! The other laughed shortly. No. I'm just a man about to offer you achance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—youcan call me Mury. Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about thetall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' withhis first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to hiseyes. How long have you been out of a job, Ryd? Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you? And why, Ryd? Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator. He hunched his narrowshoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. Damngood one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have thephysique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought theplant was going to open again and— And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burningactinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine.And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars itsfull economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; andthere is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than twoin ten could live healthily on the outer world. Ten years ago, Mury nodded as if satisfied. That must have been thePower Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself,that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close downoutside the military bases in the Kun Lun. Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence inthis strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too fewmen who talked his language. He burst out: They wouldn't take me, damnthem! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn'thave a drag with any of the Poligerents. I know all about your record, said Mury softly. Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his oldkicked-dog manner. How do you know? And what's it to you? <doc-sep>All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face himsquarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not farfrom where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the TriplanetFreighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smiletwisted Mury's thin lips. Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as anindividual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I amworking—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government andsold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, afterthey've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offeredtheir hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only tobe refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy norcapitulate frankly to him. Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with suchideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. Areyou talking about the power cylinder? he demanded blurrily. Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martiancargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He saidsimply, Yes. I don't get it, mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he hadheard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: Thepower cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot inthe arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis.It will turn the wheels and light the cities and— To hell with that! snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came upslightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. Don'tyou know you're repeating damnable lies? Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with apassion shocking after his smooth calm: The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirtypieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations havesold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage andvision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapableconflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man,a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the greatMartian land-owners? Do you? He paused out of breath; then finishedvenomously, Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaperthan robots—cheap as slaves ! What about it? gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. What youwant me to do about it? Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face wasonce more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. We'regoing to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now. Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,What's that mean? The power shell—isn't coming in as planned. You can't do that. We can, said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. And thereare fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us? Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thingcertainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, bythis man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, andpanclasm—that was We . The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, withan effort, said, Sure. A moment later it struck him that themonosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, I got nothing tolose, see? It was, he realized, the cold truth. You won't lose, said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace withwhich he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way theyhad come. Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without hisvolition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing toplacate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whateverhappened.... After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, andwhined, Where ... where we going now? Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of thegray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, hepointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawnseemed breaking over Pi Mesa. II One blow for freedom! said Mury with caught breath. His voice fellupon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that hadkilled the guard. The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inkymoon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards todrop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of thelong, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps andservicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, alittle stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now.He was caught in the machinery. Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testingthe weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a shortwrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grownthe aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after Stateorder had grounded all fliers in America. All right, Ryd, he said coolly. Trade clothes with this fellow. I'vebrought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way. The rest of the way. Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuousexertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from theguarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air,shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard'suniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting ashe clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weaponsto recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol,powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strongfingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start intothe sardonic black eyes of the Panclast. No use now for firearms, said Mury. All the guns we could carrywouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just astage property for the little play we're going to give in about threeminutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent ofDynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad . For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatredof Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotagethe Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long,low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towshipwould also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air. Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a lightscraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his handsand face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light.He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of asmall, disused metal door. Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears savefor the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. Itseemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knewhow to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering. The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside,and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. Thesame automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started theair-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out thelong-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in. <doc-sep>It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressingwalls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted theceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the controlcupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin filmof dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches ofthe disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metaldoor marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runwaydown which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, andlaunched into the sky once more by now dormant machines. Wait, said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, hislong legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence,he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead. They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile tothe right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with manylights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlightsshed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-longrunways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis'glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handfulof odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port hadberthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together bythe chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa. As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense ofprotective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport.Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofedbuildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance mustmean safety for them. And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watchingfor all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but onceinside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough.Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last,inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower. Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in themidst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies,their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with twoofficers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet.Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredlyenough. And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of NumberTwo Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massivemagnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds ofsteam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped outof Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must besounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now. Relax, said Mury in a low voice. Nothing's gone wrong. We'll beaboard the Shahrazad when she lifts. For a moment his black eyesshifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay therebeyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, withblind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters.It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leavingagain very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommodingits crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect andimmobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet. Robots! gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.Martian soldier robots! They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-inweapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. ForGod's sake, take it easy. Ryd licked dry lips. Are we going—out into space? Where else? said Mury. <doc-sep>The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hathad reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thoughtto question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformedguardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yardsfrom the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it cameabout—just a little too late. The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behavingpair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growinguneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an anklein sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, betweenthe solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the otherin perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notablesattracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safetyby the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up. The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder andvanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on thetopmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face,but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation. Yes? he inquired frostily. What goes on here? snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figuresilhouetted against the glow in the airlock. The crew's signaled allaboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be— I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis, interruptedthe tall man with asperity. The City is naturally interested in thedelivery of the power which will revivify our industries. He paused,sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. Isuppose you'll want to re-check my credentials? The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-centurybureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nodwith an appearance of brusqueness. Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all thepompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receiveinstead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and ashe reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gunno longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent,pointing at its licensed owner. I think, Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care thewhile his right held the gun steady, that you'd better come aboardwith us. The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointedcivic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than theancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with bothhands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still verysick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous. Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curvedwall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrablecountersunk mirror of metal. Cover him, Ryd, ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged outthe heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerouslytremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice hisfears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch onthe side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock. Nothing happened. Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped! The outer gangway had slid up,the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel. <doc-sep>Mury smiled with supernal calm. We won't be here long, he said.Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: The central control panel andthe three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks areon the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from theswitch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the centralcontrol panel is cut out in preparation for lifting. Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switchhe had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets.Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip ashe slipped cat-like into the passage. Keep him covered. Back out of the lock. Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his ownnervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metalpressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clatteringsomewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall. He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning,back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggledto keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from acrouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firinglever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switchoutside. The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant,the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and ascorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the oppositelock a foot from Mury's right shoulder. You damned clumsy little fool— said Mury with soft intensity. Then,while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped withblue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in twoquick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in thestarboard airlock. Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash Ready tothe Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. Butthe latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clampedin their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless inan instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisonedguardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in hislittle cell of steel. It's been tried before, said one of the masked men. He had a blond,youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together withan astrogator's triangled stars which made him ex officio the brainsof the vessel. Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more. It's been done again, said Mury grimly. And you don't know the halfof it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends— The gunmuzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. Out ofthose clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock. He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, beforethey started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor fromthemselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor;the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sittingstill masked and apparently unmoved, demanded: What do you think you're trying to do? What do you think? demanded Mury in return. I'm taking the shipinto space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell. Theflame gun moved with a jerk. And as for you—what's your name? Yet Arliess. You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess? The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through maskinggoggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. Why, yes, hesaid as if in wonder, I do. III Shahrazad drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightlyto the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, crampedcabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before itsbanked dials, watching their steady needles. Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousnessdraining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out intoemptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in themaindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushedhim; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forcesand lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up andup, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lostevery sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away underthe towship's keel. A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and thecontrol panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lightsconfused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In thecontrol room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insecthum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinninggyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of theengines. Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd, he said dryly. That doesn'tmean you, to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat inthe pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his glovedhands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to thesloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun. Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook hishead groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. Heventured shakily, Where are we? Mury smiled slightly. Only our astrogator, he indicated Arliess,still masked and fettered, can tell you that with precision. Iunderstand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that heis holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... heis an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions ofduty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit ofthe Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess? The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before himthrough his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lightsburned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminoustracks. Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly,he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frameseemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks oflight. What's that, Arliess? The astrogator broke his silence. A ship. I know that well enough. What ship? I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you thatthat's the liner Alborak , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic missionfor Mars. Mury shook his head regretfully. That won't wash, Arliess. Even if yousuppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of thatdrive. I don't know what you're talking about, said Arliess. But his voicewas raw and unsteady. I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking forus—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

It’s the year 819, and a man named Ryd Randl who lives in Dynamopolis, a city in North America, goes to a dive bar. The place is crowded with many men because Dynamopolis is experiencing a power shortage, and they would freeze outside. Burshis, the owner of the bar, gives Ryd a free drink and explains that a ship from Mars just brought power back. He is expecting there to be a big boom in the economy soon, which will lead to jobs for people like Ryd. Ryd is not easily convinced of this good news. The ugly and tall man sitting next to Ryd recognizes him. Once outside, Mury introduces himself and asks Ryd if he wants to make some money. He explains that he can offer Ryd a comeback. Ryd has been jobless for ten years, but before that he was a helio operator. Since then, Mars has become fully independent, and all the work moved there. Mury says that he is working for the hundreds of men who have been put out by the corrupt government on Mars. Although Ryd and all the other Earthmen have been told that the new power cylinder being installed will create jobs and bring back the power, Mury argues that isn’t truly the case. He insists that Earthmen are essentially slaves to Mars’s landowners, and in order to stop that from happening, they must stop the power cylinder from landing on Earth. The two men arrive at Pi Mesa, and Mury kills a guard. Ryd steals his clothing and his flame pistol so that they can get on the ship unnoticed. Ryd must pretend to be a guard escorting Mury, the Poligerent of Dynamopolis aboard the Shahrazad. The two men sneak into the controlled area through a metal door, make it to the Communications Tower, and speak with a guard. Mury offers to show his credentials as Poligerent, and surprises the guard with a punch to the gut. Mury takes the officer’s gun, points it at him, and demands he accompany them. Ryd nervously points his flame pistol at the guard and drops his weapon. The weapon goes off and its flame hits some machinery. This gives the pilot pause, and Mury hurries to the control room and takes over the situation. There are three workers there who become his hostages. He explains to the men that he’s taking Shahrazad into space to meet the power shell. When the ship takes off, Ryd passes out from the pressure of the acceleration. When he wakes, Mury assures him that they are on the right path, somewhere near the orbit of the Moon. However, Mury quickly finds out that his masterful plan has been foiled when one of his prisoners, the astrogator, informs him that a ship named the Alboroak is approaching, and it’s about to intercept them.

<s> Saboteur of Space By ROBERT ABERNATHY Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships. Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight. Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive. The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America. The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face. Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened. Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered. No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd. The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since— Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you. He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply. The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl. <doc-sep>Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of anyplain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybodyhe had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with abeak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak forthe thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over theface, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert andalmost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-graycellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'. Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you. What's the idea? demanded Ryd, his small store of natural couragefloated to the top by alcohol. The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself.He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly anddistinctly. Would you care to make some money, my friend? Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so— Then come with me. The hand still on his arm was insistent. In hisdaze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggishcrowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and madefrantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall strangerfumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out,past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out itsendlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark. Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in onthem. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath,long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air. So you're Ryd Randl, repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight. Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. Look, he gasped. Ifyou're a cop, say so! The other laughed shortly. No. I'm just a man about to offer you achance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—youcan call me Mury. Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about thetall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' withhis first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to hiseyes. How long have you been out of a job, Ryd? Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you? And why, Ryd? Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator. He hunched his narrowshoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. Damngood one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have thephysique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought theplant was going to open again and— And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burningactinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine.And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars itsfull economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; andthere is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than twoin ten could live healthily on the outer world. Ten years ago, Mury nodded as if satisfied. That must have been thePower Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself,that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close downoutside the military bases in the Kun Lun. Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence inthis strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too fewmen who talked his language. He burst out: They wouldn't take me, damnthem! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn'thave a drag with any of the Poligerents. I know all about your record, said Mury softly. Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his oldkicked-dog manner. How do you know? And what's it to you? <doc-sep>All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face himsquarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not farfrom where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the TriplanetFreighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smiletwisted Mury's thin lips. Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as anindividual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I amworking—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government andsold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, afterthey've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offeredtheir hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only tobe refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy norcapitulate frankly to him. Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with suchideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. Areyou talking about the power cylinder? he demanded blurrily. Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martiancargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He saidsimply, Yes. I don't get it, mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he hadheard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: Thepower cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot inthe arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis.It will turn the wheels and light the cities and— To hell with that! snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came upslightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. Don'tyou know you're repeating damnable lies? Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with apassion shocking after his smooth calm: The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirtypieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations havesold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage andvision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapableconflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man,a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the greatMartian land-owners? Do you? He paused out of breath; then finishedvenomously, Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaperthan robots—cheap as slaves ! What about it? gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. What youwant me to do about it? Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face wasonce more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. We'regoing to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now. Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,What's that mean? The power shell—isn't coming in as planned. You can't do that. We can, said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. And thereare fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us? Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thingcertainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, bythis man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, andpanclasm—that was We . The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, withan effort, said, Sure. A moment later it struck him that themonosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, I got nothing tolose, see? It was, he realized, the cold truth. You won't lose, said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace withwhich he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way theyhad come. Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without hisvolition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing toplacate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whateverhappened.... After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, andwhined, Where ... where we going now? Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of thegray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, hepointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawnseemed breaking over Pi Mesa. II One blow for freedom! said Mury with caught breath. His voice fellupon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that hadkilled the guard. The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inkymoon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards todrop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of thelong, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps andservicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, alittle stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now.He was caught in the machinery. Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testingthe weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a shortwrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grownthe aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after Stateorder had grounded all fliers in America. All right, Ryd, he said coolly. Trade clothes with this fellow. I'vebrought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way. The rest of the way. Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuousexertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from theguarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air,shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard'suniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting ashe clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weaponsto recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol,powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strongfingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start intothe sardonic black eyes of the Panclast. No use now for firearms, said Mury. All the guns we could carrywouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just astage property for the little play we're going to give in about threeminutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent ofDynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad . For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatredof Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotagethe Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long,low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towshipwould also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air. Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a lightscraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his handsand face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light.He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of asmall, disused metal door. Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears savefor the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. Itseemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knewhow to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering. The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside,and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. Thesame automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started theair-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out thelong-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in. <doc-sep>It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressingwalls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted theceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the controlcupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin filmof dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches ofthe disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metaldoor marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runwaydown which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, andlaunched into the sky once more by now dormant machines. Wait, said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, hislong legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence,he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead. They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile tothe right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with manylights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlightsshed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-longrunways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis'glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handfulof odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port hadberthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together bythe chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa. As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense ofprotective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport.Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofedbuildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance mustmean safety for them. And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watchingfor all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but onceinside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough.Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last,inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower. Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in themidst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies,their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with twoofficers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet.Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredlyenough. And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of NumberTwo Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massivemagnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds ofsteam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped outof Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must besounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now. Relax, said Mury in a low voice. Nothing's gone wrong. We'll beaboard the Shahrazad when she lifts. For a moment his black eyesshifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay therebeyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, withblind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters.It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leavingagain very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommodingits crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect andimmobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet. Robots! gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.Martian soldier robots! They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-inweapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. ForGod's sake, take it easy. Ryd licked dry lips. Are we going—out into space? Where else? said Mury. <doc-sep>The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hathad reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thoughtto question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformedguardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yardsfrom the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it cameabout—just a little too late. The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behavingpair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growinguneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an anklein sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, betweenthe solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the otherin perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notablesattracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safetyby the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up. The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder andvanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on thetopmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face,but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation. Yes? he inquired frostily. What goes on here? snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figuresilhouetted against the glow in the airlock. The crew's signaled allaboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be— I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis, interruptedthe tall man with asperity. The City is naturally interested in thedelivery of the power which will revivify our industries. He paused,sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. Isuppose you'll want to re-check my credentials? The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-centurybureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nodwith an appearance of brusqueness. Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all thepompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receiveinstead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and ashe reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gunno longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent,pointing at its licensed owner. I think, Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care thewhile his right held the gun steady, that you'd better come aboardwith us. The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointedcivic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than theancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with bothhands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still verysick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous. Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curvedwall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrablecountersunk mirror of metal. Cover him, Ryd, ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged outthe heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerouslytremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice hisfears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch onthe side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock. Nothing happened. Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped! The outer gangway had slid up,the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel. <doc-sep>Mury smiled with supernal calm. We won't be here long, he said.Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: The central control panel andthe three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks areon the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from theswitch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the centralcontrol panel is cut out in preparation for lifting. Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switchhe had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets.Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip ashe slipped cat-like into the passage. Keep him covered. Back out of the lock. Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his ownnervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metalpressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clatteringsomewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall. He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning,back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggledto keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from acrouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firinglever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switchoutside. The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant,the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and ascorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the oppositelock a foot from Mury's right shoulder. You damned clumsy little fool— said Mury with soft intensity. Then,while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped withblue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in twoquick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in thestarboard airlock. Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash Ready tothe Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. Butthe latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clampedin their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless inan instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisonedguardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in hislittle cell of steel. It's been tried before, said one of the masked men. He had a blond,youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together withan astrogator's triangled stars which made him ex officio the brainsof the vessel. Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more. It's been done again, said Mury grimly. And you don't know the halfof it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends— The gunmuzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. Out ofthose clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock. He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, beforethey started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor fromthemselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor;the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sittingstill masked and apparently unmoved, demanded: What do you think you're trying to do? What do you think? demanded Mury in return. I'm taking the shipinto space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell. Theflame gun moved with a jerk. And as for you—what's your name? Yet Arliess. You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess? The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through maskinggoggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. Why, yes, hesaid as if in wonder, I do. III Shahrazad drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightlyto the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, crampedcabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before itsbanked dials, watching their steady needles. Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousnessdraining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out intoemptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in themaindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushedhim; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forcesand lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up andup, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lostevery sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away underthe towship's keel. A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and thecontrol panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lightsconfused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In thecontrol room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insecthum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinninggyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of theengines. Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd, he said dryly. That doesn'tmean you, to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat inthe pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his glovedhands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to thesloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun. Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook hishead groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. Heventured shakily, Where are we? Mury smiled slightly. Only our astrogator, he indicated Arliess,still masked and fettered, can tell you that with precision. Iunderstand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that heis holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... heis an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions ofduty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit ofthe Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess? The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before himthrough his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lightsburned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminoustracks. Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly,he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frameseemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks oflight. What's that, Arliess? The astrogator broke his silence. A ship. I know that well enough. What ship? I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you thatthat's the liner Alborak , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic missionfor Mars. Mury shook his head regretfully. That won't wash, Arliess. Even if yousuppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of thatdrive. I don't know what you're talking about, said Arliess. But his voicewas raw and unsteady. I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking forus—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story takes place in Dynamopolis, a city in North America, in the year 819. The city is flooded with searchlights, although there is very little power to go around. The Terrestrials must gather at the local bar, Stumble Inn, if they do not want to freeze to death. At one point, Dynamopolis was a wealthy city, known as the Port of Ten Thousand Ships. About ten years ago, the Power Company of North America and the Triplanet Freighting Company were shut down, and the majority of the Terrestrials lost their jobs. The only people with political power are the Poligerents, and unless a Terrestrial knows one of them, he or she is likely left without a way to make ends meet. The Terrestrials were recently told that the power will be restored once the power shell is put on Earth. The air is thin, but the Terrestrials have become accustomed to it.Pi Mesa is the spaceport that hovers over the city. There are still unused ships hovering there from the days where it was an important port with lots of action. Just outside of Pi Mesa there are hundreds of low buildings that are abandoned because they are no longer useful. They contain fuel pumps and servicing equipment, and they serve as a constant reminder of the life the Terrestrials once lived. When Ryd and Mury break into the land patrolled by the guards in blue in the spaceport, they find narrow passages, spiral staircases, and cool metal walls covered in dust. The Communications Tower is nearby, and it is guarded by signal-men. The soldier robots that are on patrol are about as tall as the average Terrestrial, and they are scarlet colored. They are unarmed and are mostly there to scare intruders away. Mury and Ryd aim to get on a ship called Shahrazad, which rests on the Number Two Runway, waiting for takeoff. When they enter the ship, they find that the cabin is very hot and full of dials and needles. There is a curved control panel in front, and the ship makes a humming sound because of all of the air-purifiers onboard. Mars is an important setting in the story, although the characters do not actually travel there. Mars is almost airless, so it is very easy to run a helio-dynamic engine. On Mars, they use robots for labor, and due to a law that has been passed, Terrestrials are forced to stay on Earth.

<s> Saboteur of Space By ROBERT ABERNATHY Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships. Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight. Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive. The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America. The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face. Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened. Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered. No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd. The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since— Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you. He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply. The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl. <doc-sep>Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of anyplain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybodyhe had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with abeak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak forthe thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over theface, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert andalmost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-graycellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'. Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you. What's the idea? demanded Ryd, his small store of natural couragefloated to the top by alcohol. The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself.He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly anddistinctly. Would you care to make some money, my friend? Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so— Then come with me. The hand still on his arm was insistent. In hisdaze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggishcrowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and madefrantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall strangerfumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out,past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out itsendlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark. Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in onthem. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath,long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air. So you're Ryd Randl, repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight. Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. Look, he gasped. Ifyou're a cop, say so! The other laughed shortly. No. I'm just a man about to offer you achance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—youcan call me Mury. Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about thetall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' withhis first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to hiseyes. How long have you been out of a job, Ryd? Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you? And why, Ryd? Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator. He hunched his narrowshoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. Damngood one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have thephysique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought theplant was going to open again and— And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burningactinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine.And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars itsfull economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; andthere is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than twoin ten could live healthily on the outer world. Ten years ago, Mury nodded as if satisfied. That must have been thePower Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself,that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close downoutside the military bases in the Kun Lun. Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence inthis strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too fewmen who talked his language. He burst out: They wouldn't take me, damnthem! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn'thave a drag with any of the Poligerents. I know all about your record, said Mury softly. Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his oldkicked-dog manner. How do you know? And what's it to you? <doc-sep>All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face himsquarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not farfrom where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the TriplanetFreighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smiletwisted Mury's thin lips. Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as anindividual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I amworking—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government andsold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, afterthey've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offeredtheir hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only tobe refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy norcapitulate frankly to him. Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with suchideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. Areyou talking about the power cylinder? he demanded blurrily. Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martiancargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He saidsimply, Yes. I don't get it, mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he hadheard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: Thepower cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot inthe arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis.It will turn the wheels and light the cities and— To hell with that! snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came upslightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. Don'tyou know you're repeating damnable lies? Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with apassion shocking after his smooth calm: The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirtypieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations havesold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage andvision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapableconflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man,a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the greatMartian land-owners? Do you? He paused out of breath; then finishedvenomously, Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaperthan robots—cheap as slaves ! What about it? gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. What youwant me to do about it? Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face wasonce more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. We'regoing to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now. Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,What's that mean? The power shell—isn't coming in as planned. You can't do that. We can, said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. And thereare fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us? Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thingcertainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, bythis man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, andpanclasm—that was We . The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, withan effort, said, Sure. A moment later it struck him that themonosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, I got nothing tolose, see? It was, he realized, the cold truth. You won't lose, said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace withwhich he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way theyhad come. Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without hisvolition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing toplacate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whateverhappened.... After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, andwhined, Where ... where we going now? Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of thegray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, hepointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawnseemed breaking over Pi Mesa. II One blow for freedom! said Mury with caught breath. His voice fellupon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that hadkilled the guard. The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inkymoon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards todrop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of thelong, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps andservicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, alittle stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now.He was caught in the machinery. Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testingthe weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a shortwrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grownthe aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after Stateorder had grounded all fliers in America. All right, Ryd, he said coolly. Trade clothes with this fellow. I'vebrought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way. The rest of the way. Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuousexertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from theguarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air,shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard'suniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting ashe clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weaponsto recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol,powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strongfingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start intothe sardonic black eyes of the Panclast. No use now for firearms, said Mury. All the guns we could carrywouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just astage property for the little play we're going to give in about threeminutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent ofDynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad . For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatredof Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotagethe Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long,low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towshipwould also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air. Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a lightscraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his handsand face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light.He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of asmall, disused metal door. Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears savefor the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. Itseemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knewhow to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering. The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside,and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. Thesame automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started theair-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out thelong-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in. <doc-sep>It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressingwalls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted theceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the controlcupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin filmof dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches ofthe disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metaldoor marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runwaydown which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, andlaunched into the sky once more by now dormant machines. Wait, said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, hislong legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence,he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead. They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile tothe right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with manylights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlightsshed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-longrunways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis'glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handfulof odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port hadberthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together bythe chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa. As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense ofprotective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport.Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofedbuildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance mustmean safety for them. And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watchingfor all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but onceinside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough.Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last,inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower. Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in themidst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies,their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with twoofficers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet.Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredlyenough. And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of NumberTwo Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massivemagnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds ofsteam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped outof Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must besounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now. Relax, said Mury in a low voice. Nothing's gone wrong. We'll beaboard the Shahrazad when she lifts. For a moment his black eyesshifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay therebeyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, withblind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters.It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leavingagain very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommodingits crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect andimmobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet. Robots! gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.Martian soldier robots! They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-inweapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. ForGod's sake, take it easy. Ryd licked dry lips. Are we going—out into space? Where else? said Mury. <doc-sep>The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hathad reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thoughtto question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformedguardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yardsfrom the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it cameabout—just a little too late. The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behavingpair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growinguneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an anklein sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, betweenthe solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the otherin perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notablesattracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safetyby the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up. The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder andvanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on thetopmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face,but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation. Yes? he inquired frostily. What goes on here? snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figuresilhouetted against the glow in the airlock. The crew's signaled allaboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be— I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis, interruptedthe tall man with asperity. The City is naturally interested in thedelivery of the power which will revivify our industries. He paused,sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. Isuppose you'll want to re-check my credentials? The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-centurybureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nodwith an appearance of brusqueness. Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all thepompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receiveinstead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and ashe reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gunno longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent,pointing at its licensed owner. I think, Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care thewhile his right held the gun steady, that you'd better come aboardwith us. The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointedcivic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than theancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with bothhands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still verysick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous. Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curvedwall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrablecountersunk mirror of metal. Cover him, Ryd, ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged outthe heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerouslytremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice hisfears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch onthe side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock. Nothing happened. Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped! The outer gangway had slid up,the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel. <doc-sep>Mury smiled with supernal calm. We won't be here long, he said.Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: The central control panel andthe three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks areon the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from theswitch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the centralcontrol panel is cut out in preparation for lifting. Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switchhe had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets.Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip ashe slipped cat-like into the passage. Keep him covered. Back out of the lock. Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his ownnervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metalpressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clatteringsomewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall. He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning,back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggledto keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from acrouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firinglever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switchoutside. The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant,the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and ascorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the oppositelock a foot from Mury's right shoulder. You damned clumsy little fool— said Mury with soft intensity. Then,while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped withblue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in twoquick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in thestarboard airlock. Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash Ready tothe Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. Butthe latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clampedin their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless inan instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisonedguardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in hislittle cell of steel. It's been tried before, said one of the masked men. He had a blond,youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together withan astrogator's triangled stars which made him ex officio the brainsof the vessel. Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more. It's been done again, said Mury grimly. And you don't know the halfof it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends— The gunmuzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. Out ofthose clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock. He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, beforethey started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor fromthemselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor;the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sittingstill masked and apparently unmoved, demanded: What do you think you're trying to do? What do you think? demanded Mury in return. I'm taking the shipinto space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell. Theflame gun moved with a jerk. And as for you—what's your name? Yet Arliess. You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess? The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through maskinggoggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. Why, yes, hesaid as if in wonder, I do. III Shahrazad drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightlyto the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, crampedcabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before itsbanked dials, watching their steady needles. Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousnessdraining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out intoemptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in themaindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushedhim; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forcesand lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up andup, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lostevery sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away underthe towship's keel. A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and thecontrol panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lightsconfused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In thecontrol room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insecthum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinninggyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of theengines. Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd, he said dryly. That doesn'tmean you, to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat inthe pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his glovedhands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to thesloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun. Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook hishead groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. Heventured shakily, Where are we? Mury smiled slightly. Only our astrogator, he indicated Arliess,still masked and fettered, can tell you that with precision. Iunderstand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that heis holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... heis an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions ofduty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit ofthe Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess? The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before himthrough his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lightsburned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminoustracks. Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly,he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frameseemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks oflight. What's that, Arliess? The astrogator broke his silence. A ship. I know that well enough. What ship? I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you thatthat's the liner Alborak , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic missionfor Mars. Mury shook his head regretfully. That won't wash, Arliess. Even if yousuppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of thatdrive. I don't know what you're talking about, said Arliess. But his voicewas raw and unsteady. I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking forus—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Mury is a tall and ugly man with a great deal of confidence. When he finds Ryd in the bar, he immediately asks him to step outside and confronts him with a proposition. He is not overly concerned about getting caught talking about rebellion, and he is resolute about his decision to try and take over the spaceship that is about to take off. Mury immediately gains Ryd’s trust when he sympathizes with him about losing his job ten years ago. They are on the same team, angry about the way the Terrestrials have been treated since all of the jobs moved to Mars. He is forceful with Ryd, and he stares at him intensely whenever he is questioned. Mury claims to work for all the men who have been disadvantaged by the corrupt government. He coldly tells Ryd that he means nothing to Mury as an individual, and he is only interested in saving the Terrestrials from becoming the Martians’ slaves. He believes that Earth is about to become a colony of Mars, and he is willing to risk his life to see that plan foiled. Mury’s tough attitude and willingness to act is demonstrated when he kills a guard by crushing his skull. He is unbothered by the incident and sees it as his only choice. Later, he pretends to be Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis for a moment, only so that he can punch another guard in the stomach, take his firearm, and shoot him. Mury is able to stay calm when Ryd loses his cool. Even when Ryd accidentally fires his weapon inside the central control panel room, Mury focuses on the mission at hand. When he finally takes control of the three men on board the Shahrazad and demands that they takeoff for Mars immediately, he is unfazed by their refusal. He snaps at the pilot and the other two workers and points his gun at them to indicate that he is dead serious about killing them if they do not comply. Mury is so sure of himself that it comes as a big surprise when the pilot tells him that he must not have looked at the log for the day. The Alborak is on a diplomatic mission to Mars, and it is something that Mury overlooked. He does not realize that the ship is fully aware that the Shahrazad has been hijacked, and it’s coming right for them.

<s> Saboteur of Space By ROBERT ABERNATHY Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships. Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight. Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive. The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America. The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face. Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened. Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered. No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd. The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since— Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you. He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply. The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl. <doc-sep>Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of anyplain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybodyhe had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with abeak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak forthe thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over theface, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert andalmost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-graycellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'. Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you. What's the idea? demanded Ryd, his small store of natural couragefloated to the top by alcohol. The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself.He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly anddistinctly. Would you care to make some money, my friend? Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so— Then come with me. The hand still on his arm was insistent. In hisdaze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggishcrowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and madefrantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall strangerfumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out,past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out itsendlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark. Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in onthem. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath,long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air. So you're Ryd Randl, repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight. Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. Look, he gasped. Ifyou're a cop, say so! The other laughed shortly. No. I'm just a man about to offer you achance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—youcan call me Mury. Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about thetall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' withhis first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to hiseyes. How long have you been out of a job, Ryd? Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you? And why, Ryd? Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator. He hunched his narrowshoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. Damngood one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have thephysique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought theplant was going to open again and— And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burningactinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine.And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars itsfull economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; andthere is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than twoin ten could live healthily on the outer world. Ten years ago, Mury nodded as if satisfied. That must have been thePower Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself,that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close downoutside the military bases in the Kun Lun. Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence inthis strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too fewmen who talked his language. He burst out: They wouldn't take me, damnthem! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn'thave a drag with any of the Poligerents. I know all about your record, said Mury softly. Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his oldkicked-dog manner. How do you know? And what's it to you? <doc-sep>All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face himsquarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not farfrom where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the TriplanetFreighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smiletwisted Mury's thin lips. Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as anindividual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I amworking—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government andsold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, afterthey've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offeredtheir hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only tobe refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy norcapitulate frankly to him. Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with suchideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. Areyou talking about the power cylinder? he demanded blurrily. Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martiancargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He saidsimply, Yes. I don't get it, mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he hadheard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: Thepower cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot inthe arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis.It will turn the wheels and light the cities and— To hell with that! snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came upslightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. Don'tyou know you're repeating damnable lies? Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with apassion shocking after his smooth calm: The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirtypieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations havesold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage andvision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapableconflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man,a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the greatMartian land-owners? Do you? He paused out of breath; then finishedvenomously, Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaperthan robots—cheap as slaves ! What about it? gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. What youwant me to do about it? Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face wasonce more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. We'regoing to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now. Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,What's that mean? The power shell—isn't coming in as planned. You can't do that. We can, said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. And thereare fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us? Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thingcertainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, bythis man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, andpanclasm—that was We . The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, withan effort, said, Sure. A moment later it struck him that themonosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, I got nothing tolose, see? It was, he realized, the cold truth. You won't lose, said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace withwhich he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way theyhad come. Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without hisvolition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing toplacate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whateverhappened.... After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, andwhined, Where ... where we going now? Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of thegray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, hepointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawnseemed breaking over Pi Mesa. II One blow for freedom! said Mury with caught breath. His voice fellupon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that hadkilled the guard. The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inkymoon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards todrop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of thelong, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps andservicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, alittle stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now.He was caught in the machinery. Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testingthe weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a shortwrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grownthe aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after Stateorder had grounded all fliers in America. All right, Ryd, he said coolly. Trade clothes with this fellow. I'vebrought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way. The rest of the way. Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuousexertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from theguarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air,shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard'suniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting ashe clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weaponsto recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol,powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strongfingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start intothe sardonic black eyes of the Panclast. No use now for firearms, said Mury. All the guns we could carrywouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just astage property for the little play we're going to give in about threeminutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent ofDynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad . For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatredof Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotagethe Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long,low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towshipwould also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air. Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a lightscraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his handsand face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light.He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of asmall, disused metal door. Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears savefor the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. Itseemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knewhow to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering. The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside,and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. Thesame automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started theair-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out thelong-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in. <doc-sep>It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressingwalls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted theceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the controlcupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin filmof dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches ofthe disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metaldoor marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runwaydown which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, andlaunched into the sky once more by now dormant machines. Wait, said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, hislong legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence,he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead. They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile tothe right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with manylights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlightsshed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-longrunways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis'glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handfulof odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port hadberthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together bythe chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa. As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense ofprotective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport.Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofedbuildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance mustmean safety for them. And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watchingfor all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but onceinside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough.Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last,inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower. Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in themidst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies,their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with twoofficers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet.Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredlyenough. And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of NumberTwo Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massivemagnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds ofsteam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped outof Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must besounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now. Relax, said Mury in a low voice. Nothing's gone wrong. We'll beaboard the Shahrazad when she lifts. For a moment his black eyesshifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay therebeyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, withblind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters.It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leavingagain very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommodingits crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect andimmobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet. Robots! gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.Martian soldier robots! They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-inweapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. ForGod's sake, take it easy. Ryd licked dry lips. Are we going—out into space? Where else? said Mury. <doc-sep>The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hathad reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thoughtto question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformedguardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yardsfrom the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it cameabout—just a little too late. The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behavingpair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growinguneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an anklein sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, betweenthe solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the otherin perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notablesattracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safetyby the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up. The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder andvanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on thetopmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face,but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation. Yes? he inquired frostily. What goes on here? snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figuresilhouetted against the glow in the airlock. The crew's signaled allaboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be— I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis, interruptedthe tall man with asperity. The City is naturally interested in thedelivery of the power which will revivify our industries. He paused,sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. Isuppose you'll want to re-check my credentials? The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-centurybureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nodwith an appearance of brusqueness. Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all thepompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receiveinstead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and ashe reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gunno longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent,pointing at its licensed owner. I think, Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care thewhile his right held the gun steady, that you'd better come aboardwith us. The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointedcivic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than theancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with bothhands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still verysick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous. Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curvedwall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrablecountersunk mirror of metal. Cover him, Ryd, ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged outthe heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerouslytremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice hisfears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch onthe side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock. Nothing happened. Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped! The outer gangway had slid up,the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel. <doc-sep>Mury smiled with supernal calm. We won't be here long, he said.Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: The central control panel andthe three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks areon the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from theswitch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the centralcontrol panel is cut out in preparation for lifting. Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switchhe had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets.Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip ashe slipped cat-like into the passage. Keep him covered. Back out of the lock. Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his ownnervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metalpressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clatteringsomewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall. He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning,back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggledto keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from acrouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firinglever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switchoutside. The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant,the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and ascorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the oppositelock a foot from Mury's right shoulder. You damned clumsy little fool— said Mury with soft intensity. Then,while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped withblue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in twoquick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in thestarboard airlock. Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash Ready tothe Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. Butthe latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clampedin their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless inan instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisonedguardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in hislittle cell of steel. It's been tried before, said one of the masked men. He had a blond,youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together withan astrogator's triangled stars which made him ex officio the brainsof the vessel. Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more. It's been done again, said Mury grimly. And you don't know the halfof it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends— The gunmuzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. Out ofthose clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock. He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, beforethey started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor fromthemselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor;the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sittingstill masked and apparently unmoved, demanded: What do you think you're trying to do? What do you think? demanded Mury in return. I'm taking the shipinto space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell. Theflame gun moved with a jerk. And as for you—what's your name? Yet Arliess. You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess? The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through maskinggoggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. Why, yes, hesaid as if in wonder, I do. III Shahrazad drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightlyto the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, crampedcabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before itsbanked dials, watching their steady needles. Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousnessdraining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out intoemptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in themaindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushedhim; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forcesand lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up andup, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lostevery sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away underthe towship's keel. A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and thecontrol panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lightsconfused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In thecontrol room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insecthum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinninggyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of theengines. Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd, he said dryly. That doesn'tmean you, to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat inthe pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his glovedhands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to thesloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun. Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook hishead groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. Heventured shakily, Where are we? Mury smiled slightly. Only our astrogator, he indicated Arliess,still masked and fettered, can tell you that with precision. Iunderstand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that heis holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... heis an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions ofduty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit ofthe Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess? The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before himthrough his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lightsburned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminoustracks. Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly,he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frameseemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks oflight. What's that, Arliess? The astrogator broke his silence. A ship. I know that well enough. What ship? I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you thatthat's the liner Alborak , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic missionfor Mars. Mury shook his head regretfully. That won't wash, Arliess. Even if yousuppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of thatdrive. I don't know what you're talking about, said Arliess. But his voicewas raw and unsteady. I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking forus—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The Earthmen are desolate because their ability to support themselves has been taken away by the people in power. Like many others, Ryd was a helio engineer, and he made a good living in the North American city of Dynamopolis. However, about a decade ago, all of the buildings were shuttered, and the Port of Ten Thousand Ships, Pi Mesa, was essentially closed. The people who live in Dynamopolis were actually luckier than other Terrestrials because theirs was the final port to close. The people in charge discovered that Mars has a thinner atmosphere, and they decided to move all of the work to the red planet. However, they did not transport the Terrestrials to a new land and give them an opportunity to continue working. Instead, they created robots who could easily do the humans’ jobs for a lot less money. Electricity is hard to come by on Dynamopolis, and the energy that is left goes to Pi Mesa. Although people like the local bartender, Burshis, believe the people in power when they say that energy will soon be restored when the power cylinder is brought to Earth, others, like Mury and Ryd, are much more skeptical. They see the writing on the wall: the Terrestrials will continue to be used and abused, and all of the much-needed resources will go towards Mars, the new frontier.

<s> Saboteur of Space By ROBERT ABERNATHY Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships. Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight. Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive. The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America. The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face. Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened. Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered. No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd. The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since— Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you. He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply. The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl. <doc-sep>Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of anyplain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybodyhe had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with abeak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak forthe thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over theface, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert andalmost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-graycellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'. Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you. What's the idea? demanded Ryd, his small store of natural couragefloated to the top by alcohol. The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself.He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly anddistinctly. Would you care to make some money, my friend? Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so— Then come with me. The hand still on his arm was insistent. In hisdaze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggishcrowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and madefrantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall strangerfumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out,past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out itsendlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark. Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in onthem. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath,long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air. So you're Ryd Randl, repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight. Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. Look, he gasped. Ifyou're a cop, say so! The other laughed shortly. No. I'm just a man about to offer you achance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—youcan call me Mury. Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about thetall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' withhis first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to hiseyes. How long have you been out of a job, Ryd? Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you? And why, Ryd? Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator. He hunched his narrowshoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. Damngood one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have thephysique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought theplant was going to open again and— And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burningactinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine.And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars itsfull economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; andthere is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than twoin ten could live healthily on the outer world. Ten years ago, Mury nodded as if satisfied. That must have been thePower Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself,that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close downoutside the military bases in the Kun Lun. Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence inthis strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too fewmen who talked his language. He burst out: They wouldn't take me, damnthem! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn'thave a drag with any of the Poligerents. I know all about your record, said Mury softly. Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his oldkicked-dog manner. How do you know? And what's it to you? <doc-sep>All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face himsquarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not farfrom where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the TriplanetFreighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smiletwisted Mury's thin lips. Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as anindividual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I amworking—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government andsold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, afterthey've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offeredtheir hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only tobe refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy norcapitulate frankly to him. Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with suchideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. Areyou talking about the power cylinder? he demanded blurrily. Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martiancargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He saidsimply, Yes. I don't get it, mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he hadheard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: Thepower cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot inthe arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis.It will turn the wheels and light the cities and— To hell with that! snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came upslightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. Don'tyou know you're repeating damnable lies? Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with apassion shocking after his smooth calm: The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirtypieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations havesold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage andvision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapableconflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man,a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the greatMartian land-owners? Do you? He paused out of breath; then finishedvenomously, Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaperthan robots—cheap as slaves ! What about it? gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. What youwant me to do about it? Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face wasonce more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. We'regoing to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now. Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,What's that mean? The power shell—isn't coming in as planned. You can't do that. We can, said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. And thereare fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us? Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thingcertainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, bythis man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, andpanclasm—that was We . The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, withan effort, said, Sure. A moment later it struck him that themonosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, I got nothing tolose, see? It was, he realized, the cold truth. You won't lose, said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace withwhich he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way theyhad come. Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without hisvolition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing toplacate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whateverhappened.... After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, andwhined, Where ... where we going now? Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of thegray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, hepointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawnseemed breaking over Pi Mesa. II One blow for freedom! said Mury with caught breath. His voice fellupon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that hadkilled the guard. The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inkymoon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards todrop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of thelong, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps andservicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, alittle stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now.He was caught in the machinery. Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testingthe weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a shortwrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grownthe aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after Stateorder had grounded all fliers in America. All right, Ryd, he said coolly. Trade clothes with this fellow. I'vebrought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way. The rest of the way. Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuousexertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from theguarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air,shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard'suniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting ashe clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weaponsto recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol,powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strongfingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start intothe sardonic black eyes of the Panclast. No use now for firearms, said Mury. All the guns we could carrywouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just astage property for the little play we're going to give in about threeminutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent ofDynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad . For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatredof Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotagethe Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long,low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towshipwould also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air. Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a lightscraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his handsand face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light.He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of asmall, disused metal door. Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears savefor the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. Itseemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knewhow to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering. The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside,and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. Thesame automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started theair-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out thelong-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in. <doc-sep>It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressingwalls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted theceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the controlcupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin filmof dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches ofthe disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metaldoor marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runwaydown which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, andlaunched into the sky once more by now dormant machines. Wait, said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, hislong legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence,he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead. They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile tothe right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with manylights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlightsshed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-longrunways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis'glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handfulof odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port hadberthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together bythe chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa. As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense ofprotective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport.Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofedbuildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance mustmean safety for them. And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watchingfor all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but onceinside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough.Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last,inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower. Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in themidst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies,their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with twoofficers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet.Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredlyenough. And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of NumberTwo Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massivemagnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds ofsteam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped outof Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must besounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now. Relax, said Mury in a low voice. Nothing's gone wrong. We'll beaboard the Shahrazad when she lifts. For a moment his black eyesshifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay therebeyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, withblind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters.It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leavingagain very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommodingits crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect andimmobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet. Robots! gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.Martian soldier robots! They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-inweapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. ForGod's sake, take it easy. Ryd licked dry lips. Are we going—out into space? Where else? said Mury. <doc-sep>The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hathad reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thoughtto question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformedguardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yardsfrom the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it cameabout—just a little too late. The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behavingpair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growinguneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an anklein sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, betweenthe solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the otherin perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notablesattracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safetyby the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up. The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder andvanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on thetopmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face,but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation. Yes? he inquired frostily. What goes on here? snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figuresilhouetted against the glow in the airlock. The crew's signaled allaboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be— I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis, interruptedthe tall man with asperity. The City is naturally interested in thedelivery of the power which will revivify our industries. He paused,sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. Isuppose you'll want to re-check my credentials? The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-centurybureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nodwith an appearance of brusqueness. Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all thepompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receiveinstead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and ashe reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gunno longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent,pointing at its licensed owner. I think, Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care thewhile his right held the gun steady, that you'd better come aboardwith us. The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointedcivic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than theancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with bothhands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still verysick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous. Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curvedwall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrablecountersunk mirror of metal. Cover him, Ryd, ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged outthe heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerouslytremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice hisfears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch onthe side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock. Nothing happened. Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped! The outer gangway had slid up,the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel. <doc-sep>Mury smiled with supernal calm. We won't be here long, he said.Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: The central control panel andthe three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks areon the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from theswitch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the centralcontrol panel is cut out in preparation for lifting. Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switchhe had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets.Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip ashe slipped cat-like into the passage. Keep him covered. Back out of the lock. Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his ownnervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metalpressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clatteringsomewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall. He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning,back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggledto keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from acrouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firinglever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switchoutside. The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant,the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and ascorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the oppositelock a foot from Mury's right shoulder. You damned clumsy little fool— said Mury with soft intensity. Then,while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped withblue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in twoquick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in thestarboard airlock. Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash Ready tothe Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. Butthe latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clampedin their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless inan instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisonedguardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in hislittle cell of steel. It's been tried before, said one of the masked men. He had a blond,youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together withan astrogator's triangled stars which made him ex officio the brainsof the vessel. Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more. It's been done again, said Mury grimly. And you don't know the halfof it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends— The gunmuzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. Out ofthose clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock. He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, beforethey started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor fromthemselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor;the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sittingstill masked and apparently unmoved, demanded: What do you think you're trying to do? What do you think? demanded Mury in return. I'm taking the shipinto space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell. Theflame gun moved with a jerk. And as for you—what's your name? Yet Arliess. You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess? The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through maskinggoggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. Why, yes, hesaid as if in wonder, I do. III Shahrazad drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightlyto the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, crampedcabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before itsbanked dials, watching their steady needles. Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousnessdraining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out intoemptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in themaindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushedhim; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forcesand lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up andup, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lostevery sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away underthe towship's keel. A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and thecontrol panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lightsconfused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In thecontrol room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insecthum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinninggyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of theengines. Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd, he said dryly. That doesn'tmean you, to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat inthe pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his glovedhands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to thesloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun. Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook hishead groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. Heventured shakily, Where are we? Mury smiled slightly. Only our astrogator, he indicated Arliess,still masked and fettered, can tell you that with precision. Iunderstand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that heis holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... heis an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions ofduty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit ofthe Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess? The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before himthrough his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lightsburned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminoustracks. Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly,he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frameseemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks oflight. What's that, Arliess? The astrogator broke his silence. A ship. I know that well enough. What ship? I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you thatthat's the liner Alborak , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic missionfor Mars. Mury shook his head regretfully. That won't wash, Arliess. Even if yousuppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of thatdrive. I don't know what you're talking about, said Arliess. But his voicewas raw and unsteady. I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking forus—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most! <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Ryd is a resentful and skeptical person because he has been without a job for at least ten years. His only solace comes from drinking at Burshis’ Stumble Inn, where he can pretend that no one knows him and have a nice chat with the bar owner. He knows he was a good helio engineer, and he is fully aware that he did not deserve to have his job ripped from his hands. When the bartender suggests that he will have a new job soon, Ryd thinks to himself that anyone who wants to give him a job can screw off. He has been without one for too long to even know how to manage it. Ryd is also skeptical of people around him. When Mury approaches him at the bar, he notices right away that Mury seems out of place in the way that he’s dressed. He also gives Mury an attitude when the man starts a conversation with him. He has learned not to trust many people, so he acts contrary to his natural intuition when he listens to Mury and almost immediately believes he has his best interest in mind.Ryd is not a trained spy or someone who has a lot of experience with committing crimes, so he is very out of place on his mission with Mury. He is jumpy, anxious, and concerned for his safety throughout the job. He is so uncomfortable holding a weapon that he actually drops his flame pistol in a control room and nearly starts a fire. He leaves the dirty work to Mury, and he does not offer to shoot anyone or engage in combat or do anything that isn’t directly asked of him. Ryd goes along for the ride because he is afraid that Mury will kill him if he backs out of the mission, and he also realizes that Mury’s plan may be the only thing that saves men like him from becoming slaves.

<s><doc-sep>class=chap/> THE SERPENT RIVER By Don Wilcox [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Other Worlds May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] <doc-sep>class=chap/> The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no shotgun weddings of the worlds of space! <doc-sep>class=chap/> Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see. It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like something thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface. There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance. We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon. What was it? Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly. We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs. Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment. I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse! Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'. Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A— Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit? Yes sir. Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly? Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden. What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before? No sir. Well, what about it? Any comments? Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir? Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax! Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline. He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee. Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken. Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused. What do you see? I asked. I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny— You're seeing some sort of object? Yes sir. What sort of object? A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes— A man ? To all appearances, sir— You bounder, give me that telescope! <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>class=chap/> 3. They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death. Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre. Captain— Jim ! You're not going to let this happen! Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger. Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall. Can we shoot a ray, Jim? I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split could drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order. We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party. Jim, can we shoot? Hit number sixteen, Campbell. Split touched the number sixteen signal. The ship's siren wailed out over the land. You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing. Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us. Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him. He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled. Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship. We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs. Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak. Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive. Then the siren went off. The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose. I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars. As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck. Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself. Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo. We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak. Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure. Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs. By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships. Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo. Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering: Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o! See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed. It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe. Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren. See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path. See—o—see—o! Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them. Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair. I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits. The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly. Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa warning ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you. I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran. They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs. But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him. His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness. Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head. I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence. <doc-sep>class=chap/> 4. Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious. I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness. Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell. S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream. The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language. Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell? Quiet, Captain. Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see. It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her? Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope? One of them. And what of the other? There were two together. I remember— Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently. After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code? Of course not, Captain. Section Four? Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding— I interrupted. Clause D? He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning yourself ? At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself. In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born. Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out. I wanted to see her. So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand. I regained my health gradually. Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak. It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves. And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams. The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars. I have learned to talk, I said. You have had a long sleep. I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon. We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other. I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the serpentriver . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent. I made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak. You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely. I get well, I said. The blow on the head, he said, was not meant. I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well! The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone. She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak. Now! he shouted. Alone. He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak. From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed. But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back. (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?) Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back. Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling. While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world. There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber. We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the Kao-Wagwattl , the ever moving rope of life , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl they shall ride with us across the land . <doc-sep>class=chap/><doc-sep></s>

Captain Linden and his lieutenant "Split" Campbell make up the first manned expedition from Earth to this particular planet, aiming to investigate a large silver river on its surface. The seemingly-endless silvery strip that traveled the planet's surface was unidentifiable as of yet. They see the river-like thing early on, but Campbell spots a humanoid through his telescope--this being is much like a human man, including the fact that he wore clothing. Captain Linden decides it's time for introductions, as if he senses he can trust this being, but they watch as a female and then many other people join the first man on the surface, seemingly coming out of an underground city. Linden and Campbell think their ship is out of sight, and watch a ritual that the man is performing to the setting sun. The crowd of people continues to increase, and Linden notices that the landscape is moving: trees are shifting in the ground. He and Campbell stay in the ship and observe the various types of clothing and the ritual itself, as well as the moving trees which seemed to be moving to attack the people. They are indeed warriors starting an attack, and started swinging weapons. Linden tells Campbell to start the siren on their ship to scare away the attackers, and the first man they'd seen, presumably the leader, starts towards the ship. Once they are close enough, it is obvious that the humanoids don't have eyebrows or eye lashes. Captain Linden hands the leader a medallion that plays a song, as a token of friendship. Tomboldo, the leader, starts a round of introductions through a lot of gesturing. Linden hopes to learn about the Serpent River through the people to understand its cultural significance, and these people start to ask about the siren noises. The warriors attack again and panic ensues, pushing the humans to use weapons this time. Gravgak, the guard who had been escorting the humans, is knocked down. As Linden tries to tend to him, Gravgak knocks him out with his club. Linden is unconscious for a few weeks, and Vauna, Tomboldo's daughter, spends a lot of time by the Captian's side. Linden reminds Campbell that they weren't allowed to marry anyone from this planet, but mostly in an effort to warn himself to be careful around Vauna. He learns that these people are called the Benzendellas. Tomboldo is baffled by the technology that the humans have, but Linden is not able to communicate his questions about the Serpent River. He sees Gravgak, who apologizes for the accidental injury, but from Vauna's reaction Linden is not sure if he is telling the truth. Gravgak insists on talking to Vauna in private, but Vauna's father calls them back. It is Tomboldo's thanks to the humans that gives a glimpse into the meaning of the Serpent River: he says the humans will ride with them on the rope of life, which they call Kao-Wagwattl.

<s><doc-sep>class=chap/> THE SERPENT RIVER By Don Wilcox [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Other Worlds May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] <doc-sep>class=chap/> The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no shotgun weddings of the worlds of space! <doc-sep>class=chap/> Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see. It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like something thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface. There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance. We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon. What was it? Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly. We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs. Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment. I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse! Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'. Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A— Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit? Yes sir. Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly? Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden. What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before? No sir. Well, what about it? Any comments? Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir? Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax! Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline. He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee. Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken. Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused. What do you see? I asked. I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny— You're seeing some sort of object? Yes sir. What sort of object? A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes— A man ? To all appearances, sir— You bounder, give me that telescope! <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>class=chap/> 3. They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death. Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre. Captain— Jim ! You're not going to let this happen! Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger. Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall. Can we shoot a ray, Jim? I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split could drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order. We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party. Jim, can we shoot? Hit number sixteen, Campbell. Split touched the number sixteen signal. The ship's siren wailed out over the land. You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing. Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us. Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him. He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled. Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship. We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs. Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak. Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive. Then the siren went off. The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose. I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars. As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck. Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself. Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo. We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak. Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure. Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs. By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships. Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo. Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering: Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o! See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed. It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe. Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren. See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path. See—o—see—o! Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them. Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair. I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits. The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly. Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa warning ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you. I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran. They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs. But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him. His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness. Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head. I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence. <doc-sep>class=chap/> 4. Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious. I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness. Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell. S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream. The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language. Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell? Quiet, Captain. Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see. It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her? Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope? One of them. And what of the other? There were two together. I remember— Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently. After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code? Of course not, Captain. Section Four? Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding— I interrupted. Clause D? He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning yourself ? At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself. In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born. Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out. I wanted to see her. So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand. I regained my health gradually. Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak. It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves. And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams. The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars. I have learned to talk, I said. You have had a long sleep. I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon. We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other. I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the serpentriver . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent. I made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak. You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely. I get well, I said. The blow on the head, he said, was not meant. I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well! The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone. She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak. Now! he shouted. Alone. He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak. From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed. But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back. (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?) Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back. Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling. While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world. There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber. We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the Kao-Wagwattl , the ever moving rope of life , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl they shall ride with us across the land . <doc-sep>class=chap/><doc-sep></s>

Gravgak is a guard who serves under Tomboldo, the leader of the Benzendella people, and escorts the humans after they meet. He is tall and muscular, with piercing eyes, and his limbs are painted with diamonds in green and black. He is knocked down during the second attack, and when Linden tries to tend to him, Gravgak knocks him out with his club. After Linden comes to a few weeks later, Gravgak apologizes for accidentally knocking him out, but it's not clear if he is being sincere about it being an accident. Linden's suspicions primarily come from Vauna's reaction, but Gravgak seems to hold some power over Vauna and Linden is not able to learn what Gravgak's true intentions are.

<s><doc-sep>class=chap/> THE SERPENT RIVER By Don Wilcox [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Other Worlds May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] <doc-sep>class=chap/> The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no shotgun weddings of the worlds of space! <doc-sep>class=chap/> Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see. It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like something thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface. There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance. We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon. What was it? Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly. We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs. Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment. I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse! Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'. Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A— Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit? Yes sir. Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly? Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden. What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before? No sir. Well, what about it? Any comments? Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir? Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax! Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline. He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee. Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken. Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused. What do you see? I asked. I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny— You're seeing some sort of object? Yes sir. What sort of object? A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes— A man ? To all appearances, sir— You bounder, give me that telescope! <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>class=chap/> 3. They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death. Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre. Captain— Jim ! You're not going to let this happen! Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger. Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall. Can we shoot a ray, Jim? I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split could drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order. We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party. Jim, can we shoot? Hit number sixteen, Campbell. Split touched the number sixteen signal. The ship's siren wailed out over the land. You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing. Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us. Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him. He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled. Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship. We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs. Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak. Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive. Then the siren went off. The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose. I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars. As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck. Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself. Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo. We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak. Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure. Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs. By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships. Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo. Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering: Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o! See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed. It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe. Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren. See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path. See—o—see—o! Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them. Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair. I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits. The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly. Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa warning ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you. I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran. They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs. But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him. His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness. Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head. I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence. <doc-sep>class=chap/> 4. Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious. I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness. Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell. S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream. The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language. Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell? Quiet, Captain. Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see. It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her? Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope? One of them. And what of the other? There were two together. I remember— Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently. After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code? Of course not, Captain. Section Four? Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding— I interrupted. Clause D? He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning yourself ? At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself. In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born. Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out. I wanted to see her. So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand. I regained my health gradually. Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak. It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves. And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams. The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars. I have learned to talk, I said. You have had a long sleep. I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon. We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other. I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the serpentriver . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent. I made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak. You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely. I get well, I said. The blow on the head, he said, was not meant. I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well! The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone. She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak. Now! he shouted. Alone. He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak. From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed. But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back. (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?) Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back. Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling. While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world. There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber. We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the Kao-Wagwattl , the ever moving rope of life , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl they shall ride with us across the land . <doc-sep>class=chap/><doc-sep></s>

When Linden and Campbell arrive at the planet, they are primarily interested in the snaking silver rope that travels around the continent like a river, but they notice some people seemingly coming from underground. As these people were performing a ritual, the humans noticed an impending attack from a different group, but didn't want to use weapons so they started a siren on their ship to distract the attackers. This siren did scare these attackers off for a while, and when Linden and Campbell started trying to communicate with the Benzendella people the only thing the Benzendellas could say was an imitation of the siren noise. It was this siren that saved the people from the initial attack, and thus made these people trust the humans, but was also the beginning of their attempts at communication. In an indirect way, using this siren is how the humans ended up with a chance to ask the Benzendella people about the Serpent River that they came to learn more about.

<s><doc-sep>class=chap/> THE SERPENT RIVER By Don Wilcox [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Other Worlds May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] <doc-sep>class=chap/> The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no shotgun weddings of the worlds of space! <doc-sep>class=chap/> Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see. It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like something thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface. There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance. We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon. What was it? Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly. We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs. Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment. I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse! Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'. Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A— Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit? Yes sir. Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly? Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden. What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before? No sir. Well, what about it? Any comments? Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir? Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax! Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline. He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee. Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken. Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused. What do you see? I asked. I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny— You're seeing some sort of object? Yes sir. What sort of object? A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes— A man ? To all appearances, sir— You bounder, give me that telescope! <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>class=chap/> 3. They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death. Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre. Captain— Jim ! You're not going to let this happen! Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger. Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall. Can we shoot a ray, Jim? I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split could drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order. We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party. Jim, can we shoot? Hit number sixteen, Campbell. Split touched the number sixteen signal. The ship's siren wailed out over the land. You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing. Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us. Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him. He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled. Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship. We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs. Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak. Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive. Then the siren went off. The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose. I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars. As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck. Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself. Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo. We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak. Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure. Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs. By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships. Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo. Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering: Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o! See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed. It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe. Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren. See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path. See—o—see—o! Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them. Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair. I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits. The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly. Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa warning ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you. I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran. They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs. But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him. His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness. Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head. I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence. <doc-sep>class=chap/> 4. Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious. I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness. Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell. S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream. The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language. Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell? Quiet, Captain. Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see. It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her? Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope? One of them. And what of the other? There were two together. I remember— Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently. After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code? Of course not, Captain. Section Four? Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding— I interrupted. Clause D? He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning yourself ? At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself. In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born. Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out. I wanted to see her. So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand. I regained my health gradually. Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak. It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves. And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams. The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars. I have learned to talk, I said. You have had a long sleep. I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon. We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other. I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the serpentriver . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent. I made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak. You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely. I get well, I said. The blow on the head, he said, was not meant. I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well! The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone. She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak. Now! he shouted. Alone. He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak. From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed. But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back. (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?) Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back. Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling. While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world. There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber. We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the Kao-Wagwattl , the ever moving rope of life , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl they shall ride with us across the land . <doc-sep>class=chap/><doc-sep></s>

Captain Linden is the leader of the first manned expedition from Earth to the planet that is inhabited by the Benzendella people. His sponsorship is from the Earth-Galaxy Good Will Expeditions, "EGGWE" for short. Because a previous rover had discovered a mysterious silver river and some humanoid creatures, Linden and his lieutenant were sent to discover more. He hoped that interacting with the humanoids would allow him to learn some cultural significance behind what he referred to as the Serpent River, which he also planned on studying scientifically. After he landed, while Campbell was monitoring the humanoids, he noticed that trees were moving towards the people, and sensed an incoming attack. He ordered Campbell to start a siren from their ship to distract the attackers, and later led the two of them to meet the local Benzendella people. He presented their leader with a token of friendship, a medallion that played music. As another attack started, and a guard fell, Linden tried to tend to the guard but was knocked out and did not regain consciousness for a few weeks. As he slowly healed and felt more normal, he had to warn himself to be careful around Vauna, the Benzendella leader's daughter, who had been watching him at his bedside. She was very beautiful, and he knew it was against mission code to marry locals.

<s><doc-sep>class=chap/> THE SERPENT RIVER By Don Wilcox [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Other Worlds May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] <doc-sep>class=chap/> The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no shotgun weddings of the worlds of space! <doc-sep>class=chap/> Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see. It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like something thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface. There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance. We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon. What was it? Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly. We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs. Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment. I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse! Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'. Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A— Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit? Yes sir. Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly? Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden. What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before? No sir. Well, what about it? Any comments? Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir? Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax! Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline. He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee. Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken. Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused. What do you see? I asked. I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny— You're seeing some sort of object? Yes sir. What sort of object? A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes— A man ? To all appearances, sir— You bounder, give me that telescope! <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>class=chap/> 3. They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death. Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre. Captain— Jim ! You're not going to let this happen! Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger. Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall. Can we shoot a ray, Jim? I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split could drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order. We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party. Jim, can we shoot? Hit number sixteen, Campbell. Split touched the number sixteen signal. The ship's siren wailed out over the land. You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing. Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us. Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him. He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled. Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship. We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs. Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak. Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive. Then the siren went off. The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose. I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars. As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck. Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself. Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo. We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak. Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure. Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs. By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships. Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo. Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering: Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o! See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed. It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe. Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren. See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path. See—o—see—o! Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them. Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair. I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits. The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly. Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa warning ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you. I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran. They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs. But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him. His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness. Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head. I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence. <doc-sep>class=chap/> 4. Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious. I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness. Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell. S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream. The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language. Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell? Quiet, Captain. Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see. It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her? Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope? One of them. And what of the other? There were two together. I remember— Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently. After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code? Of course not, Captain. Section Four? Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding— I interrupted. Clause D? He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning yourself ? At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself. In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born. Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out. I wanted to see her. So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand. I regained my health gradually. Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak. It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves. And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams. The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars. I have learned to talk, I said. You have had a long sleep. I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon. We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other. I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the serpentriver . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent. I made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak. You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely. I get well, I said. The blow on the head, he said, was not meant. I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well! The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone. She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak. Now! he shouted. Alone. He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak. From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed. But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back. (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?) Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back. Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling. While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world. There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber. We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the Kao-Wagwattl , the ever moving rope of life , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl they shall ride with us across the land . <doc-sep>class=chap/><doc-sep></s>

Linden is a fairly relaxed captain who is ready to perform his mission to code, but is almost amused at his lieutenant's inability to stray from code. He calls Campbell "Split" because he does everything so by-the-book that if he were combing his hair down the middle, he wouldn't be surprised if he split the hairs in the middle of his head for perfect symmetry. They seem to work well together, and Campbell is dedicated to his scientific mission and reviewing reports, while Linden reminds him to look at the window at the world around them, which offers a nice balance to their progress. Campbell clearly respects Linden a lot, and Linden is always kind to him and not rude or condescending, which is important for team cohesion on a mission away from a home planet.

<s> What is POSAT? By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course coming events cast their shadows before, but this shadow was 400 years long! The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines: MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS! What is the secret source of those profound principles that can solve the problems of life? Send for our FREE booklet of explanation. Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU can alter the course of your life! Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages! The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth POSAT an ancient secret society Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand. Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of YourLife and Psychology that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time. Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said. It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the Antivivisectionist Gazette the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible. Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in The Bulletin of Physical Research . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object. He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page. It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it. I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters. Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form. Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope. He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility. Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation. To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity. What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire. I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out! The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin. Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address? Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers! The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT? Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script. It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed. Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him. His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future. It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them. Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats. After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too. Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise. Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these? She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort. This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?' Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab? Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes? Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants? He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket? He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him. His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners. Dear Doctor Alford: We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you. The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps? It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning. Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home! But it was impossible! He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem! Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or— But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information. His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents? Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic. At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday. <doc-sep>At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms. It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT. He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell. The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect. The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary. Notthe Mata-Hari type , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter. She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room— She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it. The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis. The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor. Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things. Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud. Now I've done it! thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered. In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube. There were no wires! Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries. The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded. Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment! But this is impossible! he thought. We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction! And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth? The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now— With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked! A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous. Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice. Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find. She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman. But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony. Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it. His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened. He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent? His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world! Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain. Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply. You're the GrandChairman of POSAT? He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer? I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid. <doc-sep>Don stared at the scene below him. After his initial glance to confirmhis identification of Crandon, Don could not bear to look at him. Crandon's voice suddenly hardened, became abrupt. You're partly rightabout us, of course. I hate to think how many laws this organizationhas broken. Don't condemn us yet, though. You'll be a member yourselfbefore the day is over. Don was shocked by such confidence in his corruptibility. What do you use? he asked bitterly. Drugs? Hypnosis? Crandon sighed. I forgot how little you know, Don. I have a longstory to tell you. You'll find it hard to believe at first. But try totrust me. Try to believe me, as you once did. When I say that much ofwhat POSAT does is illegal, I do not mean immoral. We're probably themost moral organization in the world. Get over the idea that you havestumbled into a den of thieves. Crandon paused as though searching for words with which to continue. Did you notice the paintings in the waiting room as you entered? Don nodded, too bewildered to speak. They were donated by the founder of our Organization. They were partof his personal collection—which, incidentally, he bought from theartists themselves. He also designed the atomic reactor we use forpower here in the laboratory. Then the pictures are modern, said Don, aware that his mouth washanging open foolishly. I thought one was a Titian— It is, said Crandon. We have several original Titians, although Ireally don't know too much about them. But how could a man alive today buy paintings from an artist of theRenaissance? He is not alive today. POSAT is actually what our advertisementsclaim—an ancient secret society. Our founder has been dead for overfour centuries. But you said that he designed your atomic reactor. Yes. This particular one has been in use for only twenty years,however. Don's confusion was complete. Crandon looked at him kindly. Let'sstart at the beginning, he said, and Don was back again in theclassroom with the deep voice of Professor Crandon unfolding thepages of knowledge in clear and logical manner. Four hundred yearsago, in the time of the Italian Renaissance, a man lived who was asuper-genius. His was the kind of incredible mentality that appears notin every generation, or even every century, but once in thousands ofyears. Probably the man who invented what we call the phonetic alphabet wasone like him. That man lived seven thousand years ago in Mesopotamia,and his discovery was so original, so far from the natural courseof man's thinking, that not once in the intervening seven thousandyears has that device been rediscovered. It still exists only in thecivilizations to which it has been passed on directly. The super-genius who was our founder was not a semanticist. He wasa physical scientist and mathematician. Starting with the meagerheritage that existed in these fields in his time, he began tacklingphysical puzzles one by one. Sitting in his study, using as hisprincipal tool his own great mind, he invented calculus, developed thequantum theory of light, moved on to electromagnetic radiation and whatwe call Maxwell's equations—although, of course, he antedated Maxwellby centuries—developed the special and general theories of relativity,the tool of wave mechanics, and finally, toward the end of his life, hemathematically derived the packing fraction that describes the bindingenergy of nuclei— But it can't be done, Don objected. It's an observed phenomenon. Ithasn't been derived. Every conservative instinct that he possessedcried out against this impossible fantasy. And yet—there sat thereactor, sheathed in its strange shield. Crandon watched the directionof Don's glance. Yes, the reactor, said Crandon. He built one like it. It confirmedhis theories. His calculations showed him something else too. He sawthe destructive potentialities of an atomic explosion. He himself couldnot have built an atomic bomb; he didn't have the facilities. But hisknowledge would have enabled other men to do so. He looked abouthim. He saw a political setup of warring principalities, rival states,intrigue, and squabbles over political power. Giving the men of histime atomic energy would have been like handing a baby a firecrackerwith a lighted fuse. What should he have done? Let his secrets die with him? Hedidn't think so. No one else in his age could have derived theknowledge that he did. But it was an age of brilliant men. Leonardo.Michelangelo. There were men capable of learning his science, even asmen can learn it today. He gathered some of them together and foundedthis society. It served two purposes. It perpetuated his discoveriesand at the same time it maintained the greatest secrecy about them. Heurged that the secrets be kept until the time when men could use themsafely. The other purpose was to make that time come about as soon aspossible. Crandon looked at Don's unbelieving face. How can I make you see thatit is the truth? Think of the eons that man or manlike creatures havewalked the Earth. Think what a small fraction of that time is fourhundred years. Is it so strange that atomic energy was discovered alittle early, by this displacement in time that is so tiny after all? But by one man, Don argued. Crandon shrugged. Compared with him, Don, you and I are stupid men.So are the scientists who slowly plodded down the same road he hadcome, stumbling first on one truth and then the succeeding one. We knowthat inventions and discoveries do not occur at random. Each is basedon the one that preceded it. We are all aware of the phenomenon ofsimultaneous invention. The path to truth is a straight one. It is onlyour own stupidity that makes it seem slow and tortuous. He merely followed the straight path, Crandon finished simply. <doc-sep>Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility. But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him. Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time! Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them. Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster. For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank. Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed? Come with me, said Crandon. He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine. This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don? But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late? Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it! Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator. But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all. Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes. There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us. I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us? Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question. Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth? Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you? Don nodded, his tense features relaxing. Enroll me as a member, he said. <doc-sep></s>

In 1953, an advertisement for the Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth appears in magazines. The ad claims that POSAT is an ancient secret society looking for new members. Three individuals send away to receive a free booklet from them. Bill is a pharmacist who is down on his luck and out of a job. Elizabeth is a wealthy woman who lives with cats. Don is a research physicist who has a successful career and a wife, Betty. POSAT sends Bill, Elizabeth, and Don three identical forms in the mail and asks for their responses. Bill is initially skeptical, but he hopes that POSAT will be able to turn his life around in some unexpected way. He answers the questions about his employment, religion, and finances. Elizabeth does the same enthusiastically. Although Don believes it’s a scam, he can’t squash his own curiosity, and he sends his answers in.In return, Bill receives a pamphlet with vague descriptions for how to solve life’s problems. He finds the material useless, but he isn’t disappointed because he just landed a new job. Elizabeth discovers that she has been accepted into the society, and she must pay $5 a month. Lastly, Don receives a multiple choice exam, which he answers and sends back.Don receives a request to meet with the Grand Chairman at his work, and this surprises him because he never gave them his work address. He finds the warehouse and sees that it is windowless, rundown, and dirty. However, the waiting room contains beautiful rugs and paintings in ornate frames. He realizes that each painting is lit with a glowing tube that does not contain batteries, and he puts one of the lights in his pocket. It shocks him because his workplace is the only laboratory working on this exact product. He no longer trusts what is going on at POSAT and tries to leave, but the door is locked. Don is brought upstairs, and his fear increases when he looks into a high tech laboratory and sees scientists working on an atomic reactor. Dr. Crandon, Don’s former professor, appears and introduces himself as the Grand Chairman. He tells Don that POSAT has been around for over four hundred years, and its founder invented the atomic reactor. He did not have the technology to build it, and he realized that humanity was not ready for such a weapon. He decided to share his knowledge with other geniuses and keep it all a secret. Their goal was to get humanity to a point where information could be shared without the threat of violence and death. Crandon shows Don the world’s biggest computer, which is meant to learn humans’ motivation. Don’s test was put into the computer, and his responses indicate that he will join POSAT and be a valuable member. Bill was given a job to improve his life, and Elizabeth feels included and contributes financially. Don decides to join the secret society and work towards a more peaceful planet.

<s> What is POSAT? By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course coming events cast their shadows before, but this shadow was 400 years long! The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines: MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS! What is the secret source of those profound principles that can solve the problems of life? Send for our FREE booklet of explanation. Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU can alter the course of your life! Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages! The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth POSAT an ancient secret society Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand. Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of YourLife and Psychology that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time. Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said. It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the Antivivisectionist Gazette the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible. Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in The Bulletin of Physical Research . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object. He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page. It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it. I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters. Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form. Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope. He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility. Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation. To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity. What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire. I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out! The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin. Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address? Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers! The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT? Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script. It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed. Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him. His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future. It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them. Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats. After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too. Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise. Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these? She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort. This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?' Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab? Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes? Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants? He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket? He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him. His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners. Dear Doctor Alford: We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you. The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps? It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning. Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home! But it was impossible! He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem! Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or— But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information. His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents? Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic. At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday. <doc-sep>At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms. It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT. He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell. The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect. The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary. Notthe Mata-Hari type , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter. She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room— She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it. The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis. The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor. Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things. Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud. Now I've done it! thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered. In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube. There were no wires! Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries. The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded. Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment! But this is impossible! he thought. We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction! And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth? The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now— With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked! A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous. Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice. Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find. She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman. But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony. Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it. His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened. He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent? His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world! Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain. Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply. You're the GrandChairman of POSAT? He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer? I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid. <doc-sep>Don stared at the scene below him. After his initial glance to confirmhis identification of Crandon, Don could not bear to look at him. Crandon's voice suddenly hardened, became abrupt. You're partly rightabout us, of course. I hate to think how many laws this organizationhas broken. Don't condemn us yet, though. You'll be a member yourselfbefore the day is over. Don was shocked by such confidence in his corruptibility. What do you use? he asked bitterly. Drugs? Hypnosis? Crandon sighed. I forgot how little you know, Don. I have a longstory to tell you. You'll find it hard to believe at first. But try totrust me. Try to believe me, as you once did. When I say that much ofwhat POSAT does is illegal, I do not mean immoral. We're probably themost moral organization in the world. Get over the idea that you havestumbled into a den of thieves. Crandon paused as though searching for words with which to continue. Did you notice the paintings in the waiting room as you entered? Don nodded, too bewildered to speak. They were donated by the founder of our Organization. They were partof his personal collection—which, incidentally, he bought from theartists themselves. He also designed the atomic reactor we use forpower here in the laboratory. Then the pictures are modern, said Don, aware that his mouth washanging open foolishly. I thought one was a Titian— It is, said Crandon. We have several original Titians, although Ireally don't know too much about them. But how could a man alive today buy paintings from an artist of theRenaissance? He is not alive today. POSAT is actually what our advertisementsclaim—an ancient secret society. Our founder has been dead for overfour centuries. But you said that he designed your atomic reactor. Yes. This particular one has been in use for only twenty years,however. Don's confusion was complete. Crandon looked at him kindly. Let'sstart at the beginning, he said, and Don was back again in theclassroom with the deep voice of Professor Crandon unfolding thepages of knowledge in clear and logical manner. Four hundred yearsago, in the time of the Italian Renaissance, a man lived who was asuper-genius. His was the kind of incredible mentality that appears notin every generation, or even every century, but once in thousands ofyears. Probably the man who invented what we call the phonetic alphabet wasone like him. That man lived seven thousand years ago in Mesopotamia,and his discovery was so original, so far from the natural courseof man's thinking, that not once in the intervening seven thousandyears has that device been rediscovered. It still exists only in thecivilizations to which it has been passed on directly. The super-genius who was our founder was not a semanticist. He wasa physical scientist and mathematician. Starting with the meagerheritage that existed in these fields in his time, he began tacklingphysical puzzles one by one. Sitting in his study, using as hisprincipal tool his own great mind, he invented calculus, developed thequantum theory of light, moved on to electromagnetic radiation and whatwe call Maxwell's equations—although, of course, he antedated Maxwellby centuries—developed the special and general theories of relativity,the tool of wave mechanics, and finally, toward the end of his life, hemathematically derived the packing fraction that describes the bindingenergy of nuclei— But it can't be done, Don objected. It's an observed phenomenon. Ithasn't been derived. Every conservative instinct that he possessedcried out against this impossible fantasy. And yet—there sat thereactor, sheathed in its strange shield. Crandon watched the directionof Don's glance. Yes, the reactor, said Crandon. He built one like it. It confirmedhis theories. His calculations showed him something else too. He sawthe destructive potentialities of an atomic explosion. He himself couldnot have built an atomic bomb; he didn't have the facilities. But hisknowledge would have enabled other men to do so. He looked abouthim. He saw a political setup of warring principalities, rival states,intrigue, and squabbles over political power. Giving the men of histime atomic energy would have been like handing a baby a firecrackerwith a lighted fuse. What should he have done? Let his secrets die with him? Hedidn't think so. No one else in his age could have derived theknowledge that he did. But it was an age of brilliant men. Leonardo.Michelangelo. There were men capable of learning his science, even asmen can learn it today. He gathered some of them together and foundedthis society. It served two purposes. It perpetuated his discoveriesand at the same time it maintained the greatest secrecy about them. Heurged that the secrets be kept until the time when men could use themsafely. The other purpose was to make that time come about as soon aspossible. Crandon looked at Don's unbelieving face. How can I make you see thatit is the truth? Think of the eons that man or manlike creatures havewalked the Earth. Think what a small fraction of that time is fourhundred years. Is it so strange that atomic energy was discovered alittle early, by this displacement in time that is so tiny after all? But by one man, Don argued. Crandon shrugged. Compared with him, Don, you and I are stupid men.So are the scientists who slowly plodded down the same road he hadcome, stumbling first on one truth and then the succeeding one. We knowthat inventions and discoveries do not occur at random. Each is basedon the one that preceded it. We are all aware of the phenomenon ofsimultaneous invention. The path to truth is a straight one. It is onlyour own stupidity that makes it seem slow and tortuous. He merely followed the straight path, Crandon finished simply. <doc-sep>Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility. But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him. Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time! Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them. Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster. For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank. Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed? Come with me, said Crandon. He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine. This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don? But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late? Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it! Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator. But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all. Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes. There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us. I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us? Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question. Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth? Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you? Don nodded, his tense features relaxing. Enroll me as a member, he said. <doc-sep></s>

“What is POSAT?” takes place in an unspecified city. Three of the characters, Bill, Elizabeth, and Don, lead ordinary lives and hold typical jobs. Don is a physicist, and the laboratory he works at is located about 100 miles away from the POSAT headquarters. The POSAT headquarters is the main setting described in the story. It is located at the end of an alley in an unassuming warehouse, next to a wholesale pharmacy, an upholstery shop, and a printer’s plant. The building is almost entirely windowless, and the only sign that the secret society is housed there is the organization’s emblem on its door. Visitors enter a dark room with a staircase. A buzzer goes off to let the employees of POSAT know that someone has arrived. The reception room is dusty and highly unimpressive. The wallpaper and rugs are worn out and gray, and the woman who works at the beat-up reception desk is average looking. The next room that some visitors are allowed access to is entirely different from the first. There are gorgeous Renaissance paintings on the walls, framed with ornate gold decoration and lit up with individual lights. The rug is lush, and the room is impeccably clean. Finally, when visitors are invited to meet with the Grand Chairman, they must enter a balcony area located in the interior of the warehouse. There is a frosted glass door with the Grand Chairman’s name on it. On the lower floor, there is a laboratory that is visible from the balcony. The lab contains advanced equipment that is not available anywhere else in the world. It also houses an atomic reactor that is shielded by a bluish-green invention that is about an inch thick The shield is semi-transparent but also incredibly strong. Beneath the balcony, down a steep flight of stairs, there is a gigantic computing machine. Everything that goes on in the POSAT building must remain confidential, and very few individuals are told the secrets of the ancient society.

<s> What is POSAT? By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course coming events cast their shadows before, but this shadow was 400 years long! The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines: MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS! What is the secret source of those profound principles that can solve the problems of life? Send for our FREE booklet of explanation. Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU can alter the course of your life! Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages! The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth POSAT an ancient secret society Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand. Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of YourLife and Psychology that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time. Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said. It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the Antivivisectionist Gazette the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible. Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in The Bulletin of Physical Research . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object. He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page. It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it. I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters. Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form. Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope. He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility. Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation. To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity. What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire. I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out! The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin. Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address? Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers! The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT? Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script. It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed. Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him. His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future. It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them. Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats. After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too. Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise. Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these? She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort. This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?' Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab? Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes? Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants? He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket? He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him. His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners. Dear Doctor Alford: We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you. The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps? It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning. Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home! But it was impossible! He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem! Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or— But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information. His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents? Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic. At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday. <doc-sep>At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms. It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT. He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell. The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect. The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary. Notthe Mata-Hari type , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter. She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room— She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it. The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis. The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor. Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things. Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud. Now I've done it! thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered. In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube. There were no wires! Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries. The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded. Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment! But this is impossible! he thought. We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction! And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth? The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now— With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked! A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous. Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice. Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find. She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman. But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony. Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it. His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened. He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent? His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world! Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain. Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply. You're the GrandChairman of POSAT? He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer? I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid. <doc-sep>Don stared at the scene below him. After his initial glance to confirmhis identification of Crandon, Don could not bear to look at him. Crandon's voice suddenly hardened, became abrupt. You're partly rightabout us, of course. I hate to think how many laws this organizationhas broken. Don't condemn us yet, though. You'll be a member yourselfbefore the day is over. Don was shocked by such confidence in his corruptibility. What do you use? he asked bitterly. Drugs? Hypnosis? Crandon sighed. I forgot how little you know, Don. I have a longstory to tell you. You'll find it hard to believe at first. But try totrust me. Try to believe me, as you once did. When I say that much ofwhat POSAT does is illegal, I do not mean immoral. We're probably themost moral organization in the world. Get over the idea that you havestumbled into a den of thieves. Crandon paused as though searching for words with which to continue. Did you notice the paintings in the waiting room as you entered? Don nodded, too bewildered to speak. They were donated by the founder of our Organization. They were partof his personal collection—which, incidentally, he bought from theartists themselves. He also designed the atomic reactor we use forpower here in the laboratory. Then the pictures are modern, said Don, aware that his mouth washanging open foolishly. I thought one was a Titian— It is, said Crandon. We have several original Titians, although Ireally don't know too much about them. But how could a man alive today buy paintings from an artist of theRenaissance? He is not alive today. POSAT is actually what our advertisementsclaim—an ancient secret society. Our founder has been dead for overfour centuries. But you said that he designed your atomic reactor. Yes. This particular one has been in use for only twenty years,however. Don's confusion was complete. Crandon looked at him kindly. Let'sstart at the beginning, he said, and Don was back again in theclassroom with the deep voice of Professor Crandon unfolding thepages of knowledge in clear and logical manner. Four hundred yearsago, in the time of the Italian Renaissance, a man lived who was asuper-genius. His was the kind of incredible mentality that appears notin every generation, or even every century, but once in thousands ofyears. Probably the man who invented what we call the phonetic alphabet wasone like him. That man lived seven thousand years ago in Mesopotamia,and his discovery was so original, so far from the natural courseof man's thinking, that not once in the intervening seven thousandyears has that device been rediscovered. It still exists only in thecivilizations to which it has been passed on directly. The super-genius who was our founder was not a semanticist. He wasa physical scientist and mathematician. Starting with the meagerheritage that existed in these fields in his time, he began tacklingphysical puzzles one by one. Sitting in his study, using as hisprincipal tool his own great mind, he invented calculus, developed thequantum theory of light, moved on to electromagnetic radiation and whatwe call Maxwell's equations—although, of course, he antedated Maxwellby centuries—developed the special and general theories of relativity,the tool of wave mechanics, and finally, toward the end of his life, hemathematically derived the packing fraction that describes the bindingenergy of nuclei— But it can't be done, Don objected. It's an observed phenomenon. Ithasn't been derived. Every conservative instinct that he possessedcried out against this impossible fantasy. And yet—there sat thereactor, sheathed in its strange shield. Crandon watched the directionof Don's glance. Yes, the reactor, said Crandon. He built one like it. It confirmedhis theories. His calculations showed him something else too. He sawthe destructive potentialities of an atomic explosion. He himself couldnot have built an atomic bomb; he didn't have the facilities. But hisknowledge would have enabled other men to do so. He looked abouthim. He saw a political setup of warring principalities, rival states,intrigue, and squabbles over political power. Giving the men of histime atomic energy would have been like handing a baby a firecrackerwith a lighted fuse. What should he have done? Let his secrets die with him? Hedidn't think so. No one else in his age could have derived theknowledge that he did. But it was an age of brilliant men. Leonardo.Michelangelo. There were men capable of learning his science, even asmen can learn it today. He gathered some of them together and foundedthis society. It served two purposes. It perpetuated his discoveriesand at the same time it maintained the greatest secrecy about them. Heurged that the secrets be kept until the time when men could use themsafely. The other purpose was to make that time come about as soon aspossible. Crandon looked at Don's unbelieving face. How can I make you see thatit is the truth? Think of the eons that man or manlike creatures havewalked the Earth. Think what a small fraction of that time is fourhundred years. Is it so strange that atomic energy was discovered alittle early, by this displacement in time that is so tiny after all? But by one man, Don argued. Crandon shrugged. Compared with him, Don, you and I are stupid men.So are the scientists who slowly plodded down the same road he hadcome, stumbling first on one truth and then the succeeding one. We knowthat inventions and discoveries do not occur at random. Each is basedon the one that preceded it. We are all aware of the phenomenon ofsimultaneous invention. The path to truth is a straight one. It is onlyour own stupidity that makes it seem slow and tortuous. He merely followed the straight path, Crandon finished simply. <doc-sep>Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility. But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him. Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time! Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them. Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster. For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank. Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed? Come with me, said Crandon. He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine. This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don? But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late? Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it! Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator. But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all. Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes. There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us. I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us? Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question. Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth? Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you? Don nodded, his tense features relaxing. Enroll me as a member, he said. <doc-sep></s>

Mr. Crandon is a member of POSAT, and he is also a professor, published author, and researcher. Don admires Mr. Crandon as an intellectual before he realizes that Crandon is also the Grand Chairman of POSAT. When Don finds out that Crandon is a member of the secret society, he is shocked. Don knows that Crandon is a highly intelligent person, and POSAT seems like a scam. When Crandon explains the truth about the ancient society, its history, its goals, and its ability to pick the finest individuals to join its ranks, Don listens carefully because of his prior connection to Crandon. Had the Grand Chairman been a complete stranger to Don, he might have written the entire experience off as a manipulative scheme or a simply impossible endeavor. After one short conversation and a tour of the building, Don is willing to join POSAT as a member. Crandon is a persuasive salesman and a true believer in the organization and its goal to make a more civil society.

<s> What is POSAT? By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course coming events cast their shadows before, but this shadow was 400 years long! The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines: MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS! What is the secret source of those profound principles that can solve the problems of life? Send for our FREE booklet of explanation. Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU can alter the course of your life! Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages! The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth POSAT an ancient secret society Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand. Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of YourLife and Psychology that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time. Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said. It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the Antivivisectionist Gazette the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible. Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in The Bulletin of Physical Research . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object. He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page. It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it. I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters. Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form. Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope. He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility. Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation. To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity. What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire. I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out! The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin. Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address? Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers! The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT? Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script. It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed. Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him. His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future. It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them. Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats. After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too. Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise. Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these? She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort. This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?' Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab? Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes? Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants? He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket? He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him. His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners. Dear Doctor Alford: We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you. The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps? It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning. Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home! But it was impossible! He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem! Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or— But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information. His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents? Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic. At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday. <doc-sep>At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms. It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT. He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell. The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect. The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary. Notthe Mata-Hari type , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter. She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room— She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it. The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis. The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor. Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things. Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud. Now I've done it! thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered. In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube. There were no wires! Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries. The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded. Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment! But this is impossible! he thought. We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction! And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth? The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now— With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked! A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous. Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice. Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find. She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman. But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony. Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it. His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened. He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent? His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world! Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain. Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply. You're the GrandChairman of POSAT? He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer? I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid. <doc-sep>Don stared at the scene below him. After his initial glance to confirmhis identification of Crandon, Don could not bear to look at him. Crandon's voice suddenly hardened, became abrupt. You're partly rightabout us, of course. I hate to think how many laws this organizationhas broken. Don't condemn us yet, though. You'll be a member yourselfbefore the day is over. Don was shocked by such confidence in his corruptibility. What do you use? he asked bitterly. Drugs? Hypnosis? Crandon sighed. I forgot how little you know, Don. I have a longstory to tell you. You'll find it hard to believe at first. But try totrust me. Try to believe me, as you once did. When I say that much ofwhat POSAT does is illegal, I do not mean immoral. We're probably themost moral organization in the world. Get over the idea that you havestumbled into a den of thieves. Crandon paused as though searching for words with which to continue. Did you notice the paintings in the waiting room as you entered? Don nodded, too bewildered to speak. They were donated by the founder of our Organization. They were partof his personal collection—which, incidentally, he bought from theartists themselves. He also designed the atomic reactor we use forpower here in the laboratory. Then the pictures are modern, said Don, aware that his mouth washanging open foolishly. I thought one was a Titian— It is, said Crandon. We have several original Titians, although Ireally don't know too much about them. But how could a man alive today buy paintings from an artist of theRenaissance? He is not alive today. POSAT is actually what our advertisementsclaim—an ancient secret society. Our founder has been dead for overfour centuries. But you said that he designed your atomic reactor. Yes. This particular one has been in use for only twenty years,however. Don's confusion was complete. Crandon looked at him kindly. Let'sstart at the beginning, he said, and Don was back again in theclassroom with the deep voice of Professor Crandon unfolding thepages of knowledge in clear and logical manner. Four hundred yearsago, in the time of the Italian Renaissance, a man lived who was asuper-genius. His was the kind of incredible mentality that appears notin every generation, or even every century, but once in thousands ofyears. Probably the man who invented what we call the phonetic alphabet wasone like him. That man lived seven thousand years ago in Mesopotamia,and his discovery was so original, so far from the natural courseof man's thinking, that not once in the intervening seven thousandyears has that device been rediscovered. It still exists only in thecivilizations to which it has been passed on directly. The super-genius who was our founder was not a semanticist. He wasa physical scientist and mathematician. Starting with the meagerheritage that existed in these fields in his time, he began tacklingphysical puzzles one by one. Sitting in his study, using as hisprincipal tool his own great mind, he invented calculus, developed thequantum theory of light, moved on to electromagnetic radiation and whatwe call Maxwell's equations—although, of course, he antedated Maxwellby centuries—developed the special and general theories of relativity,the tool of wave mechanics, and finally, toward the end of his life, hemathematically derived the packing fraction that describes the bindingenergy of nuclei— But it can't be done, Don objected. It's an observed phenomenon. Ithasn't been derived. Every conservative instinct that he possessedcried out against this impossible fantasy. And yet—there sat thereactor, sheathed in its strange shield. Crandon watched the directionof Don's glance. Yes, the reactor, said Crandon. He built one like it. It confirmedhis theories. His calculations showed him something else too. He sawthe destructive potentialities of an atomic explosion. He himself couldnot have built an atomic bomb; he didn't have the facilities. But hisknowledge would have enabled other men to do so. He looked abouthim. He saw a political setup of warring principalities, rival states,intrigue, and squabbles over political power. Giving the men of histime atomic energy would have been like handing a baby a firecrackerwith a lighted fuse. What should he have done? Let his secrets die with him? Hedidn't think so. No one else in his age could have derived theknowledge that he did. But it was an age of brilliant men. Leonardo.Michelangelo. There were men capable of learning his science, even asmen can learn it today. He gathered some of them together and foundedthis society. It served two purposes. It perpetuated his discoveriesand at the same time it maintained the greatest secrecy about them. Heurged that the secrets be kept until the time when men could use themsafely. The other purpose was to make that time come about as soon aspossible. Crandon looked at Don's unbelieving face. How can I make you see thatit is the truth? Think of the eons that man or manlike creatures havewalked the Earth. Think what a small fraction of that time is fourhundred years. Is it so strange that atomic energy was discovered alittle early, by this displacement in time that is so tiny after all? But by one man, Don argued. Crandon shrugged. Compared with him, Don, you and I are stupid men.So are the scientists who slowly plodded down the same road he hadcome, stumbling first on one truth and then the succeeding one. We knowthat inventions and discoveries do not occur at random. Each is basedon the one that preceded it. We are all aware of the phenomenon ofsimultaneous invention. The path to truth is a straight one. It is onlyour own stupidity that makes it seem slow and tortuous. He merely followed the straight path, Crandon finished simply. <doc-sep>Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility. But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him. Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time! Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them. Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster. For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank. Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed? Come with me, said Crandon. He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine. This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don? But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late? Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it! Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator. But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all. Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes. There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us. I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us? Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question. Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth? Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you? Don nodded, his tense features relaxing. Enroll me as a member, he said. <doc-sep></s>

The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth, POSAT, is an ancient secret society. It was founded by a genius of a man who lived during the Italian Renaissance, roughly 400 years ago. The founder was a mathematician and scientist, and he invented calculus, created the quantum theory of light, and wrote Maxwell’s equations. However, he did not get credit for any of these ideas. He also designed the atomic reactor that Don sees in the laboratory of the building. The founder understood how dangerous the atomic bomb was, and he did not want to give his peers the tools to create such a powerful weapon. He did not trust men who were at war with one another over political power. Still, he did not want his knowledge to vanish when he died, so he created POSAT. He was willing to share his scientific and mathematical secrets, but he did not wish for untrustworthy people to get their hands on the information until it would be safe to do so. The founder also wanted POSAT to work towards a more peaceful society where everyone could be trusted to share knowledge and information without the fear of it leading to catastrophic events. In the centuries since the society was founded, the members have invented new tools and technologies that are not available anywhere else in the world, like the atomic reactor shield and the lightbulbs that hang above each Renaissance painting in the waiting room. Yet, the secret society’s main goal is to create a civilized society, not new inventions. In an effort to make that vision a reality, members of POSAT created a very large computer that seeks to decode human motivation. The computer used Don’s multiple choice questionnaire to determine that Don would be a good fit for the society because he is trustworthy. Although it seems like POSAT should involve more renowned scientists and peacekeepers to make sure it accomplishes its mission, it must also guard all of its secrets, and in an increasingly surveilled state, that would be nearly impossible to do while also including great thought leaders.

<s> What is POSAT? By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course coming events cast their shadows before, but this shadow was 400 years long! The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines: MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS! What is the secret source of those profound principles that can solve the problems of life? Send for our FREE booklet of explanation. Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU can alter the course of your life! Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages! The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth POSAT an ancient secret society Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand. Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of YourLife and Psychology that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time. Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said. It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the Antivivisectionist Gazette the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible. Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in The Bulletin of Physical Research . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object. He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page. It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it. I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters. Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form. Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope. He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility. Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation. To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity. What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire. I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out! The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin. Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address? Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers! The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT? Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script. It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed. Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him. His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future. It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them. Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats. After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too. Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise. Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these? She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort. This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?' Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab? Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes? Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants? He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket? He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him. His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners. Dear Doctor Alford: We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you. The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps? It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning. Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home! But it was impossible! He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem! Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or— But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information. His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents? Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic. At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday. <doc-sep>At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms. It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT. He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell. The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect. The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary. Notthe Mata-Hari type , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter. She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room— She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it. The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis. The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor. Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things. Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud. Now I've done it! thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered. In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube. There were no wires! Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries. The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded. Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment! But this is impossible! he thought. We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction! And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth? The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now— With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked! A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous. Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice. Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find. She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman. But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony. Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it. His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened. He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent? His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world! Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain. Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply. You're the GrandChairman of POSAT? He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer? I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid. <doc-sep>Don stared at the scene below him. After his initial glance to confirmhis identification of Crandon, Don could not bear to look at him. Crandon's voice suddenly hardened, became abrupt. You're partly rightabout us, of course. I hate to think how many laws this organizationhas broken. Don't condemn us yet, though. You'll be a member yourselfbefore the day is over. Don was shocked by such confidence in his corruptibility. What do you use? he asked bitterly. Drugs? Hypnosis? Crandon sighed. I forgot how little you know, Don. I have a longstory to tell you. You'll find it hard to believe at first. But try totrust me. Try to believe me, as you once did. When I say that much ofwhat POSAT does is illegal, I do not mean immoral. We're probably themost moral organization in the world. Get over the idea that you havestumbled into a den of thieves. Crandon paused as though searching for words with which to continue. Did you notice the paintings in the waiting room as you entered? Don nodded, too bewildered to speak. They were donated by the founder of our Organization. They were partof his personal collection—which, incidentally, he bought from theartists themselves. He also designed the atomic reactor we use forpower here in the laboratory. Then the pictures are modern, said Don, aware that his mouth washanging open foolishly. I thought one was a Titian— It is, said Crandon. We have several original Titians, although Ireally don't know too much about them. But how could a man alive today buy paintings from an artist of theRenaissance? He is not alive today. POSAT is actually what our advertisementsclaim—an ancient secret society. Our founder has been dead for overfour centuries. But you said that he designed your atomic reactor. Yes. This particular one has been in use for only twenty years,however. Don's confusion was complete. Crandon looked at him kindly. Let'sstart at the beginning, he said, and Don was back again in theclassroom with the deep voice of Professor Crandon unfolding thepages of knowledge in clear and logical manner. Four hundred yearsago, in the time of the Italian Renaissance, a man lived who was asuper-genius. His was the kind of incredible mentality that appears notin every generation, or even every century, but once in thousands ofyears. Probably the man who invented what we call the phonetic alphabet wasone like him. That man lived seven thousand years ago in Mesopotamia,and his discovery was so original, so far from the natural courseof man's thinking, that not once in the intervening seven thousandyears has that device been rediscovered. It still exists only in thecivilizations to which it has been passed on directly. The super-genius who was our founder was not a semanticist. He wasa physical scientist and mathematician. Starting with the meagerheritage that existed in these fields in his time, he began tacklingphysical puzzles one by one. Sitting in his study, using as hisprincipal tool his own great mind, he invented calculus, developed thequantum theory of light, moved on to electromagnetic radiation and whatwe call Maxwell's equations—although, of course, he antedated Maxwellby centuries—developed the special and general theories of relativity,the tool of wave mechanics, and finally, toward the end of his life, hemathematically derived the packing fraction that describes the bindingenergy of nuclei— But it can't be done, Don objected. It's an observed phenomenon. Ithasn't been derived. Every conservative instinct that he possessedcried out against this impossible fantasy. And yet—there sat thereactor, sheathed in its strange shield. Crandon watched the directionof Don's glance. Yes, the reactor, said Crandon. He built one like it. It confirmedhis theories. His calculations showed him something else too. He sawthe destructive potentialities of an atomic explosion. He himself couldnot have built an atomic bomb; he didn't have the facilities. But hisknowledge would have enabled other men to do so. He looked abouthim. He saw a political setup of warring principalities, rival states,intrigue, and squabbles over political power. Giving the men of histime atomic energy would have been like handing a baby a firecrackerwith a lighted fuse. What should he have done? Let his secrets die with him? Hedidn't think so. No one else in his age could have derived theknowledge that he did. But it was an age of brilliant men. Leonardo.Michelangelo. There were men capable of learning his science, even asmen can learn it today. He gathered some of them together and foundedthis society. It served two purposes. It perpetuated his discoveriesand at the same time it maintained the greatest secrecy about them. Heurged that the secrets be kept until the time when men could use themsafely. The other purpose was to make that time come about as soon aspossible. Crandon looked at Don's unbelieving face. How can I make you see thatit is the truth? Think of the eons that man or manlike creatures havewalked the Earth. Think what a small fraction of that time is fourhundred years. Is it so strange that atomic energy was discovered alittle early, by this displacement in time that is so tiny after all? But by one man, Don argued. Crandon shrugged. Compared with him, Don, you and I are stupid men.So are the scientists who slowly plodded down the same road he hadcome, stumbling first on one truth and then the succeeding one. We knowthat inventions and discoveries do not occur at random. Each is basedon the one that preceded it. We are all aware of the phenomenon ofsimultaneous invention. The path to truth is a straight one. It is onlyour own stupidity that makes it seem slow and tortuous. He merely followed the straight path, Crandon finished simply. <doc-sep>Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility. But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him. Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time! Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them. Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster. For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank. Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed? Come with me, said Crandon. He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine. This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don? But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late? Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it! Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator. But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all. Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes. There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us. I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us? Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question. Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth? Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you? Don nodded, his tense features relaxing. Enroll me as a member, he said. <doc-sep></s>

Bill and Elizabeth are minor characters in the story, but they are key in demonstrating how POSAT’S recruiting efforts work. Bill, Elizabeth, and Don all see the same magazine advertisement and decide to send their coupons in the mail and receive an informational pamphlet in return. Bill is motivated by his desire to change his life. He has lost his job and feels useless and dejected. Elizabeth wants to join the ancient society because she truly believes it can offer her profound wisdom. She also believes that her cats are her family members reincarnated, so she’s clearly a gullible person who hopes to find magic and miracles in her everyday life. Don is curious about the advertisement, and as a naturally skeptical person, he assumes it’s all a hoax.POSAT’s correspondence with the three highly different individuals starts out the same, but after gaining a little bit of insight into each person’s background, job, religious beliefs, and motivation for joining the society, the people at POSAT individualize Bill, Elizabeth, and Don’s responses. Bill receives a pamphlet with vague answers to life’s problems, while Elizabeth gets literature about topics like the sacred cats of ancient Egypt. She is also offered an official membership to the group and told to contribute $5 per month. Don, however, is given an in-depth psychological exam. Towards the end of the story, Mr. Crandon reveals how POSAT’s magazine advertisements work to attract people to the secret society. The new supercomputer they have invented has created the perfect combination of intrigue, symbolism, and promise of knowledge to get the right peoples’ attention. Don, for example, was immediately taken by POSAT’s logo, although he could not explain why. When people like Bill and Elizabeth apply to become members, they are pacified through other means. Elizabeth is an example of a religious fanatic who contributes to the society financially while also feeling deeply satisfied at her inclusion. Bill is an example of someone who is desperate and wants to try to join the society as a way to change his life. Since POSAT wants a more civilized and peaceful society, they work with those people by finding them new jobs or renovating their homes.

<s> I, the Unspeakable By WALT SHELDON Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's in a name? might be very dangerous to ask in certain societies, in which sticks and stones are also a big problem! I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep. Do it! she said. Please do it! For me! It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning. I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard. I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way. I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces. I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor. Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds. I'd go out again today. The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last. As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag. Everything came back in a rush— My name. The dream and her voice. And her suggestion. Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk? <doc-sep>You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybodymade jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the recordswere for a while fouled up beyond recognition. The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far andthey psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerousnonconform. If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn'tcomplain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during thenight. There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With thepopulation of Northem already past two billion, the old designationswere too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the goodof Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem. The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there wasa political difference and that the two superstates sprawledlongitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are prettymuch the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war.They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experimentwith enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat. We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybodynow has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, toaddress somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We tryto pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says toStateleader, Good morning, A-A-A-A. They say, Good morning, Aaaa. Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I wasstill conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract andbe psycho-scanned. Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word. A four letter word. Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be. Mine was. It was unspeakable. The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore mysleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping toqualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a spacedrive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room andturned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories. I will never forget the first day I received my new four lettercombination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkablyembarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and chokedand became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to hissecretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits andregistered it himself. I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficientorganization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My workwas important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quantareaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore theanswer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—andthere were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very ImportantPersons. Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassmentwould become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tacticwas just not to answer. <doc-sep>The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard. Er—old man, he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter myname, I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How wouldyou like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work. Nutrition kits? Me? On nutrition kits? Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just hadthe cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and itjustifies. Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly reporthad to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course therewere so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out,you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to.Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applicationsand hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. Butif I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief tolet me go. The equivalent of resigning. I'll infract, I said. Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'llinfract. He looked vastly relieved. Uh—fine, he said. I rather hoped youwould. It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued anN/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book.I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, butbasically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of thestate and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve. But I didn't know what I was in for. I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department todepartment—any place where they might use a space drive expert. Apattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned myspecialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and theysaw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon asthey recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up.... <doc-sep>A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed. And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive. But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again. Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later. You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages. Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I couldn't get a post. Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior. That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone. Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to her —in a moment. I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal. But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate. <doc-sep>Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. Iremember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into aEugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted itfor analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usualdouble-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted. He said, Of course you understand that we must submit yourapplication to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating boothswith you, and that she has the right to refuse. Yes, I understand that. M'm, he said, and dismissed me with a nod. I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knewno woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter amating booth with him. The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sortsof wild schemes. I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent toMarscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolateplanet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wildirradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd bewilling to risk that. Well, almost.... About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dreamthere was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard itI awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with thesleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, ofcourse; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemedan explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong. The next night I heard the woman's voice again. Try it , she said. Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed upthat a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me. <doc-sep>She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but makingheretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deaconto pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me. And I heard the voice nearly every night. It hammered away. What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than themiserable existence you're leading now! One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about thisidea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be. She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, Consult the cybsin the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'llfind a way. Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. Ithought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost myfanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to bebusy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn'twant to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself. I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I gotup, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find thelocation of the nearest Govpub office. I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care. II Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four wasunderground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemedpleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off abit. Think about it. Compose myself. At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, aplate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it onand get close to the speaker and I did. The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the th soundsright—said, This is Branch Four of the Office of GovernmentPublications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' asthoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standardphraseology. Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on myknack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicateefficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment,change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generallyreferred to as nomenclature. There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays andbrought the memory tubes in. Then the cyb said, Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consultalphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same. Thanks, I said absent-mindedly. I started to turn away and the cyb said, Information on tanks ismilitary information and classified. State authorization for— I switched it off. <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>She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a littlelonger than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat. All right, she said finally, I'll make a search. She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the deskand began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, Informationdesired is in Bank 29. Please follow me. Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movementof her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-leggedand extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almostbeyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples andwas heartily ashamed of myself. I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the fullauthorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and therealization hardly scared me at all. She led me down one of the long passageways. A few moments later I said, Don't you sometimes get—well, prettylonely working here? Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approvedbehavior, but I couldn't help it. She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, Notterribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time. You don't get many visitors, then. Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people whocome to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscriptroom. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization. I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and theirideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up besideher. What's your name, by the way? L-A-R-A 339/827. I pronounced it. Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too. <doc-sep>She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faintspot of color on her cheek. I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at oneof the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to thepsycho-scan. We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not surejust how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were notactually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to theleft. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling. For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Oureyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble. She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again. After that she was very business-like. We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before themand began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watchedher move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinkedon and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted outinformation. She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned atit and turned to me. You can take this along and study it, she said,but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult. She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, I didn't think itwould be easy. It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serialunder any circumstances is Opsych. Opsych? You can't keep up with all these departments. The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you gofrom a lower to higher E.A.C. I don't get it, exactly. As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Justan overtone. Well, she said, as you know, the post a person isqualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional AdjustmentCategory. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 toGrade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protecthim from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,he is permitted a new number. I groaned. But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.! It looks very uncertain then. Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or onMarscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics! She looked amused. What did you say your E.A.C. was? Oh, all right. Sorry. I controlled myself and grinned. I guess thiswhole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'seven gone down. That might be your chance then. How do you mean? If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that yournumber has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able tojustify a change. By the State, he might! I punched my palm. Only how do I get to him? I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, fora guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.Just a moment. She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printedslip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, wasin the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of hisoffice, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center Onecontaining the Opsych offices. We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead ofme. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked witheverything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my templesagain. I tried to keep the conversation going. Do you think it'll be hard toget a travel permit? Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all daytomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing itif you hold out long enough. I sighed. I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto oughtto be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort youcan make it impossible?' <doc-sep>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>I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I thought objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of mylife, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knewno other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I mighthave was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something withinme told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, noteven this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm.... The woman, Lara, attracts you , said the voice. I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, thevoice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached withit. Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, andknow that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way. The idea at once thrilled and frightened me. I woke writhing and in a sweat again. It was morning. I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for CenterOne. The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seatsfor about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busiedmyself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers therewas mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomicdecade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed withlife ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock andsand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, whohadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratchingexistence from the earth today. I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some ofthe other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisonersin the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rathernon-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and twoDeacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me andI could see the prisoners' faces. They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yettheir lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment. They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgaremotional display. I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holdinghands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we werewonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of asmile. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The narrator is awoken by a female voice in his head. He recounts his time as a conformist citizen of Northem, a futuristic dystopian civilization: one day, he wakes up and regards himself in the mirror, observing signs of aging on his face. He sees the toll of the past two years, since the renumbering. The narrator explains that, as part of ensuring the efficiency of Northem, the designation of each citizen is periodically changed. In the most recent one, everyone was assigned six numerical digits and a prefix or suffix of four letters, which often spelled something pronounceable – for the narrator, the four letters spelled an unspeakably vulgar word. As a result, the narrator is forced to infract from his job and assume non-productive status and begins encountering difficulties in quotidien tasks, such as receiving his realfood package. Furthermore, his designation prevents him from acquiring gainful employment and reassuming productive status, as well as the ability to mate. The narrator then recounts hearing the woman’s voice for the first time. She encourages him to change his name, a difficult thing to do because of its implied criticism of the state. The voice returns in his sleep, nearly every night. Driven by his loneliness and social ostracization, the narrator brings himself to the Govpub Office, a sort of government center, in an attempt to change his designation. In the underground office of his local Govpub Office, the narrator navigates his way to the Numbering and Identity section with help of a cyb, an automated assistant. In the round room that is the Number and Identity department, he observes a remarkably attractive woman at the information desk. Though he is nervous at first, fearing that he will have to share with her his embarrassing name, he dismisses his hesitance and approaches her. He reluctantly shares his name, and asks that she direct him to information concerning state serial designations. As the girl, whose name she reveals is LARA, leads the narrator to information bank 29 where the requested information is stored, they share an inappropriate moment: Lara trips and the narrator grabs her arms. Lara’s demeanor changes, and she now conducts herself in an all-business fashion. At bank 29, Lara explains to the narrator the tasks he must complete in order to change his name, including traveling to the capital. On their way back to the main room, the narrator makes a joke which elicits a laugh from Lara. As she enters the rotunda, she abruptly stops laughing. The narrator, following closely behind, quickly realizes why: two Deacons, officers of the state, are at the central desk. On the night before his departure to the capital, the narrator once again hears the mysterious female voice in his head. She tells him that he is attracted to Lara. On the transport to the capital the narrator sees a young couple holding hands, and pictures himself with Lara in their position.

<s> I, the Unspeakable By WALT SHELDON Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's in a name? might be very dangerous to ask in certain societies, in which sticks and stones are also a big problem! I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep. Do it! she said. Please do it! For me! It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning. I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard. I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way. I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces. I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor. Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds. I'd go out again today. The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last. As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag. Everything came back in a rush— My name. The dream and her voice. And her suggestion. Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk? <doc-sep>You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybodymade jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the recordswere for a while fouled up beyond recognition. The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far andthey psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerousnonconform. If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn'tcomplain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during thenight. There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With thepopulation of Northem already past two billion, the old designationswere too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the goodof Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem. The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there wasa political difference and that the two superstates sprawledlongitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are prettymuch the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war.They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experimentwith enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat. We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybodynow has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, toaddress somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We tryto pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says toStateleader, Good morning, A-A-A-A. They say, Good morning, Aaaa. Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I wasstill conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract andbe psycho-scanned. Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word. A four letter word. Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be. Mine was. It was unspeakable. The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore mysleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping toqualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a spacedrive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room andturned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories. I will never forget the first day I received my new four lettercombination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkablyembarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and chokedand became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to hissecretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits andregistered it himself. I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficientorganization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My workwas important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quantareaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore theanswer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—andthere were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very ImportantPersons. Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassmentwould become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tacticwas just not to answer. <doc-sep>The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard. Er—old man, he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter myname, I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How wouldyou like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work. Nutrition kits? Me? On nutrition kits? Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just hadthe cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and itjustifies. Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly reporthad to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course therewere so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out,you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to.Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applicationsand hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. Butif I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief tolet me go. The equivalent of resigning. I'll infract, I said. Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'llinfract. He looked vastly relieved. Uh—fine, he said. I rather hoped youwould. It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued anN/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book.I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, butbasically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of thestate and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve. But I didn't know what I was in for. I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department todepartment—any place where they might use a space drive expert. Apattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned myspecialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and theysaw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon asthey recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up.... <doc-sep>A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed. And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive. But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again. Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later. You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages. Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I couldn't get a post. Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior. That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone. Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to her —in a moment. I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal. But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate. <doc-sep>Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. Iremember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into aEugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted itfor analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usualdouble-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted. He said, Of course you understand that we must submit yourapplication to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating boothswith you, and that she has the right to refuse. Yes, I understand that. M'm, he said, and dismissed me with a nod. I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knewno woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter amating booth with him. The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sortsof wild schemes. I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent toMarscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolateplanet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wildirradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd bewilling to risk that. Well, almost.... About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dreamthere was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard itI awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with thesleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, ofcourse; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemedan explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong. The next night I heard the woman's voice again. Try it , she said. Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed upthat a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me. <doc-sep>She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but makingheretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deaconto pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me. And I heard the voice nearly every night. It hammered away. What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than themiserable existence you're leading now! One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about thisidea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be. She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, Consult the cybsin the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'llfind a way. Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. Ithought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost myfanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to bebusy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn'twant to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself. I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I gotup, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find thelocation of the nearest Govpub office. I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care. II Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four wasunderground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemedpleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off abit. Think about it. Compose myself. At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, aplate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it onand get close to the speaker and I did. The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the th soundsright—said, This is Branch Four of the Office of GovernmentPublications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' asthoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standardphraseology. Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on myknack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicateefficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment,change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generallyreferred to as nomenclature. There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays andbrought the memory tubes in. Then the cyb said, Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consultalphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same. Thanks, I said absent-mindedly. I started to turn away and the cyb said, Information on tanks ismilitary information and classified. State authorization for— I switched it off. <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>She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a littlelonger than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat. All right, she said finally, I'll make a search. She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the deskand began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, Informationdesired is in Bank 29. Please follow me. Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movementof her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-leggedand extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almostbeyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples andwas heartily ashamed of myself. I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the fullauthorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and therealization hardly scared me at all. She led me down one of the long passageways. A few moments later I said, Don't you sometimes get—well, prettylonely working here? Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approvedbehavior, but I couldn't help it. She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, Notterribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time. You don't get many visitors, then. Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people whocome to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscriptroom. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization. I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and theirideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up besideher. What's your name, by the way? L-A-R-A 339/827. I pronounced it. Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too. <doc-sep>She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faintspot of color on her cheek. I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at oneof the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to thepsycho-scan. We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not surejust how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were notactually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to theleft. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling. For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Oureyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble. She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again. After that she was very business-like. We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before themand began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watchedher move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinkedon and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted outinformation. She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned atit and turned to me. You can take this along and study it, she said,but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult. She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, I didn't think itwould be easy. It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serialunder any circumstances is Opsych. Opsych? You can't keep up with all these departments. The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you gofrom a lower to higher E.A.C. I don't get it, exactly. As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Justan overtone. Well, she said, as you know, the post a person isqualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional AdjustmentCategory. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 toGrade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protecthim from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,he is permitted a new number. I groaned. But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.! It looks very uncertain then. Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or onMarscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics! She looked amused. What did you say your E.A.C. was? Oh, all right. Sorry. I controlled myself and grinned. I guess thiswhole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'seven gone down. That might be your chance then. How do you mean? If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that yournumber has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able tojustify a change. By the State, he might! I punched my palm. Only how do I get to him? I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, fora guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.Just a moment. She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printedslip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, wasin the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of hisoffice, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center Onecontaining the Opsych offices. We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead ofme. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked witheverything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my templesagain. I tried to keep the conversation going. Do you think it'll be hard toget a travel permit? Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all daytomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing itif you hold out long enough. I sighed. I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto oughtto be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort youcan make it impossible?' <doc-sep>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>I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I thought objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of mylife, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knewno other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I mighthave was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something withinme told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, noteven this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm.... The woman, Lara, attracts you , said the voice. I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, thevoice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached withit. Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, andknow that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way. The idea at once thrilled and frightened me. I woke writhing and in a sweat again. It was morning. I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for CenterOne. The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seatsfor about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busiedmyself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers therewas mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomicdecade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed withlife ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock andsand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, whohadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratchingexistence from the earth today. I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some ofthe other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisonersin the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rathernon-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and twoDeacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me andI could see the prisoners' faces. They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yettheir lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment. They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgaremotional display. I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holdinghands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we werewonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of asmile. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Northem, one of the two superstates of the world and home to the Narrator, is ruled by the State. It is highly efficient, and allocates alphanumeric designations to its citizens to be used as names. In the most recent renumbering, the State assigns the narrator an unspeakable four-letter designation. The State, through its officers the Deacons, enforces norms of acceptability. These norms include the ranges of physical attractiveness within which women are required to stay, the flat tone of voice in which citizens must speak, and the facial expressions citizens are allowed to display. Additionally, the State regulates sexual behaviour: mating is only allowed in Eugenic Centers, and those who infract upon sexual norms are sent to a prison planet called Marscol. The State further regulates the allocation of realfood, such as eggs, which is a valuable commodity. When the balance of trade between Northem and Southem, the other superstate, fluctuates, more or less realfood becomes available. Non-productive members of society, so long as they are conformists, or loyal members of the state, are cared for by the State.

<s> I, the Unspeakable By WALT SHELDON Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's in a name? might be very dangerous to ask in certain societies, in which sticks and stones are also a big problem! I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep. Do it! she said. Please do it! For me! It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning. I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard. I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way. I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces. I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor. Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds. I'd go out again today. The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last. As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag. Everything came back in a rush— My name. The dream and her voice. And her suggestion. Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk? <doc-sep>You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybodymade jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the recordswere for a while fouled up beyond recognition. The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far andthey psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerousnonconform. If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn'tcomplain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during thenight. There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With thepopulation of Northem already past two billion, the old designationswere too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the goodof Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem. The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there wasa political difference and that the two superstates sprawledlongitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are prettymuch the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war.They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experimentwith enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat. We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybodynow has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, toaddress somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We tryto pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says toStateleader, Good morning, A-A-A-A. They say, Good morning, Aaaa. Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I wasstill conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract andbe psycho-scanned. Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word. A four letter word. Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be. Mine was. It was unspeakable. The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore mysleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping toqualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a spacedrive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room andturned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories. I will never forget the first day I received my new four lettercombination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkablyembarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and chokedand became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to hissecretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits andregistered it himself. I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficientorganization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My workwas important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quantareaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore theanswer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—andthere were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very ImportantPersons. Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassmentwould become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tacticwas just not to answer. <doc-sep>The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard. Er—old man, he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter myname, I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How wouldyou like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work. Nutrition kits? Me? On nutrition kits? Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just hadthe cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and itjustifies. Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly reporthad to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course therewere so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out,you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to.Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applicationsand hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. Butif I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief tolet me go. The equivalent of resigning. I'll infract, I said. Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'llinfract. He looked vastly relieved. Uh—fine, he said. I rather hoped youwould. It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued anN/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book.I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, butbasically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of thestate and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve. But I didn't know what I was in for. I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department todepartment—any place where they might use a space drive expert. Apattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned myspecialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and theysaw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon asthey recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up.... <doc-sep>A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed. And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive. But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again. Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later. You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages. Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I couldn't get a post. Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior. That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone. Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to her —in a moment. I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal. But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate. <doc-sep>Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. Iremember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into aEugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted itfor analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usualdouble-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted. He said, Of course you understand that we must submit yourapplication to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating boothswith you, and that she has the right to refuse. Yes, I understand that. M'm, he said, and dismissed me with a nod. I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knewno woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter amating booth with him. The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sortsof wild schemes. I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent toMarscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolateplanet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wildirradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd bewilling to risk that. Well, almost.... About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dreamthere was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard itI awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with thesleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, ofcourse; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemedan explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong. The next night I heard the woman's voice again. Try it , she said. Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed upthat a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me. <doc-sep>She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but makingheretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deaconto pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me. And I heard the voice nearly every night. It hammered away. What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than themiserable existence you're leading now! One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about thisidea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be. She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, Consult the cybsin the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'llfind a way. Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. Ithought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost myfanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to bebusy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn'twant to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself. I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I gotup, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find thelocation of the nearest Govpub office. I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care. II Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four wasunderground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemedpleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off abit. Think about it. Compose myself. At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, aplate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it onand get close to the speaker and I did. The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the th soundsright—said, This is Branch Four of the Office of GovernmentPublications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' asthoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standardphraseology. Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on myknack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicateefficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment,change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generallyreferred to as nomenclature. There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays andbrought the memory tubes in. Then the cyb said, Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consultalphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same. Thanks, I said absent-mindedly. I started to turn away and the cyb said, Information on tanks ismilitary information and classified. State authorization for— I switched it off. <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>She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a littlelonger than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat. All right, she said finally, I'll make a search. She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the deskand began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, Informationdesired is in Bank 29. Please follow me. Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movementof her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-leggedand extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almostbeyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples andwas heartily ashamed of myself. I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the fullauthorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and therealization hardly scared me at all. She led me down one of the long passageways. A few moments later I said, Don't you sometimes get—well, prettylonely working here? Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approvedbehavior, but I couldn't help it. She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, Notterribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time. You don't get many visitors, then. Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people whocome to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscriptroom. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization. I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and theirideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up besideher. What's your name, by the way? L-A-R-A 339/827. I pronounced it. Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too. <doc-sep>She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faintspot of color on her cheek. I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at oneof the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to thepsycho-scan. We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not surejust how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were notactually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to theleft. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling. For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Oureyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble. She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again. After that she was very business-like. We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before themand began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watchedher move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinkedon and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted outinformation. She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned atit and turned to me. You can take this along and study it, she said,but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult. She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, I didn't think itwould be easy. It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serialunder any circumstances is Opsych. Opsych? You can't keep up with all these departments. The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you gofrom a lower to higher E.A.C. I don't get it, exactly. As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Justan overtone. Well, she said, as you know, the post a person isqualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional AdjustmentCategory. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 toGrade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protecthim from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,he is permitted a new number. I groaned. But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.! It looks very uncertain then. Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or onMarscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics! She looked amused. What did you say your E.A.C. was? Oh, all right. Sorry. I controlled myself and grinned. I guess thiswhole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'seven gone down. That might be your chance then. How do you mean? If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that yournumber has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able tojustify a change. By the State, he might! I punched my palm. Only how do I get to him? I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, fora guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.Just a moment. She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printedslip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, wasin the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of hisoffice, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center Onecontaining the Opsych offices. We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead ofme. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked witheverything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my templesagain. I tried to keep the conversation going. Do you think it'll be hard toget a travel permit? Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all daytomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing itif you hold out long enough. I sighed. I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto oughtto be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort youcan make it impossible?' <doc-sep>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>I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I thought objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of mylife, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knewno other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I mighthave was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something withinme told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, noteven this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm.... The woman, Lara, attracts you , said the voice. I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, thevoice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached withit. Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, andknow that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way. The idea at once thrilled and frightened me. I woke writhing and in a sweat again. It was morning. I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for CenterOne. The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seatsfor about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busiedmyself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers therewas mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomicdecade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed withlife ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock andsand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, whohadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratchingexistence from the earth today. I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some ofthe other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisonersin the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rathernon-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and twoDeacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me andI could see the prisoners' faces. They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yettheir lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment. They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgaremotional display. I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holdinghands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we werewonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of asmile. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

As the narrator finds it increasingly difficult to find a sexual partner as a result of his state-appointed designation, he begins to hear a mysterious female voice in his dreams. She first encourages him to change his name. Initially, he worries that his sleep-learner, a wearable head device which enables learning during sleep, has malfunctioned, but he finds no evidence of this. The narrator hears the voice nearly every night. He often worries about the voice, as the contents of its speech are heretical. She encourages him to go to the Govpub office, a sort of government office in his locality, and he eventually obliges. On the night before the narrator is slated to take a transport to the capital to change his name, he hears the voice again. It encourages him to persevere, and that he is attracted to Lara, a woman he had met earlier in the week. The voice further pushes him to pursue a relationship with Lara once he is able to change his name.

<s> I, the Unspeakable By WALT SHELDON Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's in a name? might be very dangerous to ask in certain societies, in which sticks and stones are also a big problem! I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep. Do it! she said. Please do it! For me! It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning. I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard. I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way. I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces. I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor. Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds. I'd go out again today. The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last. As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag. Everything came back in a rush— My name. The dream and her voice. And her suggestion. Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk? <doc-sep>You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybodymade jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the recordswere for a while fouled up beyond recognition. The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far andthey psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerousnonconform. If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn'tcomplain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during thenight. There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With thepopulation of Northem already past two billion, the old designationswere too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the goodof Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem. The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there wasa political difference and that the two superstates sprawledlongitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are prettymuch the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war.They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experimentwith enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat. We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybodynow has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, toaddress somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We tryto pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says toStateleader, Good morning, A-A-A-A. They say, Good morning, Aaaa. Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I wasstill conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract andbe psycho-scanned. Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word. A four letter word. Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be. Mine was. It was unspeakable. The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore mysleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping toqualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a spacedrive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room andturned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories. I will never forget the first day I received my new four lettercombination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkablyembarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and chokedand became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to hissecretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits andregistered it himself. I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficientorganization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My workwas important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quantareaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore theanswer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—andthere were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very ImportantPersons. Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassmentwould become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tacticwas just not to answer. <doc-sep>The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard. Er—old man, he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter myname, I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How wouldyou like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work. Nutrition kits? Me? On nutrition kits? Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just hadthe cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and itjustifies. Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly reporthad to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course therewere so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out,you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to.Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applicationsand hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. Butif I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief tolet me go. The equivalent of resigning. I'll infract, I said. Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'llinfract. He looked vastly relieved. Uh—fine, he said. I rather hoped youwould. It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued anN/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book.I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, butbasically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of thestate and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve. But I didn't know what I was in for. I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department todepartment—any place where they might use a space drive expert. Apattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned myspecialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and theysaw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon asthey recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up.... <doc-sep>A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed. And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive. But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again. Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later. You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages. Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I couldn't get a post. Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior. That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone. Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to her —in a moment. I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal. But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate. <doc-sep>Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. Iremember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into aEugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted itfor analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usualdouble-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted. He said, Of course you understand that we must submit yourapplication to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating boothswith you, and that she has the right to refuse. Yes, I understand that. M'm, he said, and dismissed me with a nod. I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knewno woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter amating booth with him. The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sortsof wild schemes. I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent toMarscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolateplanet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wildirradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd bewilling to risk that. Well, almost.... About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dreamthere was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard itI awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with thesleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, ofcourse; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemedan explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong. The next night I heard the woman's voice again. Try it , she said. Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed upthat a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me. <doc-sep>She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but makingheretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deaconto pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me. And I heard the voice nearly every night. It hammered away. What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than themiserable existence you're leading now! One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about thisidea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be. She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, Consult the cybsin the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'llfind a way. Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. Ithought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost myfanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to bebusy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn'twant to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself. I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I gotup, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find thelocation of the nearest Govpub office. I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care. II Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four wasunderground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemedpleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off abit. Think about it. Compose myself. At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, aplate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it onand get close to the speaker and I did. The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the th soundsright—said, This is Branch Four of the Office of GovernmentPublications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' asthoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standardphraseology. Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on myknack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicateefficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment,change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generallyreferred to as nomenclature. There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays andbrought the memory tubes in. Then the cyb said, Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consultalphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same. Thanks, I said absent-mindedly. I started to turn away and the cyb said, Information on tanks ismilitary information and classified. State authorization for— I switched it off. <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>She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a littlelonger than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat. All right, she said finally, I'll make a search. She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the deskand began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, Informationdesired is in Bank 29. Please follow me. Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movementof her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-leggedand extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almostbeyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples andwas heartily ashamed of myself. I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the fullauthorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and therealization hardly scared me at all. She led me down one of the long passageways. A few moments later I said, Don't you sometimes get—well, prettylonely working here? Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approvedbehavior, but I couldn't help it. She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, Notterribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time. You don't get many visitors, then. Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people whocome to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscriptroom. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization. I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and theirideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up besideher. What's your name, by the way? L-A-R-A 339/827. I pronounced it. Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too. <doc-sep>She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faintspot of color on her cheek. I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at oneof the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to thepsycho-scan. We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not surejust how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were notactually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to theleft. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling. For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Oureyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble. She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again. After that she was very business-like. We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before themand began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watchedher move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinkedon and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted outinformation. She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned atit and turned to me. You can take this along and study it, she said,but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult. She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, I didn't think itwould be easy. It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serialunder any circumstances is Opsych. Opsych? You can't keep up with all these departments. The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you gofrom a lower to higher E.A.C. I don't get it, exactly. As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Justan overtone. Well, she said, as you know, the post a person isqualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional AdjustmentCategory. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 toGrade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protecthim from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,he is permitted a new number. I groaned. But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.! It looks very uncertain then. Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or onMarscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics! She looked amused. What did you say your E.A.C. was? Oh, all right. Sorry. I controlled myself and grinned. I guess thiswhole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'seven gone down. That might be your chance then. How do you mean? If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that yournumber has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able tojustify a change. By the State, he might! I punched my palm. Only how do I get to him? I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, fora guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.Just a moment. She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printedslip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, wasin the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of hisoffice, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center Onecontaining the Opsych offices. We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead ofme. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked witheverything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my templesagain. I tried to keep the conversation going. Do you think it'll be hard toget a travel permit? Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all daytomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing itif you hold out long enough. I sighed. I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto oughtto be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort youcan make it impossible?' <doc-sep>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>I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I thought objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of mylife, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knewno other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I mighthave was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something withinme told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, noteven this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm.... The woman, Lara, attracts you , said the voice. I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, thevoice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached withit. Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, andknow that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way. The idea at once thrilled and frightened me. I woke writhing and in a sweat again. It was morning. I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for CenterOne. The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seatsfor about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busiedmyself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers therewas mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomicdecade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed withlife ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock andsand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, whohadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratchingexistence from the earth today. I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some ofthe other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisonersin the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rathernon-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and twoDeacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me andI could see the prisoners' faces. They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yettheir lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment. They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgaremotional display. I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holdinghands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we werewonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of asmile. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The narrator, who was designated an unspeakably vulgar four-letter designation during the last renumbering, has been negatively affected by his new name. Because of its distracting effect on those who learn it, he is forced to resign from his job studying magnetic mechanics and assume non-productive status, which in turn hampers his ability to acquire realfood. Theoretical research which the narrator privately conducts could not be published. His designation further prevents him from participating in group games at the rec center, special interest clubs, and State Loyalty chapters. The narrator is unable to mate since, at the Eugenic Centers where mating is regulated by the State, he must submit an application which must be approved by women who are authorized to mate with him.

<s> I, the Unspeakable By WALT SHELDON Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's in a name? might be very dangerous to ask in certain societies, in which sticks and stones are also a big problem! I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep. Do it! she said. Please do it! For me! It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning. I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard. I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way. I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces. I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor. Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds. I'd go out again today. The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last. As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag. Everything came back in a rush— My name. The dream and her voice. And her suggestion. Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk? <doc-sep>You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybodymade jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the recordswere for a while fouled up beyond recognition. The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far andthey psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerousnonconform. If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn'tcomplain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during thenight. There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With thepopulation of Northem already past two billion, the old designationswere too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the goodof Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem. The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there wasa political difference and that the two superstates sprawledlongitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are prettymuch the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war.They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experimentwith enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat. We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybodynow has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, toaddress somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We tryto pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says toStateleader, Good morning, A-A-A-A. They say, Good morning, Aaaa. Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I wasstill conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract andbe psycho-scanned. Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word. A four letter word. Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be. Mine was. It was unspeakable. The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore mysleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping toqualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a spacedrive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room andturned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories. I will never forget the first day I received my new four lettercombination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkablyembarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and chokedand became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to hissecretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits andregistered it himself. I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficientorganization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My workwas important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quantareaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore theanswer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—andthere were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very ImportantPersons. Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassmentwould become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tacticwas just not to answer. <doc-sep>The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard. Er—old man, he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter myname, I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How wouldyou like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work. Nutrition kits? Me? On nutrition kits? Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just hadthe cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and itjustifies. Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly reporthad to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course therewere so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out,you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to.Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applicationsand hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. Butif I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief tolet me go. The equivalent of resigning. I'll infract, I said. Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'llinfract. He looked vastly relieved. Uh—fine, he said. I rather hoped youwould. It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued anN/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book.I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, butbasically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of thestate and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve. But I didn't know what I was in for. I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department todepartment—any place where they might use a space drive expert. Apattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned myspecialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and theysaw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon asthey recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up.... <doc-sep>A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed. And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive. But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again. Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later. You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages. Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I couldn't get a post. Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior. That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone. Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to her —in a moment. I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal. But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate. <doc-sep>Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. Iremember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into aEugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted itfor analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usualdouble-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted. He said, Of course you understand that we must submit yourapplication to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating boothswith you, and that she has the right to refuse. Yes, I understand that. M'm, he said, and dismissed me with a nod. I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knewno woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter amating booth with him. The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sortsof wild schemes. I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent toMarscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolateplanet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wildirradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd bewilling to risk that. Well, almost.... About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dreamthere was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard itI awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with thesleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, ofcourse; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemedan explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong. The next night I heard the woman's voice again. Try it , she said. Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed upthat a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me. <doc-sep>She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but makingheretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deaconto pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me. And I heard the voice nearly every night. It hammered away. What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than themiserable existence you're leading now! One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about thisidea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be. She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, Consult the cybsin the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'llfind a way. Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. Ithought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost myfanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to bebusy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn'twant to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself. I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I gotup, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find thelocation of the nearest Govpub office. I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care. II Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four wasunderground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemedpleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off abit. Think about it. Compose myself. At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, aplate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it onand get close to the speaker and I did. The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the th soundsright—said, This is Branch Four of the Office of GovernmentPublications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' asthoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standardphraseology. Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on myknack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicateefficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment,change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generallyreferred to as nomenclature. There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays andbrought the memory tubes in. Then the cyb said, Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consultalphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same. Thanks, I said absent-mindedly. I started to turn away and the cyb said, Information on tanks ismilitary information and classified. State authorization for— I switched it off. <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>She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a littlelonger than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat. All right, she said finally, I'll make a search. She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the deskand began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, Informationdesired is in Bank 29. Please follow me. Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movementof her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-leggedand extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almostbeyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples andwas heartily ashamed of myself. I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the fullauthorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and therealization hardly scared me at all. She led me down one of the long passageways. A few moments later I said, Don't you sometimes get—well, prettylonely working here? Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approvedbehavior, but I couldn't help it. She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, Notterribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time. You don't get many visitors, then. Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people whocome to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscriptroom. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization. I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and theirideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up besideher. What's your name, by the way? L-A-R-A 339/827. I pronounced it. Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too. <doc-sep>She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faintspot of color on her cheek. I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at oneof the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to thepsycho-scan. We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not surejust how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were notactually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to theleft. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling. For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Oureyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble. She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again. After that she was very business-like. We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before themand began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watchedher move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinkedon and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted outinformation. She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned atit and turned to me. You can take this along and study it, she said,but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult. She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, I didn't think itwould be easy. It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serialunder any circumstances is Opsych. Opsych? You can't keep up with all these departments. The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you gofrom a lower to higher E.A.C. I don't get it, exactly. As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Justan overtone. Well, she said, as you know, the post a person isqualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional AdjustmentCategory. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 toGrade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protecthim from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,he is permitted a new number. I groaned. But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.! It looks very uncertain then. Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or onMarscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics! She looked amused. What did you say your E.A.C. was? Oh, all right. Sorry. I controlled myself and grinned. I guess thiswhole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'seven gone down. That might be your chance then. How do you mean? If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that yournumber has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able tojustify a change. By the State, he might! I punched my palm. Only how do I get to him? I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, fora guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.Just a moment. She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printedslip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, wasin the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of hisoffice, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center Onecontaining the Opsych offices. We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead ofme. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked witheverything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my templesagain. I tried to keep the conversation going. Do you think it'll be hard toget a travel permit? Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all daytomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing itif you hold out long enough. I sighed. I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto oughtto be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort youcan make it impossible?' <doc-sep>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>I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I thought objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of mylife, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knewno other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I mighthave was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something withinme told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, noteven this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm.... The woman, Lara, attracts you , said the voice. I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, thevoice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached withit. Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, andknow that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way. The idea at once thrilled and frightened me. I woke writhing and in a sweat again. It was morning. I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for CenterOne. The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seatsfor about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busiedmyself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers therewas mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomicdecade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed withlife ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock andsand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, whohadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratchingexistence from the earth today. I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some ofthe other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisonersin the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rathernon-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and twoDeacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me andI could see the prisoners' faces. They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yettheir lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment. They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgaremotional display. I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holdinghands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we werewonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of asmile. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Typically, people are unwelcoming of the narrator upon learning his name. During his job search, he is welcome in virtue of his previous experience in space drives, but is quickly dismissed upon sharing his name. In submitting his application to mate at a Eugenic Center, the clerk dismisses the narrator’s chances of finding a mate with a reminder that the women are able to refuse. Lara, the information clerk at the department of Numbering and Identity, is taken aback and hesitates in recording the narrator’s personal information.

<s> Wanderers of the Wolf Moon By NELSON S. BOND They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked, the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had to build a new life on a hostile world. And the man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures had come through the pages of a book. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow. Greg said, Why not? Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering. Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the Carefree . Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's that bad, eh,Sparks? What bad? I just told you— I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against. We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it? I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family. I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks? The radioman shrugged. Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens. And the controls? As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone. So? We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope. Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome. Sparks stared at him querulously. You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody. Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said. Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering. <doc-sep>Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode brisklythrough the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of thespace yacht Carefree . He paused once to peer through a perilens set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met hisgaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flamingsplotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treadingtheir ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol'stiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violetthat the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon ofspace-atmospherics through which the Carefree was now being twisted,topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal. He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observationrotunda which was the dining dome of the ship. His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. Ashe hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glassmirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while theywere as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly. J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousandor more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation,dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient littleNapoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed andelaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from thenearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid. On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as amud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply becauseof her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint withsuppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties ofthose about her. She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old andshapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics,pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with awatery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her petpoodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of Cuddles. On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who causedGregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch ashe glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—inthe glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal herloveliness. But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was alreadypledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turnedto murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired anddisliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the richbrownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes. The sound of his own name startled Greg. Malcolm! called the man at the head of the table. Malcolm! Now wherein blazes is he, anyhow? he demanded of no one in particular, everyonein general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preservejar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. Bitter! he complained. It's the very best Martian honey, said his wife. Drylands clover, added Crystal. It's still bitter, said J. Foster petulantly. His sister sniffed. Nonsense! It's delightful. I say it's bitter, repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voiceagain. Malcolm! Where are you? You called me, sir? said Malcolm, moving into the room. He noddedpolitely to the others. Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... MissAndrews ... Mr. Breadon.... Oh, sit down! snapped J. Foster. Sit down here and stop bobbing yourhead like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it'sbitter. He glared at his sister challengingly. Where have you been,anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radioturret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down? Malcolm said, I don't know, sir. Fine! Fine! Andrews rattled on automatically before the wordsregistered. Then he started, his face turning red. Eh? What's that?Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to— There's no transmission, sir, said Greg quietly. No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a millioncredits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipmentthroughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop rightup there and— <doc-sep>Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. Oh, for goodness sakes,Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standingthere with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word inedgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory? She turned to Greg, as JonathanFoster Andrews wheezed into startled silence. That? She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescencewove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora. Greg nodded. Yes, Miss Andrews. Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table. But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon? You might call it that, said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't staywith us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out. Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply. Ionization! That means atmosphere! Greg said, Yes. And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near— Breadonstopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to passit off easily. Oh, well—a change of scenery, what? But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. CrystalAndrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet. You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger? But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,Crystal's older brother. Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter withyou folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in aspace-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can'teven see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all besmashed as flat as pancakes! The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;his vain plea, Mr. Andrews— was lost in the medley of Crystal'ssudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowingroar at his only son. Bert—you're drunk! Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face. Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. Thewhole damn lot of you! He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. Youtoo, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news fromthem? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We'regone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks! He fellinto a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding thetoo-high notes of his laughter. J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there wasonly deep concern in his voice. Is he telling the truth, Malcolm? Greg said soberly, Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—butthere is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in theHeaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up. Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly. Is there anything we can do? Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible. In that case, said the older woman, we might as well finish ourbreakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy! She sat down again. Greglooked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,The life-skiffs? A last resort, said Greg. Sparks promised he'd let me know if itwere necessary. We'll hope it's not— But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. Foreven as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racingfootsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyeshot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes forsafety. Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff— quick ! We've been caught in agrav-drag and we're going to crash! II Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in GregMalcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identifiedas emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a shipout of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power toallay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining domedown the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beamsin the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiffcradled there. He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening aroundhim, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterestedspectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews towardthe door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all theweight of her body ... of her irate voice, Cuddles! I forgot him!Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her asthey charged on down the corridor. J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, Theofficers? and his own unfelt assurance. They can take care ofthemselves. It's a general 'bandon ship. Enid Andrews stumbling overthe hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly andbodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excitedbody hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,'Tina! ... and Hannigan's reply, Your maid? I woke her. She's in thelife-skiff. Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middleof the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, surenausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet. Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed theport behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, thequick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling ofweightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed andhis mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of theirescape. Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking froma nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. Aworld peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son anddaughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did notknow). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space. Somewhere in space. He looked through the perilens . What he saw thenhe might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veilhad wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of adistant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht Carefree . Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked towarda mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutalterrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that lastdreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame thattried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall. For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought theyglimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the Carefree ; amote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not besure, and then the Carefree was accelerating with such violence andspeed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance againstthe ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud offlame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all.... And Greg Malcolm turned from the perilens , shaken. Hannigan said, It's over? and Greg nodded. Hannigan said, The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were theycaught? I don't know. I couldn't see for sure. You must have seen. Are we the only ones? I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not. Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of otherhuddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. I'll take overnow, Malcolm. <doc-sep>It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now— And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong.... Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls. What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously. The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls. In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully. Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined perilens , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed. <doc-sep>Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun hishead, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Justa hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, themaid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in hernether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out. Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performedthat miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ...a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His facetwisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled tautand bloodless away from his teeth. Hold tight, folks! We're going tobounce— Then they struck! But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for,and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shiveredand groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forwardsomething snapped with a shrill, high ping! of stress; somewhere aftwas the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. Butthey were safe. Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escapedGreg's lungs in a long sigh. Nice work, Mr. Breadon! he cried. Oh,nice work! But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him. It would have been better work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damnedhands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff!Our only— He didn't do it! piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. You done ityourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch. Quiet! Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilledthe youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. And you,Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assumeresponsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get outand see how bad the damage is. Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silencedthe cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He'soverwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been toBedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back tonormal. He said quietly, Very well, Mr. Breadon. And he climbed from thebroken skiff. <doc-sep>Hannigan said, Looks bad, don't it? Very, said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping likea fin from the stern of the skiff. Not hopeless, though. There shouldbe an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that— You ought to of poked him, said Hannigan. What? Oh, you mean—? Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it. His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident, said Greg. It couldhave happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Consideringeverything. Anyhow— Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,efficient secretary. Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremelyprecarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man'snervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering— Umbrage! snorted Sparks. Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sureI know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean anything . Heglanced at Greg oddly. You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back thereon the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man tothe boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a moviehero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you thespur without a squawk— Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almoststubbornly, Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering. Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that? Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which theywere separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved tomake a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, moreor less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures towardremoving certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight anduncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument. The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, wasthat everyone wanted something to be done, but no two could agree asto just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any burstingdesire to participate in actual physical labor. J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open portof the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doulwho—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload ofedibles. 'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to thecomplaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do hadsuffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) andMiss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-openerimmediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was so hungry)! Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave thewarmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps wasshouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture hisdivided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpiecesof confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crewshould immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistentequipment, Breadon did not venture to say. You see what I mean? demanded Sparks disgustedly. <doc-sep>Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means anideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed byshallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly ontheir greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, mightwell become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men. He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northernhills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things— He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There wasbut one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. Theapparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, arguedhis judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through anatmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting withdisaster. Titan, he said. Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan. Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression ofdismay. Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are? I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us aslarge as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturniantractile constant, would give us a strong pull. Sparks wailed, But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comesto Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no— He stoppedsuddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. And, hey—this place is dangerous ! There are— I know it, said Greg swiftly, quietly. Shut up, Sparks. No usetelling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don'tknow won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselvesorganized into a defensive community. That's the only way— Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. Well,Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful! And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented theorder. Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, myman. We want action! Sparks said, Maybe you'll get it now, fatty! under his breath, andlooked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, movedforward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command. Yes, sir, he said. Hannigan groaned and followed him. III Breadon said, All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words tosay. He glanced about him pompously. Now, folks, naturally we wantto get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest spacecruiser. Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his timeanswering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted hishead. He said, A message, huh? That's what I said. And what'll I send it with? drawled Sparks. Tom-toms? Breadon flushed darkly. I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoreticallyyou are a radio operator? Finest radio money can buy! interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.Put a million credits into the Carefree . Best equipment throughout. Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. You'reboth right. I am a radio operator, and there was a radio. But wecrashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in themaster switch— That will do! snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-leggedlittle redhead. You mean the radio was broken? It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glassdon't bounce so good. Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, Sparks, can't you fix it? Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won'tknow till I get going on it. Breadon frowned. I'll handle this, Malcolm, he crisped. Again to the radioman, Well,you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed,send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are— Speaking of which, insinuated Sparks, where are we? Breadon glared at him wrathfully. Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool cansee that! O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan?And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on accountof it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol? SOS.Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan,maybe. They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to ourknees. Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, I—I don'tknow. We have a compass— Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. Hehad been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from theskiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; hisright forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. Hesaid, I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the searchin half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite. Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the firsttime in her life. How, she asked, did you know that, Malcolm? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Gregory Malcolm is a secretary to J. Foster Andrews, the wealthy leader of the Galactic Metals Corporation. In the control room of Andrews’s space yacht the Carefree, Sparks, the radioman, fails to downplay the seriousness of their situation to Malcolm: the Carefree has been sucked into an unpredictable vortex and the fate of the ship and its occupants is uncertain. Malcolm approaches the dining room, where Andrews and members of his family are enjoying breakfast. He is unnoticed by his employers, but takes note of Andrews’s beautiful daughter Crystal and her betrothed Ralph Breadon. Suddenly, Andrews calls Malcolm over to complain about the honey and to enquire about the state of the Galactic market. Malcolm, in virtue of the fact that the vortex has blocked communication to and from the Carefree, is unable to answer. Crystal asks Malcolm if they are in danger, but before he is able to answer the question, Crystal’s older brother Bert enters drunkenly and suggests that they are doomed. Sparks abruptly enters the room and confirms Bert’s drunken suspicion: they have been caught in a gravitation downdraft and must evacuate to a life skiff. On the skiff with members of the Andrews family, Sparks, a cabin-boy, and Breadon, Malcolm navigates above a celestial body and observes the crash of the Carefree. Just as Malcolm surrenders control of the skiff to Breadon, its engines engage and they quickly fall towards the planet. Breadon deftly manipulates the controls, and they land safely. As Malcolm quickly congratulates Breadon on his landing, the latter blames and berates the secretary for the fall. The cabin-boy, however, points out that Breadon’s sleeve was responsible for their descent. Malcolm and Sparks examine the damage to the skiff, and Sparks shares his frustrations about Malcolm’s submissive, secretarial behaviour. Malcolm concludes that they are on a rarely-visited, unpopulated, vast, and dangerous moon of Saturn called Titan. Malcolm resolves not to tell the Andrews, fearing that the information would only make them panic. Meanwhile, the Andrews family are in disarray over how best to remove necessities from the skiff.Breadon delegates to Sparks the role of establishing communication. Sparks, however, responds poorly and reveals that they are on Titan, and that their chances of rescue are dim.

<s> Wanderers of the Wolf Moon By NELSON S. BOND They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked, the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had to build a new life on a hostile world. And the man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures had come through the pages of a book. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow. Greg said, Why not? Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering. Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the Carefree . Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's that bad, eh,Sparks? What bad? I just told you— I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against. We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it? I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family. I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks? The radioman shrugged. Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens. And the controls? As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone. So? We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope. Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome. Sparks stared at him querulously. You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody. Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said. Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering. <doc-sep>Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode brisklythrough the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of thespace yacht Carefree . He paused once to peer through a perilens set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met hisgaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flamingsplotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treadingtheir ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol'stiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violetthat the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon ofspace-atmospherics through which the Carefree was now being twisted,topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal. He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observationrotunda which was the dining dome of the ship. His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. Ashe hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glassmirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while theywere as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly. J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousandor more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation,dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient littleNapoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed andelaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from thenearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid. On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as amud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply becauseof her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint withsuppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties ofthose about her. She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old andshapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics,pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with awatery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her petpoodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of Cuddles. On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who causedGregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch ashe glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—inthe glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal herloveliness. But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was alreadypledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turnedto murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired anddisliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the richbrownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes. The sound of his own name startled Greg. Malcolm! called the man at the head of the table. Malcolm! Now wherein blazes is he, anyhow? he demanded of no one in particular, everyonein general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preservejar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. Bitter! he complained. It's the very best Martian honey, said his wife. Drylands clover, added Crystal. It's still bitter, said J. Foster petulantly. His sister sniffed. Nonsense! It's delightful. I say it's bitter, repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voiceagain. Malcolm! Where are you? You called me, sir? said Malcolm, moving into the room. He noddedpolitely to the others. Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... MissAndrews ... Mr. Breadon.... Oh, sit down! snapped J. Foster. Sit down here and stop bobbing yourhead like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it'sbitter. He glared at his sister challengingly. Where have you been,anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radioturret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down? Malcolm said, I don't know, sir. Fine! Fine! Andrews rattled on automatically before the wordsregistered. Then he started, his face turning red. Eh? What's that?Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to— There's no transmission, sir, said Greg quietly. No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a millioncredits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipmentthroughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop rightup there and— <doc-sep>Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. Oh, for goodness sakes,Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standingthere with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word inedgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory? She turned to Greg, as JonathanFoster Andrews wheezed into startled silence. That? She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescencewove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora. Greg nodded. Yes, Miss Andrews. Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table. But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon? You might call it that, said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't staywith us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out. Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply. Ionization! That means atmosphere! Greg said, Yes. And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near— Breadonstopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to passit off easily. Oh, well—a change of scenery, what? But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. CrystalAndrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet. You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger? But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,Crystal's older brother. Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter withyou folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in aspace-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can'teven see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all besmashed as flat as pancakes! The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;his vain plea, Mr. Andrews— was lost in the medley of Crystal'ssudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowingroar at his only son. Bert—you're drunk! Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face. Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. Thewhole damn lot of you! He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. Youtoo, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news fromthem? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We'regone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks! He fellinto a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding thetoo-high notes of his laughter. J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there wasonly deep concern in his voice. Is he telling the truth, Malcolm? Greg said soberly, Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—butthere is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in theHeaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up. Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly. Is there anything we can do? Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible. In that case, said the older woman, we might as well finish ourbreakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy! She sat down again. Greglooked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,The life-skiffs? A last resort, said Greg. Sparks promised he'd let me know if itwere necessary. We'll hope it's not— But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. Foreven as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racingfootsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyeshot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes forsafety. Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff— quick ! We've been caught in agrav-drag and we're going to crash! II Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in GregMalcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identifiedas emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a shipout of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power toallay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining domedown the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beamsin the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiffcradled there. He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening aroundhim, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterestedspectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews towardthe door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all theweight of her body ... of her irate voice, Cuddles! I forgot him!Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her asthey charged on down the corridor. J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, Theofficers? and his own unfelt assurance. They can take care ofthemselves. It's a general 'bandon ship. Enid Andrews stumbling overthe hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly andbodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excitedbody hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,'Tina! ... and Hannigan's reply, Your maid? I woke her. She's in thelife-skiff. Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middleof the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, surenausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet. Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed theport behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, thequick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling ofweightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed andhis mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of theirescape. Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking froma nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. Aworld peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son anddaughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did notknow). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space. Somewhere in space. He looked through the perilens . What he saw thenhe might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veilhad wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of adistant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht Carefree . Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked towarda mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutalterrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that lastdreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame thattried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall. For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought theyglimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the Carefree ; amote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not besure, and then the Carefree was accelerating with such violence andspeed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance againstthe ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud offlame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all.... And Greg Malcolm turned from the perilens , shaken. Hannigan said, It's over? and Greg nodded. Hannigan said, The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were theycaught? I don't know. I couldn't see for sure. You must have seen. Are we the only ones? I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not. Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of otherhuddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. I'll take overnow, Malcolm. <doc-sep>It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now— And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong.... Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls. What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously. The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls. In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully. Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined perilens , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed. <doc-sep>Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun hishead, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Justa hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, themaid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in hernether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out. Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performedthat miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ...a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His facetwisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled tautand bloodless away from his teeth. Hold tight, folks! We're going tobounce— Then they struck! But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for,and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shiveredand groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forwardsomething snapped with a shrill, high ping! of stress; somewhere aftwas the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. Butthey were safe. Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escapedGreg's lungs in a long sigh. Nice work, Mr. Breadon! he cried. Oh,nice work! But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him. It would have been better work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damnedhands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff!Our only— He didn't do it! piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. You done ityourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch. Quiet! Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilledthe youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. And you,Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assumeresponsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get outand see how bad the damage is. Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silencedthe cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He'soverwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been toBedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back tonormal. He said quietly, Very well, Mr. Breadon. And he climbed from thebroken skiff. <doc-sep>Hannigan said, Looks bad, don't it? Very, said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping likea fin from the stern of the skiff. Not hopeless, though. There shouldbe an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that— You ought to of poked him, said Hannigan. What? Oh, you mean—? Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it. His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident, said Greg. It couldhave happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Consideringeverything. Anyhow— Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,efficient secretary. Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremelyprecarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man'snervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering— Umbrage! snorted Sparks. Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sureI know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean anything . Heglanced at Greg oddly. You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back thereon the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man tothe boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a moviehero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you thespur without a squawk— Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almoststubbornly, Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering. Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that? Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which theywere separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved tomake a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, moreor less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures towardremoving certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight anduncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument. The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, wasthat everyone wanted something to be done, but no two could agree asto just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any burstingdesire to participate in actual physical labor. J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open portof the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doulwho—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload ofedibles. 'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to thecomplaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do hadsuffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) andMiss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-openerimmediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was so hungry)! Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave thewarmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps wasshouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture hisdivided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpiecesof confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crewshould immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistentequipment, Breadon did not venture to say. You see what I mean? demanded Sparks disgustedly. <doc-sep>Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means anideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed byshallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly ontheir greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, mightwell become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men. He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northernhills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things— He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There wasbut one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. Theapparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, arguedhis judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through anatmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting withdisaster. Titan, he said. Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan. Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression ofdismay. Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are? I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us aslarge as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturniantractile constant, would give us a strong pull. Sparks wailed, But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comesto Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no— He stoppedsuddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. And, hey—this place is dangerous ! There are— I know it, said Greg swiftly, quietly. Shut up, Sparks. No usetelling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don'tknow won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselvesorganized into a defensive community. That's the only way— Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. Well,Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful! And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented theorder. Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, myman. We want action! Sparks said, Maybe you'll get it now, fatty! under his breath, andlooked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, movedforward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command. Yes, sir, he said. Hannigan groaned and followed him. III Breadon said, All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words tosay. He glanced about him pompously. Now, folks, naturally we wantto get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest spacecruiser. Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his timeanswering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted hishead. He said, A message, huh? That's what I said. And what'll I send it with? drawled Sparks. Tom-toms? Breadon flushed darkly. I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoreticallyyou are a radio operator? Finest radio money can buy! interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.Put a million credits into the Carefree . Best equipment throughout. Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. You'reboth right. I am a radio operator, and there was a radio. But wecrashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in themaster switch— That will do! snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-leggedlittle redhead. You mean the radio was broken? It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glassdon't bounce so good. Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, Sparks, can't you fix it? Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won'tknow till I get going on it. Breadon frowned. I'll handle this, Malcolm, he crisped. Again to the radioman, Well,you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed,send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are— Speaking of which, insinuated Sparks, where are we? Breadon glared at him wrathfully. Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool cansee that! O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan?And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on accountof it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol? SOS.Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan,maybe. They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to ourknees. Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, I—I don'tknow. We have a compass— Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. Hehad been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from theskiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; hisright forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. Hesaid, I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the searchin half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite. Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the firsttime in her life. How, she asked, did you know that, Malcolm? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

On life skiff number four, the skiff onto which Gregory Malcolm had evacuated were himself, his employers J. Foster Andrews, the head of the Galactic Metals Corporations, and his family: Andrews’s tall and well-styled wife Enid, his plain-featured, out of shape but beautiful-eyed sister Maud, Maud’s poodle Cuddles, Andrews’s drunk son Bert, Andrews’s beautiful daughter Crystal, and the man to whom Crystal was promised, Ralph Breadon. Malcolm describes Ralph as tall and strong-knit, with tanned skin. Also aboard the skiff were the maid of the Andrews family, ‘Tina Laney, a cabin boy named Tommy O’Doul, and the radio engineer of the Carefree named Hannigan, who is also called Sparks.

<s> Wanderers of the Wolf Moon By NELSON S. BOND They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked, the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had to build a new life on a hostile world. And the man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures had come through the pages of a book. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow. Greg said, Why not? Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering. Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the Carefree . Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's that bad, eh,Sparks? What bad? I just told you— I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against. We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it? I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family. I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks? The radioman shrugged. Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens. And the controls? As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone. So? We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope. Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome. Sparks stared at him querulously. You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody. Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said. Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering. <doc-sep>Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode brisklythrough the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of thespace yacht Carefree . He paused once to peer through a perilens set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met hisgaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flamingsplotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treadingtheir ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol'stiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violetthat the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon ofspace-atmospherics through which the Carefree was now being twisted,topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal. He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observationrotunda which was the dining dome of the ship. His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. Ashe hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glassmirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while theywere as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly. J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousandor more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation,dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient littleNapoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed andelaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from thenearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid. On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as amud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply becauseof her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint withsuppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties ofthose about her. She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old andshapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics,pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with awatery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her petpoodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of Cuddles. On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who causedGregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch ashe glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—inthe glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal herloveliness. But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was alreadypledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turnedto murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired anddisliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the richbrownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes. The sound of his own name startled Greg. Malcolm! called the man at the head of the table. Malcolm! Now wherein blazes is he, anyhow? he demanded of no one in particular, everyonein general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preservejar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. Bitter! he complained. It's the very best Martian honey, said his wife. Drylands clover, added Crystal. It's still bitter, said J. Foster petulantly. His sister sniffed. Nonsense! It's delightful. I say it's bitter, repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voiceagain. Malcolm! Where are you? You called me, sir? said Malcolm, moving into the room. He noddedpolitely to the others. Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... MissAndrews ... Mr. Breadon.... Oh, sit down! snapped J. Foster. Sit down here and stop bobbing yourhead like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it'sbitter. He glared at his sister challengingly. Where have you been,anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radioturret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down? Malcolm said, I don't know, sir. Fine! Fine! Andrews rattled on automatically before the wordsregistered. Then he started, his face turning red. Eh? What's that?Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to— There's no transmission, sir, said Greg quietly. No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a millioncredits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipmentthroughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop rightup there and— <doc-sep>Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. Oh, for goodness sakes,Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standingthere with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word inedgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory? She turned to Greg, as JonathanFoster Andrews wheezed into startled silence. That? She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescencewove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora. Greg nodded. Yes, Miss Andrews. Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table. But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon? You might call it that, said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't staywith us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out. Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply. Ionization! That means atmosphere! Greg said, Yes. And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near— Breadonstopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to passit off easily. Oh, well—a change of scenery, what? But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. CrystalAndrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet. You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger? But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,Crystal's older brother. Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter withyou folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in aspace-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can'teven see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all besmashed as flat as pancakes! The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;his vain plea, Mr. Andrews— was lost in the medley of Crystal'ssudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowingroar at his only son. Bert—you're drunk! Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face. Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. Thewhole damn lot of you! He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. Youtoo, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news fromthem? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We'regone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks! He fellinto a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding thetoo-high notes of his laughter. J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there wasonly deep concern in his voice. Is he telling the truth, Malcolm? Greg said soberly, Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—butthere is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in theHeaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up. Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly. Is there anything we can do? Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible. In that case, said the older woman, we might as well finish ourbreakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy! She sat down again. Greglooked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,The life-skiffs? A last resort, said Greg. Sparks promised he'd let me know if itwere necessary. We'll hope it's not— But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. Foreven as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racingfootsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyeshot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes forsafety. Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff— quick ! We've been caught in agrav-drag and we're going to crash! II Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in GregMalcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identifiedas emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a shipout of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power toallay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining domedown the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beamsin the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiffcradled there. He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening aroundhim, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterestedspectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews towardthe door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all theweight of her body ... of her irate voice, Cuddles! I forgot him!Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her asthey charged on down the corridor. J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, Theofficers? and his own unfelt assurance. They can take care ofthemselves. It's a general 'bandon ship. Enid Andrews stumbling overthe hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly andbodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excitedbody hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,'Tina! ... and Hannigan's reply, Your maid? I woke her. She's in thelife-skiff. Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middleof the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, surenausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet. Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed theport behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, thequick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling ofweightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed andhis mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of theirescape. Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking froma nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. Aworld peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son anddaughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did notknow). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space. Somewhere in space. He looked through the perilens . What he saw thenhe might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veilhad wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of adistant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht Carefree . Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked towarda mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutalterrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that lastdreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame thattried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall. For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought theyglimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the Carefree ; amote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not besure, and then the Carefree was accelerating with such violence andspeed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance againstthe ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud offlame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all.... And Greg Malcolm turned from the perilens , shaken. Hannigan said, It's over? and Greg nodded. Hannigan said, The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were theycaught? I don't know. I couldn't see for sure. You must have seen. Are we the only ones? I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not. Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of otherhuddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. I'll take overnow, Malcolm. <doc-sep>It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now— And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong.... Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls. What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously. The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls. In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully. Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined perilens , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed. <doc-sep>Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun hishead, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Justa hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, themaid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in hernether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out. Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performedthat miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ...a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His facetwisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled tautand bloodless away from his teeth. Hold tight, folks! We're going tobounce— Then they struck! But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for,and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shiveredand groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forwardsomething snapped with a shrill, high ping! of stress; somewhere aftwas the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. Butthey were safe. Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escapedGreg's lungs in a long sigh. Nice work, Mr. Breadon! he cried. Oh,nice work! But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him. It would have been better work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damnedhands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff!Our only— He didn't do it! piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. You done ityourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch. Quiet! Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilledthe youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. And you,Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assumeresponsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get outand see how bad the damage is. Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silencedthe cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He'soverwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been toBedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back tonormal. He said quietly, Very well, Mr. Breadon. And he climbed from thebroken skiff. <doc-sep>Hannigan said, Looks bad, don't it? Very, said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping likea fin from the stern of the skiff. Not hopeless, though. There shouldbe an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that— You ought to of poked him, said Hannigan. What? Oh, you mean—? Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it. His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident, said Greg. It couldhave happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Consideringeverything. Anyhow— Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,efficient secretary. Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremelyprecarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man'snervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering— Umbrage! snorted Sparks. Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sureI know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean anything . Heglanced at Greg oddly. You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back thereon the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man tothe boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a moviehero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you thespur without a squawk— Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almoststubbornly, Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering. Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that? Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which theywere separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved tomake a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, moreor less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures towardremoving certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight anduncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument. The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, wasthat everyone wanted something to be done, but no two could agree asto just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any burstingdesire to participate in actual physical labor. J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open portof the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doulwho—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload ofedibles. 'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to thecomplaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do hadsuffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) andMiss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-openerimmediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was so hungry)! Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave thewarmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps wasshouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture hisdivided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpiecesof confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crewshould immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistentequipment, Breadon did not venture to say. You see what I mean? demanded Sparks disgustedly. <doc-sep>Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means anideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed byshallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly ontheir greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, mightwell become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men. He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northernhills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things— He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There wasbut one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. Theapparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, arguedhis judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through anatmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting withdisaster. Titan, he said. Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan. Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression ofdismay. Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are? I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us aslarge as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturniantractile constant, would give us a strong pull. Sparks wailed, But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comesto Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no— He stoppedsuddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. And, hey—this place is dangerous ! There are— I know it, said Greg swiftly, quietly. Shut up, Sparks. No usetelling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don'tknow won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselvesorganized into a defensive community. That's the only way— Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. Well,Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful! And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented theorder. Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, myman. We want action! Sparks said, Maybe you'll get it now, fatty! under his breath, andlooked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, movedforward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command. Yes, sir, he said. Hannigan groaned and followed him. III Breadon said, All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words tosay. He glanced about him pompously. Now, folks, naturally we wantto get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest spacecruiser. Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his timeanswering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted hishead. He said, A message, huh? That's what I said. And what'll I send it with? drawled Sparks. Tom-toms? Breadon flushed darkly. I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoreticallyyou are a radio operator? Finest radio money can buy! interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.Put a million credits into the Carefree . Best equipment throughout. Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. You'reboth right. I am a radio operator, and there was a radio. But wecrashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in themaster switch— That will do! snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-leggedlittle redhead. You mean the radio was broken? It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glassdon't bounce so good. Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, Sparks, can't you fix it? Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won'tknow till I get going on it. Breadon frowned. I'll handle this, Malcolm, he crisped. Again to the radioman, Well,you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed,send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are— Speaking of which, insinuated Sparks, where are we? Breadon glared at him wrathfully. Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool cansee that! O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan?And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on accountof it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol? SOS.Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan,maybe. They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to ourknees. Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, I—I don'tknow. We have a compass— Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. Hehad been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from theskiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; hisright forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. Hesaid, I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the searchin half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite. Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the firsttime in her life. How, she asked, did you know that, Malcolm? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Gregory Malcolm is a secretary to J. Foster Andrews, father of Crystal Andrews, who is promised to Ralph Breadon. Malcolm is attracted to Crystal, and dislikes Breadon’s appearance, though he admires it as well. In the life skiff, Breadon behaves in a domineering manner towards Malcolm, suggesting that he hand over the controls of the skiff. During the transfer of controls, however, Breadon’s sleeve is caught on a switch and causes the skiff to crash towards Titan. During their descent, Malcolm attempts to control their trajectory but is dismissed by Breadon, who successfully lands the skiff on the moon of Saturn. Malcolm quickly congratulates Breadon, but is berated for interfering. Despite this, however, Malcolm later rationalizes Breadon’s arrogant behaviour and maintains to Sparks, the radio engineer, that he holds no grudge against him, seemingly hiding his anger behind his job as a secretary.

<s> Wanderers of the Wolf Moon By NELSON S. BOND They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked, the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had to build a new life on a hostile world. And the man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures had come through the pages of a book. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow. Greg said, Why not? Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering. Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the Carefree . Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's that bad, eh,Sparks? What bad? I just told you— I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against. We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it? I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family. I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks? The radioman shrugged. Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens. And the controls? As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone. So? We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope. Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome. Sparks stared at him querulously. You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody. Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said. Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering. <doc-sep>Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode brisklythrough the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of thespace yacht Carefree . He paused once to peer through a perilens set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met hisgaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flamingsplotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treadingtheir ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol'stiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violetthat the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon ofspace-atmospherics through which the Carefree was now being twisted,topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal. He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observationrotunda which was the dining dome of the ship. His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. Ashe hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glassmirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while theywere as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly. J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousandor more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation,dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient littleNapoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed andelaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from thenearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid. On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as amud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply becauseof her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint withsuppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties ofthose about her. She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old andshapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics,pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with awatery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her petpoodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of Cuddles. On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who causedGregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch ashe glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—inthe glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal herloveliness. But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was alreadypledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turnedto murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired anddisliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the richbrownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes. The sound of his own name startled Greg. Malcolm! called the man at the head of the table. Malcolm! Now wherein blazes is he, anyhow? he demanded of no one in particular, everyonein general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preservejar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. Bitter! he complained. It's the very best Martian honey, said his wife. Drylands clover, added Crystal. It's still bitter, said J. Foster petulantly. His sister sniffed. Nonsense! It's delightful. I say it's bitter, repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voiceagain. Malcolm! Where are you? You called me, sir? said Malcolm, moving into the room. He noddedpolitely to the others. Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... MissAndrews ... Mr. Breadon.... Oh, sit down! snapped J. Foster. Sit down here and stop bobbing yourhead like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it'sbitter. He glared at his sister challengingly. Where have you been,anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radioturret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down? Malcolm said, I don't know, sir. Fine! Fine! Andrews rattled on automatically before the wordsregistered. Then he started, his face turning red. Eh? What's that?Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to— There's no transmission, sir, said Greg quietly. No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a millioncredits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipmentthroughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop rightup there and— <doc-sep>Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. Oh, for goodness sakes,Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standingthere with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word inedgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory? She turned to Greg, as JonathanFoster Andrews wheezed into startled silence. That? She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescencewove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora. Greg nodded. Yes, Miss Andrews. Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table. But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon? You might call it that, said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't staywith us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out. Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply. Ionization! That means atmosphere! Greg said, Yes. And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near— Breadonstopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to passit off easily. Oh, well—a change of scenery, what? But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. CrystalAndrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet. You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger? But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,Crystal's older brother. Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter withyou folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in aspace-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can'teven see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all besmashed as flat as pancakes! The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;his vain plea, Mr. Andrews— was lost in the medley of Crystal'ssudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowingroar at his only son. Bert—you're drunk! Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face. Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. Thewhole damn lot of you! He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. Youtoo, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news fromthem? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We'regone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks! He fellinto a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding thetoo-high notes of his laughter. J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there wasonly deep concern in his voice. Is he telling the truth, Malcolm? Greg said soberly, Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—butthere is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in theHeaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up. Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly. Is there anything we can do? Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible. In that case, said the older woman, we might as well finish ourbreakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy! She sat down again. Greglooked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,The life-skiffs? A last resort, said Greg. Sparks promised he'd let me know if itwere necessary. We'll hope it's not— But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. Foreven as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racingfootsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyeshot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes forsafety. Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff— quick ! We've been caught in agrav-drag and we're going to crash! II Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in GregMalcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identifiedas emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a shipout of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power toallay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining domedown the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beamsin the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiffcradled there. He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening aroundhim, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterestedspectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews towardthe door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all theweight of her body ... of her irate voice, Cuddles! I forgot him!Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her asthey charged on down the corridor. J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, Theofficers? and his own unfelt assurance. They can take care ofthemselves. It's a general 'bandon ship. Enid Andrews stumbling overthe hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly andbodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excitedbody hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,'Tina! ... and Hannigan's reply, Your maid? I woke her. She's in thelife-skiff. Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middleof the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, surenausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet. Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed theport behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, thequick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling ofweightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed andhis mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of theirescape. Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking froma nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. Aworld peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son anddaughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did notknow). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space. Somewhere in space. He looked through the perilens . What he saw thenhe might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veilhad wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of adistant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht Carefree . Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked towarda mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutalterrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that lastdreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame thattried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall. For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought theyglimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the Carefree ; amote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not besure, and then the Carefree was accelerating with such violence andspeed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance againstthe ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud offlame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all.... And Greg Malcolm turned from the perilens , shaken. Hannigan said, It's over? and Greg nodded. Hannigan said, The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were theycaught? I don't know. I couldn't see for sure. You must have seen. Are we the only ones? I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not. Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of otherhuddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. I'll take overnow, Malcolm. <doc-sep>It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now— And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong.... Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls. What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously. The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls. In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully. Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined perilens , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed. <doc-sep>Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun hishead, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Justa hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, themaid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in hernether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out. Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performedthat miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ...a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His facetwisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled tautand bloodless away from his teeth. Hold tight, folks! We're going tobounce— Then they struck! But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for,and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shiveredand groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forwardsomething snapped with a shrill, high ping! of stress; somewhere aftwas the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. Butthey were safe. Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escapedGreg's lungs in a long sigh. Nice work, Mr. Breadon! he cried. Oh,nice work! But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him. It would have been better work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damnedhands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff!Our only— He didn't do it! piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. You done ityourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch. Quiet! Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilledthe youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. And you,Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assumeresponsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get outand see how bad the damage is. Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silencedthe cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He'soverwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been toBedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back tonormal. He said quietly, Very well, Mr. Breadon. And he climbed from thebroken skiff. <doc-sep>Hannigan said, Looks bad, don't it? Very, said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping likea fin from the stern of the skiff. Not hopeless, though. There shouldbe an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that— You ought to of poked him, said Hannigan. What? Oh, you mean—? Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it. His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident, said Greg. It couldhave happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Consideringeverything. Anyhow— Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,efficient secretary. Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremelyprecarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man'snervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering— Umbrage! snorted Sparks. Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sureI know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean anything . Heglanced at Greg oddly. You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back thereon the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man tothe boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a moviehero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you thespur without a squawk— Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almoststubbornly, Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering. Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that? Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which theywere separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved tomake a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, moreor less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures towardremoving certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight anduncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument. The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, wasthat everyone wanted something to be done, but no two could agree asto just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any burstingdesire to participate in actual physical labor. J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open portof the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doulwho—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload ofedibles. 'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to thecomplaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do hadsuffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) andMiss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-openerimmediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was so hungry)! Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave thewarmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps wasshouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture hisdivided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpiecesof confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crewshould immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistentequipment, Breadon did not venture to say. You see what I mean? demanded Sparks disgustedly. <doc-sep>Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means anideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed byshallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly ontheir greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, mightwell become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men. He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northernhills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things— He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There wasbut one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. Theapparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, arguedhis judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through anatmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting withdisaster. Titan, he said. Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan. Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression ofdismay. Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are? I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us aslarge as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturniantractile constant, would give us a strong pull. Sparks wailed, But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comesto Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no— He stoppedsuddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. And, hey—this place is dangerous ! There are— I know it, said Greg swiftly, quietly. Shut up, Sparks. No usetelling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don'tknow won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselvesorganized into a defensive community. That's the only way— Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. Well,Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful! And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented theorder. Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, myman. We want action! Sparks said, Maybe you'll get it now, fatty! under his breath, andlooked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, movedforward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command. Yes, sir, he said. Hannigan groaned and followed him. III Breadon said, All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words tosay. He glanced about him pompously. Now, folks, naturally we wantto get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest spacecruiser. Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his timeanswering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted hishead. He said, A message, huh? That's what I said. And what'll I send it with? drawled Sparks. Tom-toms? Breadon flushed darkly. I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoreticallyyou are a radio operator? Finest radio money can buy! interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.Put a million credits into the Carefree . Best equipment throughout. Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. You'reboth right. I am a radio operator, and there was a radio. But wecrashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in themaster switch— That will do! snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-leggedlittle redhead. You mean the radio was broken? It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glassdon't bounce so good. Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, Sparks, can't you fix it? Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won'tknow till I get going on it. Breadon frowned. I'll handle this, Malcolm, he crisped. Again to the radioman, Well,you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed,send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are— Speaking of which, insinuated Sparks, where are we? Breadon glared at him wrathfully. Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool cansee that! O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan?And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on accountof it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol? SOS.Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan,maybe. They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to ourknees. Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, I—I don'tknow. We have a compass— Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. Hehad been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from theskiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; hisright forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. Hesaid, I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the searchin half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite. Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the firsttime in her life. How, she asked, did you know that, Malcolm? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Generally, the Andrews family is dismissive of their household staff, which include Gregory Malcolm, ‘Tina Laney, Sparks, and a cabin-boy. J. Foster Andrews, the head of the family, impatiently calls for his secretary, Gregory Malcolm, to complain about the quality of their morning honey. J. Foster learns that Malcolm doesn’t know that state of the Galactic market, but dismisses the reason that Malcolm provides, instead concluding that the radio technician Sparks is drunk. During the evacuation to the life skiff, Crystal Andrews, J. Foster’s daughter, remembers her maid ‘Tina Laney and asks where she is, apparently paying mind to her safety. In contrast, her fiancé Ralph Breadon is dismissive of Malcolm, and later blames him for the life skiff’s crashing into Titan. Upon the cabin-boy’s revelation that it was, in fact, Breadon who inadvertently caused the skiff’s malfunction, Breadon strikes the cabin-boy. On Titan, ‘Tina is instructed to remove things from the skiff by the women of the Andrews family, who do not help, and Sparks and Malcolm are harshly instructed to make themselves useful.

<s> Wanderers of the Wolf Moon By NELSON S. BOND They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked, the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had to build a new life on a hostile world. And the man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures had come through the pages of a book. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow. Greg said, Why not? Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering. Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the Carefree . Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's that bad, eh,Sparks? What bad? I just told you— I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against. We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it? I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family. I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks? The radioman shrugged. Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens. And the controls? As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone. So? We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope. Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome. Sparks stared at him querulously. You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody. Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said. Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering. <doc-sep>Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode brisklythrough the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of thespace yacht Carefree . He paused once to peer through a perilens set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met hisgaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flamingsplotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treadingtheir ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol'stiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violetthat the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon ofspace-atmospherics through which the Carefree was now being twisted,topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal. He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observationrotunda which was the dining dome of the ship. His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. Ashe hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glassmirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while theywere as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly. J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousandor more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation,dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient littleNapoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed andelaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from thenearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid. On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as amud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply becauseof her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint withsuppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties ofthose about her. She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old andshapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics,pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with awatery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her petpoodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of Cuddles. On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who causedGregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch ashe glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—inthe glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal herloveliness. But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was alreadypledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turnedto murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired anddisliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the richbrownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes. The sound of his own name startled Greg. Malcolm! called the man at the head of the table. Malcolm! Now wherein blazes is he, anyhow? he demanded of no one in particular, everyonein general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preservejar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. Bitter! he complained. It's the very best Martian honey, said his wife. Drylands clover, added Crystal. It's still bitter, said J. Foster petulantly. His sister sniffed. Nonsense! It's delightful. I say it's bitter, repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voiceagain. Malcolm! Where are you? You called me, sir? said Malcolm, moving into the room. He noddedpolitely to the others. Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... MissAndrews ... Mr. Breadon.... Oh, sit down! snapped J. Foster. Sit down here and stop bobbing yourhead like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it'sbitter. He glared at his sister challengingly. Where have you been,anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radioturret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down? Malcolm said, I don't know, sir. Fine! Fine! Andrews rattled on automatically before the wordsregistered. Then he started, his face turning red. Eh? What's that?Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to— There's no transmission, sir, said Greg quietly. No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a millioncredits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipmentthroughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop rightup there and— <doc-sep>Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. Oh, for goodness sakes,Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standingthere with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word inedgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory? She turned to Greg, as JonathanFoster Andrews wheezed into startled silence. That? She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescencewove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora. Greg nodded. Yes, Miss Andrews. Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table. But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon? You might call it that, said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't staywith us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out. Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply. Ionization! That means atmosphere! Greg said, Yes. And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near— Breadonstopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to passit off easily. Oh, well—a change of scenery, what? But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. CrystalAndrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet. You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger? But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,Crystal's older brother. Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter withyou folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in aspace-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can'teven see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all besmashed as flat as pancakes! The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;his vain plea, Mr. Andrews— was lost in the medley of Crystal'ssudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowingroar at his only son. Bert—you're drunk! Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face. Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. Thewhole damn lot of you! He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. Youtoo, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news fromthem? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We'regone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks! He fellinto a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding thetoo-high notes of his laughter. J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there wasonly deep concern in his voice. Is he telling the truth, Malcolm? Greg said soberly, Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—butthere is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in theHeaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up. Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly. Is there anything we can do? Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible. In that case, said the older woman, we might as well finish ourbreakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy! She sat down again. Greglooked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,The life-skiffs? A last resort, said Greg. Sparks promised he'd let me know if itwere necessary. We'll hope it's not— But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. Foreven as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racingfootsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyeshot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes forsafety. Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff— quick ! We've been caught in agrav-drag and we're going to crash! II Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in GregMalcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identifiedas emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a shipout of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power toallay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining domedown the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beamsin the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiffcradled there. He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening aroundhim, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterestedspectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews towardthe door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all theweight of her body ... of her irate voice, Cuddles! I forgot him!Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her asthey charged on down the corridor. J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, Theofficers? and his own unfelt assurance. They can take care ofthemselves. It's a general 'bandon ship. Enid Andrews stumbling overthe hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly andbodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excitedbody hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,'Tina! ... and Hannigan's reply, Your maid? I woke her. She's in thelife-skiff. Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middleof the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, surenausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet. Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed theport behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, thequick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling ofweightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed andhis mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of theirescape. Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking froma nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. Aworld peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son anddaughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did notknow). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space. Somewhere in space. He looked through the perilens . What he saw thenhe might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veilhad wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of adistant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht Carefree . Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked towarda mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutalterrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that lastdreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame thattried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall. For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought theyglimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the Carefree ; amote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not besure, and then the Carefree was accelerating with such violence andspeed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance againstthe ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud offlame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all.... And Greg Malcolm turned from the perilens , shaken. Hannigan said, It's over? and Greg nodded. Hannigan said, The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were theycaught? I don't know. I couldn't see for sure. You must have seen. Are we the only ones? I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not. Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of otherhuddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. I'll take overnow, Malcolm. <doc-sep>It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now— And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong.... Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls. What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously. The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls. In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully. Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined perilens , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed. <doc-sep>Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun hishead, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Justa hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, themaid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in hernether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out. Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performedthat miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ...a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His facetwisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled tautand bloodless away from his teeth. Hold tight, folks! We're going tobounce— Then they struck! But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for,and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shiveredand groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forwardsomething snapped with a shrill, high ping! of stress; somewhere aftwas the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. Butthey were safe. Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escapedGreg's lungs in a long sigh. Nice work, Mr. Breadon! he cried. Oh,nice work! But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him. It would have been better work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damnedhands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff!Our only— He didn't do it! piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. You done ityourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch. Quiet! Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilledthe youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. And you,Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assumeresponsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get outand see how bad the damage is. Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silencedthe cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He'soverwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been toBedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back tonormal. He said quietly, Very well, Mr. Breadon. And he climbed from thebroken skiff. <doc-sep>Hannigan said, Looks bad, don't it? Very, said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping likea fin from the stern of the skiff. Not hopeless, though. There shouldbe an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that— You ought to of poked him, said Hannigan. What? Oh, you mean—? Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it. His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident, said Greg. It couldhave happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Consideringeverything. Anyhow— Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,efficient secretary. Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremelyprecarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man'snervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering— Umbrage! snorted Sparks. Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sureI know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean anything . Heglanced at Greg oddly. You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back thereon the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man tothe boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a moviehero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you thespur without a squawk— Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almoststubbornly, Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering. Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that? Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which theywere separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved tomake a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, moreor less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures towardremoving certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight anduncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument. The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, wasthat everyone wanted something to be done, but no two could agree asto just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any burstingdesire to participate in actual physical labor. J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open portof the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doulwho—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload ofedibles. 'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to thecomplaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do hadsuffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) andMiss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-openerimmediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was so hungry)! Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave thewarmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps wasshouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture hisdivided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpiecesof confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crewshould immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistentequipment, Breadon did not venture to say. You see what I mean? demanded Sparks disgustedly. <doc-sep>Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means anideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed byshallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly ontheir greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, mightwell become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men. He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northernhills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things— He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There wasbut one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. Theapparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, arguedhis judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through anatmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting withdisaster. Titan, he said. Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan. Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression ofdismay. Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are? I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us aslarge as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturniantractile constant, would give us a strong pull. Sparks wailed, But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comesto Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no— He stoppedsuddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. And, hey—this place is dangerous ! There are— I know it, said Greg swiftly, quietly. Shut up, Sparks. No usetelling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don'tknow won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselvesorganized into a defensive community. That's the only way— Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. Well,Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful! And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented theorder. Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, myman. We want action! Sparks said, Maybe you'll get it now, fatty! under his breath, andlooked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, movedforward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command. Yes, sir, he said. Hannigan groaned and followed him. III Breadon said, All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words tosay. He glanced about him pompously. Now, folks, naturally we wantto get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest spacecruiser. Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his timeanswering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted hishead. He said, A message, huh? That's what I said. And what'll I send it with? drawled Sparks. Tom-toms? Breadon flushed darkly. I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoreticallyyou are a radio operator? Finest radio money can buy! interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.Put a million credits into the Carefree . Best equipment throughout. Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. You'reboth right. I am a radio operator, and there was a radio. But wecrashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in themaster switch— That will do! snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-leggedlittle redhead. You mean the radio was broken? It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glassdon't bounce so good. Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, Sparks, can't you fix it? Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won'tknow till I get going on it. Breadon frowned. I'll handle this, Malcolm, he crisped. Again to the radioman, Well,you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed,send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are— Speaking of which, insinuated Sparks, where are we? Breadon glared at him wrathfully. Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool cansee that! O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan?And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on accountof it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol? SOS.Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan,maybe. They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to ourknees. Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, I—I don'tknow. We have a compass— Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. Hehad been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from theskiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; hisright forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. Hesaid, I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the searchin half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite. Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the firsttime in her life. How, she asked, did you know that, Malcolm? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story begins in the control room of J. Foster Andrews’s space yacht the Carefree, and then proceeds to the dining room. Outside of the Carefreem is a dynamic, glittering web of bright violet light, in stark contrast to the typical black of space. As the members of the Andrews family and their household staff escape the Carefree onto a life skiff, the setting changes to the atmosphere of the moon Titan. Now free of the vortex which caused the shimmering lights, the space around their skiff is dark. After their uncontrolled descent onto Titan, the passengers of the skiff find themselves at the foot of a ring of shallow mountains, standing on rough soil. The mountains above are green and lush, with periodic caves along their face. In the sky is an image of Saturn, which causes the gravitational pull on the planet to be similar to Earth’s. More broadly, Titan, the moon they are on, is uninhabited and rarely visited.

<s> DELAY IN TRANSIT By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by SIBLEY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror is the offer of help that cannot be accepted! Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon. Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight. First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city? Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he? Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay. A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy. Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he could walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea? A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage. Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind. It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time. Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim. Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain. I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police. Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently. That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either. Weapons? The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person. Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself. Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence. Let's have it anyway. His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet. That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one. Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be. Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't? <doc-sep>Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them. The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What did thethug want? Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it. And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk. Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious. Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain. He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it. A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age. Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place. The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out. Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range. <doc-sep>Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractivein an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not gracefulout of her element, though. The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassalretraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do withit. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. Ascientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder. Nothing, said Dimanche disgustedly. His mind froze when we gotclose. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.That makes the knife definite. Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassalstopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter. Excellent thinking, commended Dimanche. He won't attempt anythingon this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next desertedintersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette. The lighter flared in his hand. That's one way of finding out, saidCassal. But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated ongetting back to the hotel? I'm curious. Turn here. Go to hell, said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to thatintersection, he turned there. It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oilyslow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming onthe other. He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was allvery well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there wasalso the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, anelectronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that. Easy, warned Dimanche. He's at the entrance to the alley, walkingfast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route. I'm surprised, too, remarked Cassal. But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.Not just now. Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting. The mechanismconcealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time likethis, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This iscritical. That's no lie, agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darknessassumed an even more sinister quality. Quiet, said Dimanche. He's verbalizing about you. He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and askme for a light. I don't think so, answered Dimanche. He's whispering: 'Poor devil. Ihate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'. He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn'tthere any clue? None at all, admitted Dimanche. He's very close. You'd better turnaround. <doc-sep>Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made himfeel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little. A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of thealley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailantshot by. Hey! shouted Cassal. Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feelingthat no one was going to come to his assistance. He wasn't expecting that reaction, explained Dimanche. That's why hemissed. He's turned around and is coming back. I'm armed! shouted Cassal. That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you. Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a fewseconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projectedstiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgicalinstrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered itsfunction, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto. Twenty feet away, advised Dimanche. He knows you can't see him, buthe can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keepyou posted below the level of his hearing. Stay on him, growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself againstthe wall. To the right, whispered Dimanche. Lunge forward. About five feet.Low. Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects ofa miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. Hisopponent gasped and broke away. Attack! howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. You've gothim. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He'safraid. Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; somedidn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponentfell to the ground, gasped and was silent. Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay nearthe water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn'tmove. Heartbeat slow, said Dimanche solemnly. Breathing barelyperceptible. Then he's not dead, said Cassal in relief. Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozedfrom cuts on the face. Respiration none, heartbeat absent, stated Dimanche. <doc-sep>Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, butwould the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have toinvestigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they wouldquestion him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but whatcould he do about it? Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney21? Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom ofthis. Why had the man attacked? What did he want? I don't know, replied Dimanche irritably. I can interpret bodydata—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat. Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articlesof no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amountof money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. Apicture of a woman and a small child posed against a background whichresembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all. Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemedto be no connection between this dead man and his own problem ofgetting to Tunney 21. Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward theboulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence. He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him.Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainlytrying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as hewas forced to the ground. He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footstepsrushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escapingby way of water. Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer insight. Interpret body data, do you? muttered Cassal. Liveliest dead manI've ever been strangled by. It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control thebasic functions of their body, said Dimanche defensively. When Ichecked him, he had no heartbeat. Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely, gruntedCassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't wanted to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to thepolice. He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the secondtime he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he wassuccessful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. Hesqueezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away. Something, however, was missing—his wallet. The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle.Persistent fellow. Damned persistent. It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from thesupposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police.Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. Itcontained more money than his wallet had. Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, itwas more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular pieceof plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money henow had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send foranother tab. A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell.Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word,STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried. <doc-sep>The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door. TRAVELERS AID BUREAU Murra Foray, First Counselor It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again. With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole. Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms. A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation. Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information. We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them. Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor. You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen. Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression. Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business. The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman. <doc-sep>She glanced down at the data. Denton Cassal, native of Earth.Destination, Tunney 21. She looked up at him. Occupation, salesengineer. Isn't that an odd combination? Her smile was quite superior. Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge ofcustomer relations. Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient. Her eyebrowsarched. I think so, he agreed blandly. Anything else you'd like to know? Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't. You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I canguess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to studyunder them. Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though notnecessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they couldbuild Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was evenless likely. There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studiesthat had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, hecould help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company thatcould build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lagcould set its own price, which could be control of all communications,transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut ofall that. His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcherto come to Earth, if he could . Literally, he had to guess theTunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by theirarrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be workingfor ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument asDimanche was a key factor. Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now, then, what's your problem? I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I'vebeen here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney21. Just a moment. She glanced at something below the angle of thescreen. She looked up and her eyes were grave. Rickrock C arrivedyesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning. Departed? He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. When willthe next ship arrive? Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy? she asked. He didn't answer. <doc-sep>That's right, she said. Billions. Tunney, according to the notation,is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You'vecovered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anythingwithin a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longerdistances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly,Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up onor near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe. <doc-sep>He blanched. How long would it take to get there using localtransportation, star-hopping? Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky. I don't need that kind of luck. I suppose not. She hesitated. You're determined to go on? At theemphatic nod, she sighed. If that's your decision, we'll try to helpyou. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identificationtab. There's something funny about her, Dimanche decided. It was the usualspeaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the bloodmade in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear itplainly, because it was virtually inside his ear. Cassal ignored his private voice. Identification tab? I don't have itwith me. In fact, I may have lost it. She smiled in instant disbelief. We're not trying to pry into anypart of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easierfor us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't remember your real name and where you put your identification— Shearose and left the screen. Just a moment. He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His real name! Relax, Dimanche suggested. She didn't mean it as a personal insult. Presently she returned. I have news for you, whoever you are. Cassal, he said firmly. Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If youdon't believe it, send back to— He stopped. It had taken him fourmonths to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth fora ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distancessuch as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth foranything. I see you understand. She glanced at the card in her hand. Thespaceport records indicate that when Rickrock C took off thismorning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21. It wasn't I, he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man whohad tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now becameclear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gottenit. No doubt it wasn't, she said wearily. Outsiders don't seem tounderstand what galactic travel entails. Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the secondtransfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyondthe first ring, called Rimmers? Probably. <doc-sep>She was still speaking: Ten years to cross the Galaxy, withoutstopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling isimpossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is takenoff a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgentlyneeded elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; yearspass before he learns it's never coming. If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn'tvanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to dependon ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,credit established, lost identification replaced— I've traveled before, he interrupted stiffly. I've never had anytrouble. She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center wasmore congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limitednumber of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, noman would arrive at his predetermined destination. But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't comparegalactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in agiant room. Or could you? For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship,was the comparison too apt? It might be. You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting tobe settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work. She paused.The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the thirdring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. Theydon't encourage immigration. In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take apassenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk ofhaving a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of whenhis money was gone. Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring. Next time, she said, don't let anyone take your identification. I won't, he promised grimly. <doc-sep>The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor. We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though— I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions. She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time. He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to. As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians. Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully. Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly— He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage. Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line. A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman. He got up, glowering. If that's all— It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave. A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient. Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery. He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical. The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau. <doc-sep>I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named. Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute. The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner. What's a Huntner? A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her. Any other information? None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could. I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing. What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret? Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times. Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered. You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged. Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new. The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed. She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray? The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away. Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Denton Cassal is a sales engineer of Neuronics, Inc., from Earth. On a business trip to Tunney 21, he awaits his next ship on the planet of Godolph. One evening, Cassal is warned by Dimanche, an informative electronic companion, that he is being stalked by a man. The man's motives are not completely known, but according to Dimanche, the man is intending to murder Cassal. One thing is known, which is that the man's objective is related to Cassal being stranded on Godolph. As it begins to rain heavily, Cassal attempts to evade the man with the help of Dimanche; he follows a Godolphian girl and turns into an alleyway. As they pass by the man, Dimanche notes that he is becoming increasingly suspicious. Cassal leads the man into an alleyway, and as the dusk turns to darkness, Dimanche assists him in dodging and fighting the man. With a lighter-turned-knife, Cassal is able to attack the man and stab him several times. According to Dimanche, the man is presumed dead, although moments later the man strangles Cassal and steals his wallet. The next day, Cassal visits the Travelers Aid Bureau, where Murra Foray, the First Counselor, prods him for information, including why he is on his way to Tunney 21. Avoiding the question, Cassal asks about the status of the next ship to Tunney 21. He learns that the ship departed from Godolph that morning, and that someone named Denton Cassal did board it; he then realizes that the man who attacked him the night before used the identification from his wallet to board that ship. Stranded and uncertain of how long he would have to wait for another ship, Cassal is out of options. He contributes a donation to the bureau as he leaves. Dimanche reports that he tried to gather information on Foray, but only got her home planet, as electronic guards were blocking the rest of the information, which Dimanche finds suspicious. On his way out of the agency, Cassal encounters a man that works for Traveler's Aid, but flees after being asked about Murra Foray. Cassal continues on as he remains stranded on Godolph.

<s> DELAY IN TRANSIT By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by SIBLEY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror is the offer of help that cannot be accepted! Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon. Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight. First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city? Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he? Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay. A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy. Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he could walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea? A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage. Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind. It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time. Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim. Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain. I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police. Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently. That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either. Weapons? The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person. Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself. Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence. Let's have it anyway. His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet. That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one. Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be. Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't? <doc-sep>Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them. The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What did thethug want? Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it. And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk. Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious. Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain. He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it. A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age. Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place. The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out. Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range. <doc-sep>Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractivein an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not gracefulout of her element, though. The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassalretraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do withit. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. Ascientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder. Nothing, said Dimanche disgustedly. His mind froze when we gotclose. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.That makes the knife definite. Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassalstopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter. Excellent thinking, commended Dimanche. He won't attempt anythingon this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next desertedintersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette. The lighter flared in his hand. That's one way of finding out, saidCassal. But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated ongetting back to the hotel? I'm curious. Turn here. Go to hell, said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to thatintersection, he turned there. It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oilyslow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming onthe other. He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was allvery well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there wasalso the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, anelectronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that. Easy, warned Dimanche. He's at the entrance to the alley, walkingfast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route. I'm surprised, too, remarked Cassal. But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.Not just now. Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting. The mechanismconcealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time likethis, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This iscritical. That's no lie, agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darknessassumed an even more sinister quality. Quiet, said Dimanche. He's verbalizing about you. He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and askme for a light. I don't think so, answered Dimanche. He's whispering: 'Poor devil. Ihate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'. He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn'tthere any clue? None at all, admitted Dimanche. He's very close. You'd better turnaround. <doc-sep>Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made himfeel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little. A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of thealley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailantshot by. Hey! shouted Cassal. Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feelingthat no one was going to come to his assistance. He wasn't expecting that reaction, explained Dimanche. That's why hemissed. He's turned around and is coming back. I'm armed! shouted Cassal. That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you. Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a fewseconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projectedstiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgicalinstrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered itsfunction, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto. Twenty feet away, advised Dimanche. He knows you can't see him, buthe can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keepyou posted below the level of his hearing. Stay on him, growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself againstthe wall. To the right, whispered Dimanche. Lunge forward. About five feet.Low. Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects ofa miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. Hisopponent gasped and broke away. Attack! howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. You've gothim. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He'safraid. Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; somedidn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponentfell to the ground, gasped and was silent. Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay nearthe water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn'tmove. Heartbeat slow, said Dimanche solemnly. Breathing barelyperceptible. Then he's not dead, said Cassal in relief. Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozedfrom cuts on the face. Respiration none, heartbeat absent, stated Dimanche. <doc-sep>Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, butwould the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have toinvestigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they wouldquestion him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but whatcould he do about it? Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney21? Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom ofthis. Why had the man attacked? What did he want? I don't know, replied Dimanche irritably. I can interpret bodydata—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat. Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articlesof no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amountof money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. Apicture of a woman and a small child posed against a background whichresembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all. Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemedto be no connection between this dead man and his own problem ofgetting to Tunney 21. Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward theboulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence. He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him.Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainlytrying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as hewas forced to the ground. He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footstepsrushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escapingby way of water. Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer insight. Interpret body data, do you? muttered Cassal. Liveliest dead manI've ever been strangled by. It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control thebasic functions of their body, said Dimanche defensively. When Ichecked him, he had no heartbeat. Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely, gruntedCassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't wanted to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to thepolice. He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the secondtime he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he wassuccessful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. Hesqueezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away. Something, however, was missing—his wallet. The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle.Persistent fellow. Damned persistent. It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from thesupposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police.Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. Itcontained more money than his wallet had. Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, itwas more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular pieceof plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money henow had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send foranother tab. A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell.Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word,STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried. <doc-sep>The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door. TRAVELERS AID BUREAU Murra Foray, First Counselor It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again. With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole. Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms. A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation. Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information. We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them. Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor. You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen. Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression. Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business. The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman. <doc-sep>She glanced down at the data. Denton Cassal, native of Earth.Destination, Tunney 21. She looked up at him. Occupation, salesengineer. Isn't that an odd combination? Her smile was quite superior. Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge ofcustomer relations. Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient. Her eyebrowsarched. I think so, he agreed blandly. Anything else you'd like to know? Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't. You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I canguess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to studyunder them. Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though notnecessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they couldbuild Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was evenless likely. There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studiesthat had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, hecould help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company thatcould build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lagcould set its own price, which could be control of all communications,transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut ofall that. His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcherto come to Earth, if he could . Literally, he had to guess theTunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by theirarrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be workingfor ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument asDimanche was a key factor. Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now, then, what's your problem? I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I'vebeen here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney21. Just a moment. She glanced at something below the angle of thescreen. She looked up and her eyes were grave. Rickrock C arrivedyesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning. Departed? He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. When willthe next ship arrive? Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy? she asked. He didn't answer. <doc-sep>That's right, she said. Billions. Tunney, according to the notation,is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You'vecovered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anythingwithin a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longerdistances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly,Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up onor near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe. <doc-sep>He blanched. How long would it take to get there using localtransportation, star-hopping? Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky. I don't need that kind of luck. I suppose not. She hesitated. You're determined to go on? At theemphatic nod, she sighed. If that's your decision, we'll try to helpyou. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identificationtab. There's something funny about her, Dimanche decided. It was the usualspeaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the bloodmade in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear itplainly, because it was virtually inside his ear. Cassal ignored his private voice. Identification tab? I don't have itwith me. In fact, I may have lost it. She smiled in instant disbelief. We're not trying to pry into anypart of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easierfor us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't remember your real name and where you put your identification— Shearose and left the screen. Just a moment. He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His real name! Relax, Dimanche suggested. She didn't mean it as a personal insult. Presently she returned. I have news for you, whoever you are. Cassal, he said firmly. Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If youdon't believe it, send back to— He stopped. It had taken him fourmonths to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth fora ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distancessuch as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth foranything. I see you understand. She glanced at the card in her hand. Thespaceport records indicate that when Rickrock C took off thismorning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21. It wasn't I, he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man whohad tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now becameclear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gottenit. No doubt it wasn't, she said wearily. Outsiders don't seem tounderstand what galactic travel entails. Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the secondtransfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyondthe first ring, called Rimmers? Probably. <doc-sep>She was still speaking: Ten years to cross the Galaxy, withoutstopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling isimpossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is takenoff a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgentlyneeded elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; yearspass before he learns it's never coming. If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn'tvanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to dependon ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,credit established, lost identification replaced— I've traveled before, he interrupted stiffly. I've never had anytrouble. She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center wasmore congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limitednumber of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, noman would arrive at his predetermined destination. But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't comparegalactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in agiant room. Or could you? For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship,was the comparison too apt? It might be. You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting tobe settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work. She paused.The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the thirdring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. Theydon't encourage immigration. In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take apassenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk ofhaving a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of whenhis money was gone. Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring. Next time, she said, don't let anyone take your identification. I won't, he promised grimly. <doc-sep>The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor. We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though— I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions. She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time. He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to. As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians. Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully. Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly— He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage. Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line. A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman. He got up, glowering. If that's all— It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave. A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient. Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery. He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical. The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau. <doc-sep>I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named. Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute. The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner. What's a Huntner? A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her. Any other information? None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could. I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing. What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret? Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times. Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered. You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged. Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new. The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed. She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray? The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away. Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Dimanche is a device attached to Cassal's ear that is able to collect physiological data on a person, including nervous systems and physical reactions to stimuli. In addition, Dimanche is able to understand what people "subvocalize", or think to themselves in their subconscious. In the story, Dimanche's abilities are shown when he is able to read the thoughts of Cassal's attacker as well as his body's reactions to Cassal's movements, such as his heart rate and blood pressure. Dimanche's features also give Cassal an advantage in his work as a salesperson, as he is able to gauge people's thoughts, motives, and desires. Dimanche is a secret kept from the rest of the galaxy, and Cassal is hesitant to tell others about his abilities.

<s> DELAY IN TRANSIT By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by SIBLEY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror is the offer of help that cannot be accepted! Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon. Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight. First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city? Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he? Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay. A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy. Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he could walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea? A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage. Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind. It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time. Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim. Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain. I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police. Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently. That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either. Weapons? The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person. Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself. Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence. Let's have it anyway. His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet. That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one. Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be. Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't? <doc-sep>Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them. The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What did thethug want? Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it. And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk. Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious. Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain. He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it. A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age. Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place. The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out. Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range. <doc-sep>Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractivein an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not gracefulout of her element, though. The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassalretraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do withit. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. Ascientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder. Nothing, said Dimanche disgustedly. His mind froze when we gotclose. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.That makes the knife definite. Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassalstopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter. Excellent thinking, commended Dimanche. He won't attempt anythingon this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next desertedintersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette. The lighter flared in his hand. That's one way of finding out, saidCassal. But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated ongetting back to the hotel? I'm curious. Turn here. Go to hell, said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to thatintersection, he turned there. It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oilyslow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming onthe other. He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was allvery well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there wasalso the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, anelectronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that. Easy, warned Dimanche. He's at the entrance to the alley, walkingfast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route. I'm surprised, too, remarked Cassal. But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.Not just now. Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting. The mechanismconcealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time likethis, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This iscritical. That's no lie, agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darknessassumed an even more sinister quality. Quiet, said Dimanche. He's verbalizing about you. He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and askme for a light. I don't think so, answered Dimanche. He's whispering: 'Poor devil. Ihate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'. He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn'tthere any clue? None at all, admitted Dimanche. He's very close. You'd better turnaround. <doc-sep>Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made himfeel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little. A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of thealley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailantshot by. Hey! shouted Cassal. Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feelingthat no one was going to come to his assistance. He wasn't expecting that reaction, explained Dimanche. That's why hemissed. He's turned around and is coming back. I'm armed! shouted Cassal. That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you. Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a fewseconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projectedstiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgicalinstrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered itsfunction, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto. Twenty feet away, advised Dimanche. He knows you can't see him, buthe can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keepyou posted below the level of his hearing. Stay on him, growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself againstthe wall. To the right, whispered Dimanche. Lunge forward. About five feet.Low. Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects ofa miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. Hisopponent gasped and broke away. Attack! howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. You've gothim. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He'safraid. Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; somedidn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponentfell to the ground, gasped and was silent. Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay nearthe water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn'tmove. Heartbeat slow, said Dimanche solemnly. Breathing barelyperceptible. Then he's not dead, said Cassal in relief. Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozedfrom cuts on the face. Respiration none, heartbeat absent, stated Dimanche. <doc-sep>Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, butwould the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have toinvestigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they wouldquestion him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but whatcould he do about it? Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney21? Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom ofthis. Why had the man attacked? What did he want? I don't know, replied Dimanche irritably. I can interpret bodydata—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat. Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articlesof no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amountof money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. Apicture of a woman and a small child posed against a background whichresembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all. Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemedto be no connection between this dead man and his own problem ofgetting to Tunney 21. Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward theboulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence. He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him.Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainlytrying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as hewas forced to the ground. He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footstepsrushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escapingby way of water. Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer insight. Interpret body data, do you? muttered Cassal. Liveliest dead manI've ever been strangled by. It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control thebasic functions of their body, said Dimanche defensively. When Ichecked him, he had no heartbeat. Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely, gruntedCassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't wanted to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to thepolice. He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the secondtime he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he wassuccessful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. Hesqueezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away. Something, however, was missing—his wallet. The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle.Persistent fellow. Damned persistent. It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from thesupposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police.Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. Itcontained more money than his wallet had. Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, itwas more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular pieceof plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money henow had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send foranother tab. A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell.Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word,STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried. <doc-sep>The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door. TRAVELERS AID BUREAU Murra Foray, First Counselor It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again. With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole. Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms. A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation. Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information. We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them. Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor. You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen. Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression. Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business. The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman. <doc-sep>She glanced down at the data. Denton Cassal, native of Earth.Destination, Tunney 21. She looked up at him. Occupation, salesengineer. Isn't that an odd combination? Her smile was quite superior. Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge ofcustomer relations. Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient. Her eyebrowsarched. I think so, he agreed blandly. Anything else you'd like to know? Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't. You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I canguess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to studyunder them. Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though notnecessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they couldbuild Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was evenless likely. There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studiesthat had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, hecould help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company thatcould build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lagcould set its own price, which could be control of all communications,transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut ofall that. His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcherto come to Earth, if he could . Literally, he had to guess theTunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by theirarrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be workingfor ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument asDimanche was a key factor. Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now, then, what's your problem? I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I'vebeen here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney21. Just a moment. She glanced at something below the angle of thescreen. She looked up and her eyes were grave. Rickrock C arrivedyesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning. Departed? He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. When willthe next ship arrive? Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy? she asked. He didn't answer. <doc-sep>That's right, she said. Billions. Tunney, according to the notation,is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You'vecovered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anythingwithin a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longerdistances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly,Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up onor near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe. <doc-sep>He blanched. How long would it take to get there using localtransportation, star-hopping? Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky. I don't need that kind of luck. I suppose not. She hesitated. You're determined to go on? At theemphatic nod, she sighed. If that's your decision, we'll try to helpyou. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identificationtab. There's something funny about her, Dimanche decided. It was the usualspeaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the bloodmade in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear itplainly, because it was virtually inside his ear. Cassal ignored his private voice. Identification tab? I don't have itwith me. In fact, I may have lost it. She smiled in instant disbelief. We're not trying to pry into anypart of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easierfor us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't remember your real name and where you put your identification— Shearose and left the screen. Just a moment. He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His real name! Relax, Dimanche suggested. She didn't mean it as a personal insult. Presently she returned. I have news for you, whoever you are. Cassal, he said firmly. Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If youdon't believe it, send back to— He stopped. It had taken him fourmonths to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth fora ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distancessuch as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth foranything. I see you understand. She glanced at the card in her hand. Thespaceport records indicate that when Rickrock C took off thismorning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21. It wasn't I, he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man whohad tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now becameclear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gottenit. No doubt it wasn't, she said wearily. Outsiders don't seem tounderstand what galactic travel entails. Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the secondtransfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyondthe first ring, called Rimmers? Probably. <doc-sep>She was still speaking: Ten years to cross the Galaxy, withoutstopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling isimpossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is takenoff a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgentlyneeded elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; yearspass before he learns it's never coming. If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn'tvanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to dependon ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,credit established, lost identification replaced— I've traveled before, he interrupted stiffly. I've never had anytrouble. She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center wasmore congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limitednumber of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, noman would arrive at his predetermined destination. But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't comparegalactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in agiant room. Or could you? For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship,was the comparison too apt? It might be. You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting tobe settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work. She paused.The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the thirdring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. Theydon't encourage immigration. In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take apassenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk ofhaving a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of whenhis money was gone. Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring. Next time, she said, don't let anyone take your identification. I won't, he promised grimly. <doc-sep>The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor. We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though— I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions. She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time. He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to. As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians. Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully. Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly— He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage. Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line. A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman. He got up, glowering. If that's all— It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave. A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient. Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery. He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical. The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau. <doc-sep>I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named. Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute. The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner. What's a Huntner? A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her. Any other information? None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could. I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing. What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret? Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times. Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered. You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged. Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new. The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed. She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray? The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away. Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Cassal is sent on a business trip by Neuronics, Inc., to visit Tunney 21 to see a man. Tunney 21, according to the first counselor, is home to some of the galaxy's most genius scientists. It is later revealed that Neuronics, Inc. wants that man on their staff back on Earth. The man would work towards the company's goal of developing instantaneous radio; this radio system would impact the entire galaxy, technology that could share information with every planet with no time delay. This radio would dominate means of transportation, communications, and commerce. For these reasons, Cassal is not eager to disclose his plans for going to Tunney 21.

<s> DELAY IN TRANSIT By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by SIBLEY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror is the offer of help that cannot be accepted! Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon. Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight. First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city? Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he? Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay. A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy. Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he could walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea? A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage. Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind. It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time. Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim. Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain. I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police. Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently. That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either. Weapons? The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person. Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself. Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence. Let's have it anyway. His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet. That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one. Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be. Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't? <doc-sep>Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them. The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What did thethug want? Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it. And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk. Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious. Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain. He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it. A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age. Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place. The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out. Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range. <doc-sep>Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractivein an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not gracefulout of her element, though. The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassalretraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do withit. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. Ascientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder. Nothing, said Dimanche disgustedly. His mind froze when we gotclose. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.That makes the knife definite. Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassalstopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter. Excellent thinking, commended Dimanche. He won't attempt anythingon this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next desertedintersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette. The lighter flared in his hand. That's one way of finding out, saidCassal. But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated ongetting back to the hotel? I'm curious. Turn here. Go to hell, said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to thatintersection, he turned there. It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oilyslow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming onthe other. He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was allvery well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there wasalso the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, anelectronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that. Easy, warned Dimanche. He's at the entrance to the alley, walkingfast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route. I'm surprised, too, remarked Cassal. But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.Not just now. Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting. The mechanismconcealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time likethis, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This iscritical. That's no lie, agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darknessassumed an even more sinister quality. Quiet, said Dimanche. He's verbalizing about you. He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and askme for a light. I don't think so, answered Dimanche. He's whispering: 'Poor devil. Ihate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'. He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn'tthere any clue? None at all, admitted Dimanche. He's very close. You'd better turnaround. <doc-sep>Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made himfeel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little. A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of thealley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailantshot by. Hey! shouted Cassal. Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feelingthat no one was going to come to his assistance. He wasn't expecting that reaction, explained Dimanche. That's why hemissed. He's turned around and is coming back. I'm armed! shouted Cassal. That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you. Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a fewseconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projectedstiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgicalinstrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered itsfunction, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto. Twenty feet away, advised Dimanche. He knows you can't see him, buthe can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keepyou posted below the level of his hearing. Stay on him, growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself againstthe wall. To the right, whispered Dimanche. Lunge forward. About five feet.Low. Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects ofa miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. Hisopponent gasped and broke away. Attack! howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. You've gothim. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He'safraid. Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; somedidn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponentfell to the ground, gasped and was silent. Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay nearthe water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn'tmove. Heartbeat slow, said Dimanche solemnly. Breathing barelyperceptible. Then he's not dead, said Cassal in relief. Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozedfrom cuts on the face. Respiration none, heartbeat absent, stated Dimanche. <doc-sep>Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, butwould the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have toinvestigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they wouldquestion him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but whatcould he do about it? Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney21? Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom ofthis. Why had the man attacked? What did he want? I don't know, replied Dimanche irritably. I can interpret bodydata—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat. Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articlesof no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amountof money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. Apicture of a woman and a small child posed against a background whichresembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all. Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemedto be no connection between this dead man and his own problem ofgetting to Tunney 21. Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward theboulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence. He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him.Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainlytrying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as hewas forced to the ground. He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footstepsrushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escapingby way of water. Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer insight. Interpret body data, do you? muttered Cassal. Liveliest dead manI've ever been strangled by. It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control thebasic functions of their body, said Dimanche defensively. When Ichecked him, he had no heartbeat. Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely, gruntedCassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't wanted to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to thepolice. He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the secondtime he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he wassuccessful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. Hesqueezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away. Something, however, was missing—his wallet. The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle.Persistent fellow. Damned persistent. It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from thesupposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police.Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. Itcontained more money than his wallet had. Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, itwas more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular pieceof plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money henow had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send foranother tab. A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell.Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word,STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried. <doc-sep>The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door. TRAVELERS AID BUREAU Murra Foray, First Counselor It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again. With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole. Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms. A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation. Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information. We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them. Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor. You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen. Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression. Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business. The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman. <doc-sep>She glanced down at the data. Denton Cassal, native of Earth.Destination, Tunney 21. She looked up at him. Occupation, salesengineer. Isn't that an odd combination? Her smile was quite superior. Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge ofcustomer relations. Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient. Her eyebrowsarched. I think so, he agreed blandly. Anything else you'd like to know? Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't. You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I canguess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to studyunder them. Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though notnecessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they couldbuild Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was evenless likely. There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studiesthat had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, hecould help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company thatcould build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lagcould set its own price, which could be control of all communications,transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut ofall that. His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcherto come to Earth, if he could . Literally, he had to guess theTunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by theirarrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be workingfor ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument asDimanche was a key factor. Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now, then, what's your problem? I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I'vebeen here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney21. Just a moment. She glanced at something below the angle of thescreen. She looked up and her eyes were grave. Rickrock C arrivedyesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning. Departed? He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. When willthe next ship arrive? Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy? she asked. He didn't answer. <doc-sep>That's right, she said. Billions. Tunney, according to the notation,is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You'vecovered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anythingwithin a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longerdistances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly,Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up onor near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe. <doc-sep>He blanched. How long would it take to get there using localtransportation, star-hopping? Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky. I don't need that kind of luck. I suppose not. She hesitated. You're determined to go on? At theemphatic nod, she sighed. If that's your decision, we'll try to helpyou. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identificationtab. There's something funny about her, Dimanche decided. It was the usualspeaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the bloodmade in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear itplainly, because it was virtually inside his ear. Cassal ignored his private voice. Identification tab? I don't have itwith me. In fact, I may have lost it. She smiled in instant disbelief. We're not trying to pry into anypart of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easierfor us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't remember your real name and where you put your identification— Shearose and left the screen. Just a moment. He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His real name! Relax, Dimanche suggested. She didn't mean it as a personal insult. Presently she returned. I have news for you, whoever you are. Cassal, he said firmly. Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If youdon't believe it, send back to— He stopped. It had taken him fourmonths to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth fora ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distancessuch as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth foranything. I see you understand. She glanced at the card in her hand. Thespaceport records indicate that when Rickrock C took off thismorning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21. It wasn't I, he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man whohad tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now becameclear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gottenit. No doubt it wasn't, she said wearily. Outsiders don't seem tounderstand what galactic travel entails. Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the secondtransfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyondthe first ring, called Rimmers? Probably. <doc-sep>She was still speaking: Ten years to cross the Galaxy, withoutstopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling isimpossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is takenoff a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgentlyneeded elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; yearspass before he learns it's never coming. If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn'tvanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to dependon ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,credit established, lost identification replaced— I've traveled before, he interrupted stiffly. I've never had anytrouble. She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center wasmore congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limitednumber of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, noman would arrive at his predetermined destination. But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't comparegalactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in agiant room. Or could you? For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship,was the comparison too apt? It might be. You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting tobe settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work. She paused.The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the thirdring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. Theydon't encourage immigration. In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take apassenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk ofhaving a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of whenhis money was gone. Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring. Next time, she said, don't let anyone take your identification. I won't, he promised grimly. <doc-sep>The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor. We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though— I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions. She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time. He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to. As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians. Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully. Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly— He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage. Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line. A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman. He got up, glowering. If that's all— It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave. A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient. Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery. He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical. The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau. <doc-sep>I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named. Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute. The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner. What's a Huntner? A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her. Any other information? None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could. I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing. What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret? Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times. Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered. You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged. Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new. The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed. She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray? The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away. Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Murra Foray is the First Counselor of the Traveler's Aid Bureau on Godolph. Little is known about her personally, other than the fact that she is a Huntner, a people from across the Galaxy. Foray was an intimidating, cold woman, who was particularly curious about Cassal. Upon Cassal's arrival, she interrogates him about his personal life before offering help. Additionally, once Cassal realizes he had missed the ship to Tunney 21, and is stranded on Godolph, Murra Foray offers little support or sympathy. Instead, she reprimands him for lack of identification and nevertheless presses for a financial contribution. Foray is a mysterious character, whose motives are questioned, especially by Dimanche; while Dimanche is usually able to read people, Foray had electronic guards protecting information, indicating that the Traveler's Aid Bureau is hiding something.

<s> DELAY IN TRANSIT By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by SIBLEY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror is the offer of help that cannot be accepted! Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon. Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight. First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city? Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he? Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay. A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy. Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he could walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea? A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage. Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind. It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time. Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim. Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain. I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police. Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently. That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either. Weapons? The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person. Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself. Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence. Let's have it anyway. His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet. That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one. Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be. Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't? <doc-sep>Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them. The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What did thethug want? Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it. And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk. Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious. Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain. He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it. A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age. Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place. The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out. Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range. <doc-sep>Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractivein an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not gracefulout of her element, though. The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassalretraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do withit. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. Ascientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder. Nothing, said Dimanche disgustedly. His mind froze when we gotclose. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.That makes the knife definite. Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassalstopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter. Excellent thinking, commended Dimanche. He won't attempt anythingon this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next desertedintersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette. The lighter flared in his hand. That's one way of finding out, saidCassal. But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated ongetting back to the hotel? I'm curious. Turn here. Go to hell, said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to thatintersection, he turned there. It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oilyslow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming onthe other. He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was allvery well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there wasalso the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, anelectronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that. Easy, warned Dimanche. He's at the entrance to the alley, walkingfast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route. I'm surprised, too, remarked Cassal. But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.Not just now. Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting. The mechanismconcealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time likethis, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This iscritical. That's no lie, agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darknessassumed an even more sinister quality. Quiet, said Dimanche. He's verbalizing about you. He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and askme for a light. I don't think so, answered Dimanche. He's whispering: 'Poor devil. Ihate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'. He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn'tthere any clue? None at all, admitted Dimanche. He's very close. You'd better turnaround. <doc-sep>Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made himfeel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little. A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of thealley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailantshot by. Hey! shouted Cassal. Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feelingthat no one was going to come to his assistance. He wasn't expecting that reaction, explained Dimanche. That's why hemissed. He's turned around and is coming back. I'm armed! shouted Cassal. That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you. Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a fewseconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projectedstiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgicalinstrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered itsfunction, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto. Twenty feet away, advised Dimanche. He knows you can't see him, buthe can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keepyou posted below the level of his hearing. Stay on him, growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself againstthe wall. To the right, whispered Dimanche. Lunge forward. About five feet.Low. Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects ofa miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. Hisopponent gasped and broke away. Attack! howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. You've gothim. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He'safraid. Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; somedidn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponentfell to the ground, gasped and was silent. Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay nearthe water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn'tmove. Heartbeat slow, said Dimanche solemnly. Breathing barelyperceptible. Then he's not dead, said Cassal in relief. Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozedfrom cuts on the face. Respiration none, heartbeat absent, stated Dimanche. <doc-sep>Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, butwould the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have toinvestigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they wouldquestion him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but whatcould he do about it? Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney21? Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom ofthis. Why had the man attacked? What did he want? I don't know, replied Dimanche irritably. I can interpret bodydata—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat. Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articlesof no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amountof money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. Apicture of a woman and a small child posed against a background whichresembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all. Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemedto be no connection between this dead man and his own problem ofgetting to Tunney 21. Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward theboulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence. He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him.Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainlytrying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as hewas forced to the ground. He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footstepsrushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escapingby way of water. Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer insight. Interpret body data, do you? muttered Cassal. Liveliest dead manI've ever been strangled by. It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control thebasic functions of their body, said Dimanche defensively. When Ichecked him, he had no heartbeat. Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely, gruntedCassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't wanted to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to thepolice. He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the secondtime he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he wassuccessful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. Hesqueezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away. Something, however, was missing—his wallet. The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle.Persistent fellow. Damned persistent. It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from thesupposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police.Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. Itcontained more money than his wallet had. Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, itwas more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular pieceof plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money henow had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send foranother tab. A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell.Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word,STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried. <doc-sep>The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door. TRAVELERS AID BUREAU Murra Foray, First Counselor It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again. With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole. Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms. A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation. Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information. We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them. Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor. You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen. Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression. Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business. The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman. <doc-sep>She glanced down at the data. Denton Cassal, native of Earth.Destination, Tunney 21. She looked up at him. Occupation, salesengineer. Isn't that an odd combination? Her smile was quite superior. Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge ofcustomer relations. Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient. Her eyebrowsarched. I think so, he agreed blandly. Anything else you'd like to know? Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't. You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I canguess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to studyunder them. Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though notnecessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they couldbuild Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was evenless likely. There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studiesthat had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, hecould help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company thatcould build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lagcould set its own price, which could be control of all communications,transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut ofall that. His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcherto come to Earth, if he could . Literally, he had to guess theTunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by theirarrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be workingfor ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument asDimanche was a key factor. Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now, then, what's your problem? I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I'vebeen here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney21. Just a moment. She glanced at something below the angle of thescreen. She looked up and her eyes were grave. Rickrock C arrivedyesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning. Departed? He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. When willthe next ship arrive? Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy? she asked. He didn't answer. <doc-sep>That's right, she said. Billions. Tunney, according to the notation,is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You'vecovered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anythingwithin a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longerdistances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly,Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up onor near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe. <doc-sep>He blanched. How long would it take to get there using localtransportation, star-hopping? Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky. I don't need that kind of luck. I suppose not. She hesitated. You're determined to go on? At theemphatic nod, she sighed. If that's your decision, we'll try to helpyou. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identificationtab. There's something funny about her, Dimanche decided. It was the usualspeaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the bloodmade in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear itplainly, because it was virtually inside his ear. Cassal ignored his private voice. Identification tab? I don't have itwith me. In fact, I may have lost it. She smiled in instant disbelief. We're not trying to pry into anypart of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easierfor us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't remember your real name and where you put your identification— Shearose and left the screen. Just a moment. He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His real name! Relax, Dimanche suggested. She didn't mean it as a personal insult. Presently she returned. I have news for you, whoever you are. Cassal, he said firmly. Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If youdon't believe it, send back to— He stopped. It had taken him fourmonths to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth fora ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distancessuch as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth foranything. I see you understand. She glanced at the card in her hand. Thespaceport records indicate that when Rickrock C took off thismorning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21. It wasn't I, he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man whohad tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now becameclear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gottenit. No doubt it wasn't, she said wearily. Outsiders don't seem tounderstand what galactic travel entails. Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the secondtransfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyondthe first ring, called Rimmers? Probably. <doc-sep>She was still speaking: Ten years to cross the Galaxy, withoutstopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling isimpossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is takenoff a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgentlyneeded elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; yearspass before he learns it's never coming. If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn'tvanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to dependon ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,credit established, lost identification replaced— I've traveled before, he interrupted stiffly. I've never had anytrouble. She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center wasmore congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limitednumber of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, noman would arrive at his predetermined destination. But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't comparegalactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in agiant room. Or could you? For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship,was the comparison too apt? It might be. You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting tobe settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work. She paused.The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the thirdring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. Theydon't encourage immigration. In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take apassenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk ofhaving a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of whenhis money was gone. Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring. Next time, she said, don't let anyone take your identification. I won't, he promised grimly. <doc-sep>The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor. We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though— I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions. She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time. He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to. As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians. Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully. Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly— He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage. Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line. A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman. He got up, glowering. If that's all— It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave. A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient. Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery. He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical. The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau. <doc-sep>I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named. Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute. The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner. What's a Huntner? A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her. Any other information? None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could. I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing. What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret? Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times. Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered. You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged. Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new. The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed. She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray? The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away. Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story takes place in a city on Godolph, a planet that acts as a transfer location in between stars. Godolph is a threatening and violent city, not safe for ordinary humans. A unique feature of Godolph is that its environment is specifically catered to natives, where the weather is controlled, often with heavy rain. The city is compared to Venice, where water is used as a mode of transport and essential to engineering. Additionally, at dusk the city becomes dark for travelers, but bright for its natives.

<s> Appointment in Tomorrow BY FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Is it possible to have a world without moral values? Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also? The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs. They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr. It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet. Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning. Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him. <doc-sep>Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes. Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile. It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning. He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage: Dear Fellow Scientist: A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I. Jorj Helmuth Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot. The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio. The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him. Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes. <doc-sep>Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom. Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to. For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved. This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus! This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push, had built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie. Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered. <doc-sep>The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinkingthat this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy andusually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred hisire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligentthan himself. And always orders of the Tell me how to kill that manrather than the Kill that man sort. The distinction bothered himobscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controlswhich made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity'sright-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which. The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at amore turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility andthe dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble.He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnationbe in metal rather than flesh? The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken suchpains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Successwith Buddhism. Sitting before his guru , his teacher, feeling theOccidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he hadfelt a little like this. The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets,was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientistsweren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'dalways felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things,rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fillof the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a mistysort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—moredisciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie,which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat. <doc-sep>The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie! Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines. The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke. Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from? The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong? Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting. From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think. <doc-sep>Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle. Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it! Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars. Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country. Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians— Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj. Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft. <doc-sep>Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed outa high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinningrollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like thatof such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousandrelays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes,impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and,reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small roomwhere a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer. He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it asa stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the firstquestion, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with thestaccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out theanswer. For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbonand the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took toclose his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone,asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer,then went back to the grind. Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did histhinking with his eyes open. The question was: Does Maizie stand for Maelzel? He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasivelips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl. Suddenly he began to tape again. Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing,humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One:The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows.... But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl. <doc-sep>Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut offits fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry iteffortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrappedhimself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at thedried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knewhe had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little morethan that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho. Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, thefluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves andgyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley andparlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world offree fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man wouldtoss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimesshe swam for it frantically. After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawerand began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover onMars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm towar-battered mankind. The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled upon the air, and went to sleep. <doc-sep>Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handedeach to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs awaywith little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled overhis. Who the devil would Maelzel be? he asked. A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. EdgarAllen Poe, he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed. The grizzled general snapped his fingers. Sure! Maelzel's Chessplayer. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposedto play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it. The Secretary of Space frowned. Now what's the point in a foolquestion like that? You said it came from Opperly's group? Jorj asked sharply. The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two menpuzzledly. Who would that be? Jorj pressed. The group, I mean. The Secretary of Space shrugged. Oh, the usual little bunch over atthe Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and youngFarquar. Sounds like Opperly's getting senile, Jorj commented coldly. I'dinvestigate. The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. I will. Rightaway. <doc-sep>Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dustmotes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room waswell-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapesthere were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in placeof a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperlyknew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had beenriskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment inNew York City. The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The faceof the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down bya long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful,sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked ratherlike a bear. Opperly was saying, So when he asked who was responsible for theMaelzel question, I said I didn't remember. He smiled. They stillallow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt.Almost my sole remaining privilege. The smile faded. Why do you keepon teasing the zoo animals, Willard? he asked without rancor. I'vemaintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yieldingto their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest haveoverruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insultsisn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enoughabout this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes ofthis morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard? The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. Because theThinkers are charlatans who must be exposed, he rapped out. We knowtheir Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced theirMars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mentalscience is bunk. But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly, Opperlyinterposed quietly. You know the good it did. Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. Then it's got to bedone until it takes. Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. I thinkyou just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of whichyou probably aren't aware. Farquar scowled. We're the ones in the cages. <doc-sep>Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. All the morereason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigersstrolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. Butconsider the age in which we live. It wants magicians. His voice grewespecially tranquil. A scientist tells people the truth. When timesare good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind.But when times are very, very bad.... A shadow darkened his eyes.Well, we all know what happened to— And he mentioned three namesthat had been household words in the middle of the century. Theywere the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred threephysicists. He went on, A magician, on the other hand, tells people what theywish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be curedby colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, thatthey'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're aluxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell theirsouls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power theirwar rockets. Farquar clenched his fist. All the more reason to keep chipping awayat the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it'sdifficult and dangerous? Opperly shook his head. We're to keep clear of the infection ofviolence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later Iwas one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'mconvinced that all my reactions were futile. Exactly! Farquar agreed harshly. You reacted. You didn't act. Ifyou men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league,if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendousbargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future.... By the time you were born, Willard, Opperly interrupted dreamily,Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren'tthe stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagineOppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old WhiteHouse with a bomb in his briefcase? He smiled. Besides, that's notthe way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargainingfor power—only established facts or lies are. Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a littleviolence in you. No, Opperly said. I've got violence in me, Farquar announced, shoving himself to hisfeet. <doc-sep>Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed. But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle? Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then? Now you are justifying the Thinkers! No, I leave that to history. And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see. I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience.... The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly? The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry. The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off. What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this. He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron? No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help. An invitation? Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out? The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you. What do you mean? Farquar asked. <doc-sep>Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady? Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted. And didn't she go off with a Thinker? If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation? Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition. Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise. Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world. Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off? Not exactly. You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily. Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims. Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men. <doc-sep>As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward hisapartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment thesilver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind. Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at theparadox. Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flyingneutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive asteam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes thatwere as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourselfwarm. Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Thenwould come the thrilling order, Set sail for Mars! The vast umbrellawould unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward sidea gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thickand backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in theribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities.Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward. In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard theship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the shipitself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there becameexhausted. A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, hadconceived it completely except for the technical details! Havingstrengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting,memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himselfof the executive power to control the technicians and direct theirspecialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket. But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true MindBomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They woulddiscover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—hisimagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build thetrue Maizie! And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with thescientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception. He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carryhim past his door. He stepped inside and called, Caddy! He waited amoment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there. <doc-sep>Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when sheshould have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now,when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added apleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. Hereally should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and againthere sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that wouldsend her into obedient trance. No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some momentof crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strikesuddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merelya wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understandingthe tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time forit, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis. Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shookhis perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself ifhe'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consultingTregarron. But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't hisboss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in themumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. Hehimself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-overstrategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie. He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximumrelaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest heknew would be desirable before the big conference. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Following World War III at the end of the 20th century, American society is dependent upon a machine created by the Thinker's Foundation; this machine, named Maizie, has the ability to answer any question posed to it, and it is used often by politicians and public figures for societal decision making. Jorj Helmuth, a Thinker with hypnotic abilities, awakes with a girl, Caddy, asleep beside him. Jorj is struck with a revelation about new developments in his work towards space domination, and he sends a letter to a group of physicists calling for a meeting later that afternoon. Jorj is then alerted that the President has arrived to consult Maizie. He commences the daily procedure of feeding the machine questions through a tape, and meanwhile attention turns to a broadcast of a rocket taking off to Mars. The Secretary of Space, who joined the President, is wary of his exclusion in this project, but disregards it as he credits Maizie for the decision. Jorj discloses that the Thinkers plan to find ways to gain access to and control of Martian minds. As Maizie begins answering questions, one of them sparks curiosity, asking whether Maizie is short for Maelzel. The machine responds with "no" as the officials are perplexed by the question, which references a character in a story by Edgar Allen Poe in which a machine was found to be fake and operated by a man. Apparently, the question came from a member of Opperly's group, a team of physicists; Jorj advises that the issue be looked into. Later, scientists Opperly and Farquar discuss the previous events. Opperly says that he covered for Farquar, who submitted the question, but still disagrees with his decision to dig at the Thinkers. Farquar believes that the Thinkers, along with Maizie, are fakes and ought to be exposed. Farquar and Opperly go back and forth, debating whether or not exposing the Thinkers is worth violence or energy, when Farquar receives a message from Jorj regarding the meeting about his space project. Opperly is skeptical of Jorj's motives, but Farquar plans to go anyway. On his way home, Jorj ponders the future of the Thinkers with excitement, eagerly awaiting a future where they would be on the same level of the Scientists, and where they would build the true Maizie.

<s> Appointment in Tomorrow BY FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Is it possible to have a world without moral values? Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also? The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs. They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr. It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet. Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning. Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him. <doc-sep>Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes. Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile. It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning. He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage: Dear Fellow Scientist: A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I. Jorj Helmuth Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot. The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio. The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him. Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes. <doc-sep>Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom. Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to. For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved. This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus! This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push, had built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie. Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered. <doc-sep>The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinkingthat this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy andusually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred hisire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligentthan himself. And always orders of the Tell me how to kill that manrather than the Kill that man sort. The distinction bothered himobscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controlswhich made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity'sright-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which. The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at amore turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility andthe dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble.He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnationbe in metal rather than flesh? The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken suchpains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Successwith Buddhism. Sitting before his guru , his teacher, feeling theOccidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he hadfelt a little like this. The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets,was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientistsweren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'dalways felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things,rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fillof the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a mistysort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—moredisciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie,which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat. <doc-sep>The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie! Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines. The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke. Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from? The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong? Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting. From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think. <doc-sep>Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle. Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it! Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars. Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country. Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians— Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj. Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft. <doc-sep>Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed outa high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinningrollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like thatof such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousandrelays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes,impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and,reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small roomwhere a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer. He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it asa stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the firstquestion, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with thestaccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out theanswer. For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbonand the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took toclose his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone,asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer,then went back to the grind. Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did histhinking with his eyes open. The question was: Does Maizie stand for Maelzel? He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasivelips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl. Suddenly he began to tape again. Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing,humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One:The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows.... But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl. <doc-sep>Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut offits fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry iteffortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrappedhimself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at thedried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knewhe had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little morethan that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho. Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, thefluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves andgyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley andparlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world offree fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man wouldtoss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimesshe swam for it frantically. After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawerand began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover onMars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm towar-battered mankind. The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled upon the air, and went to sleep. <doc-sep>Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handedeach to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs awaywith little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled overhis. Who the devil would Maelzel be? he asked. A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. EdgarAllen Poe, he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed. The grizzled general snapped his fingers. Sure! Maelzel's Chessplayer. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposedto play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it. The Secretary of Space frowned. Now what's the point in a foolquestion like that? You said it came from Opperly's group? Jorj asked sharply. The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two menpuzzledly. Who would that be? Jorj pressed. The group, I mean. The Secretary of Space shrugged. Oh, the usual little bunch over atthe Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and youngFarquar. Sounds like Opperly's getting senile, Jorj commented coldly. I'dinvestigate. The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. I will. Rightaway. <doc-sep>Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dustmotes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room waswell-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapesthere were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in placeof a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperlyknew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had beenriskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment inNew York City. The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The faceof the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down bya long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful,sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked ratherlike a bear. Opperly was saying, So when he asked who was responsible for theMaelzel question, I said I didn't remember. He smiled. They stillallow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt.Almost my sole remaining privilege. The smile faded. Why do you keepon teasing the zoo animals, Willard? he asked without rancor. I'vemaintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yieldingto their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest haveoverruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insultsisn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enoughabout this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes ofthis morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard? The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. Because theThinkers are charlatans who must be exposed, he rapped out. We knowtheir Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced theirMars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mentalscience is bunk. But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly, Opperlyinterposed quietly. You know the good it did. Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. Then it's got to bedone until it takes. Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. I thinkyou just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of whichyou probably aren't aware. Farquar scowled. We're the ones in the cages. <doc-sep>Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. All the morereason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigersstrolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. Butconsider the age in which we live. It wants magicians. His voice grewespecially tranquil. A scientist tells people the truth. When timesare good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind.But when times are very, very bad.... A shadow darkened his eyes.Well, we all know what happened to— And he mentioned three namesthat had been household words in the middle of the century. Theywere the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred threephysicists. He went on, A magician, on the other hand, tells people what theywish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be curedby colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, thatthey'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're aluxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell theirsouls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power theirwar rockets. Farquar clenched his fist. All the more reason to keep chipping awayat the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it'sdifficult and dangerous? Opperly shook his head. We're to keep clear of the infection ofviolence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later Iwas one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'mconvinced that all my reactions were futile. Exactly! Farquar agreed harshly. You reacted. You didn't act. Ifyou men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league,if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendousbargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future.... By the time you were born, Willard, Opperly interrupted dreamily,Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren'tthe stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagineOppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old WhiteHouse with a bomb in his briefcase? He smiled. Besides, that's notthe way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargainingfor power—only established facts or lies are. Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a littleviolence in you. No, Opperly said. I've got violence in me, Farquar announced, shoving himself to hisfeet. <doc-sep>Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed. But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle? Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then? Now you are justifying the Thinkers! No, I leave that to history. And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see. I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience.... The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly? The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry. The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off. What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this. He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron? No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help. An invitation? Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out? The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you. What do you mean? Farquar asked. <doc-sep>Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady? Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted. And didn't she go off with a Thinker? If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation? Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition. Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise. Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world. Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off? Not exactly. You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily. Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims. Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men. <doc-sep>As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward hisapartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment thesilver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind. Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at theparadox. Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flyingneutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive asteam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes thatwere as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourselfwarm. Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Thenwould come the thrilling order, Set sail for Mars! The vast umbrellawould unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward sidea gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thickand backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in theribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities.Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward. In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard theship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the shipitself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there becameexhausted. A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, hadconceived it completely except for the technical details! Havingstrengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting,memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himselfof the executive power to control the technicians and direct theirspecialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket. But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true MindBomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They woulddiscover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—hisimagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build thetrue Maizie! And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with thescientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception. He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carryhim past his door. He stepped inside and called, Caddy! He waited amoment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there. <doc-sep>Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when sheshould have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now,when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added apleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. Hereally should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and againthere sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that wouldsend her into obedient trance. No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some momentof crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strikesuddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merelya wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understandingthe tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time forit, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis. Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shookhis perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself ifhe'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consultingTregarron. But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't hisboss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in themumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. Hehimself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-overstrategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie. He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximumrelaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest heknew would be desirable before the big conference. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Maizie is a large contraption that occupies a room in the Thinker's Foundation. It consists of various controls, cables, and synapses, more than the human brain. It reads questions through information fed on a tape. Once Maizie processes the questions and conjures up answers, it delivers information back through a man who translates the tape into an answer. The main point regarding Maizie is that little to no one knows how it truly works, which is why it is regarded even by the President as a superior guide for intelligence. Maizie appears to be intimidating with its incomprehensible parts and gadgets, but the process in which it delivers simple answers to questions allows the public to trust it with decisions.

<s> Appointment in Tomorrow BY FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Is it possible to have a world without moral values? Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also? The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs. They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr. It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet. Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning. Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him. <doc-sep>Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes. Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile. It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning. He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage: Dear Fellow Scientist: A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I. Jorj Helmuth Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot. The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio. The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him. Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes. <doc-sep>Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom. Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to. For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved. This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus! This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push, had built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie. Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered. <doc-sep>The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinkingthat this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy andusually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred hisire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligentthan himself. And always orders of the Tell me how to kill that manrather than the Kill that man sort. The distinction bothered himobscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controlswhich made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity'sright-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which. The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at amore turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility andthe dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble.He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnationbe in metal rather than flesh? The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken suchpains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Successwith Buddhism. Sitting before his guru , his teacher, feeling theOccidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he hadfelt a little like this. The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets,was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientistsweren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'dalways felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things,rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fillof the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a mistysort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—moredisciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie,which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat. <doc-sep>The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie! Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines. The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke. Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from? The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong? Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting. From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think. <doc-sep>Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle. Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it! Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars. Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country. Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians— Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj. Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft. <doc-sep>Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed outa high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinningrollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like thatof such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousandrelays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes,impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and,reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small roomwhere a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer. He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it asa stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the firstquestion, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with thestaccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out theanswer. For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbonand the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took toclose his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone,asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer,then went back to the grind. Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did histhinking with his eyes open. The question was: Does Maizie stand for Maelzel? He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasivelips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl. Suddenly he began to tape again. Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing,humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One:The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows.... But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl. <doc-sep>Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut offits fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry iteffortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrappedhimself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at thedried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knewhe had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little morethan that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho. Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, thefluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves andgyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley andparlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world offree fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man wouldtoss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimesshe swam for it frantically. After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawerand began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover onMars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm towar-battered mankind. The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled upon the air, and went to sleep. <doc-sep>Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handedeach to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs awaywith little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled overhis. Who the devil would Maelzel be? he asked. A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. EdgarAllen Poe, he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed. The grizzled general snapped his fingers. Sure! Maelzel's Chessplayer. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposedto play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it. The Secretary of Space frowned. Now what's the point in a foolquestion like that? You said it came from Opperly's group? Jorj asked sharply. The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two menpuzzledly. Who would that be? Jorj pressed. The group, I mean. The Secretary of Space shrugged. Oh, the usual little bunch over atthe Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and youngFarquar. Sounds like Opperly's getting senile, Jorj commented coldly. I'dinvestigate. The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. I will. Rightaway. <doc-sep>Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dustmotes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room waswell-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapesthere were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in placeof a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperlyknew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had beenriskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment inNew York City. The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The faceof the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down bya long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful,sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked ratherlike a bear. Opperly was saying, So when he asked who was responsible for theMaelzel question, I said I didn't remember. He smiled. They stillallow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt.Almost my sole remaining privilege. The smile faded. Why do you keepon teasing the zoo animals, Willard? he asked without rancor. I'vemaintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yieldingto their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest haveoverruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insultsisn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enoughabout this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes ofthis morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard? The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. Because theThinkers are charlatans who must be exposed, he rapped out. We knowtheir Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced theirMars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mentalscience is bunk. But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly, Opperlyinterposed quietly. You know the good it did. Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. Then it's got to bedone until it takes. Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. I thinkyou just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of whichyou probably aren't aware. Farquar scowled. We're the ones in the cages. <doc-sep>Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. All the morereason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigersstrolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. Butconsider the age in which we live. It wants magicians. His voice grewespecially tranquil. A scientist tells people the truth. When timesare good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind.But when times are very, very bad.... A shadow darkened his eyes.Well, we all know what happened to— And he mentioned three namesthat had been household words in the middle of the century. Theywere the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred threephysicists. He went on, A magician, on the other hand, tells people what theywish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be curedby colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, thatthey'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're aluxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell theirsouls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power theirwar rockets. Farquar clenched his fist. All the more reason to keep chipping awayat the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it'sdifficult and dangerous? Opperly shook his head. We're to keep clear of the infection ofviolence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later Iwas one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'mconvinced that all my reactions were futile. Exactly! Farquar agreed harshly. You reacted. You didn't act. Ifyou men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league,if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendousbargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future.... By the time you were born, Willard, Opperly interrupted dreamily,Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren'tthe stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagineOppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old WhiteHouse with a bomb in his briefcase? He smiled. Besides, that's notthe way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargainingfor power—only established facts or lies are. Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a littleviolence in you. No, Opperly said. I've got violence in me, Farquar announced, shoving himself to hisfeet. <doc-sep>Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed. But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle? Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then? Now you are justifying the Thinkers! No, I leave that to history. And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see. I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience.... The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly? The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry. The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off. What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this. He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron? No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help. An invitation? Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out? The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you. What do you mean? Farquar asked. <doc-sep>Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady? Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted. And didn't she go off with a Thinker? If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation? Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition. Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise. Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world. Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off? Not exactly. You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily. Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims. Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men. <doc-sep>As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward hisapartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment thesilver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind. Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at theparadox. Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flyingneutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive asteam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes thatwere as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourselfwarm. Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Thenwould come the thrilling order, Set sail for Mars! The vast umbrellawould unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward sidea gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thickand backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in theribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities.Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward. In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard theship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the shipitself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there becameexhausted. A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, hadconceived it completely except for the technical details! Havingstrengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting,memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himselfof the executive power to control the technicians and direct theirspecialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket. But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true MindBomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They woulddiscover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—hisimagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build thetrue Maizie! And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with thescientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception. He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carryhim past his door. He stepped inside and called, Caddy! He waited amoment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there. <doc-sep>Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when sheshould have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now,when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added apleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. Hereally should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and againthere sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that wouldsend her into obedient trance. No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some momentof crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strikesuddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merelya wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understandingthe tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time forit, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis. Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shookhis perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself ifhe'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consultingTregarron. But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't hisboss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in themumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. Hehimself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-overstrategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie. He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximumrelaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest heknew would be desirable before the big conference. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The Thinkers are magicians who dominate the current society. When America was in crisis post-World War III, they provided solutions to problems and questions, and acted as a more structured, moral, "human" group for leadership than physicists prior. The Thinkers are the creators of Maizie, a brain-like computer that answers any question; Maizie is used by many in government to make drastic decisions with the goal of preserving humanity. The Thinkers are also working towards a larger plan of moving their work to Mars, ultimately dominating Martians the same way they dominated Earth. There is also controversy surrounding the Thinkers, mainly from the Physicists, who believe that their work relies on the desperation of society and is fraudulent.

<s> Appointment in Tomorrow BY FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Is it possible to have a world without moral values? Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also? The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs. They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr. It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet. Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning. Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him. <doc-sep>Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes. Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile. It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning. He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage: Dear Fellow Scientist: A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I. Jorj Helmuth Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot. The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio. The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him. Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes. <doc-sep>Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom. Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to. For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved. This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus! This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push, had built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie. Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered. <doc-sep>The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinkingthat this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy andusually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred hisire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligentthan himself. And always orders of the Tell me how to kill that manrather than the Kill that man sort. The distinction bothered himobscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controlswhich made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity'sright-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which. The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at amore turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility andthe dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble.He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnationbe in metal rather than flesh? The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken suchpains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Successwith Buddhism. Sitting before his guru , his teacher, feeling theOccidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he hadfelt a little like this. The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets,was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientistsweren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'dalways felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things,rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fillof the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a mistysort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—moredisciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie,which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat. <doc-sep>The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie! Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines. The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke. Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from? The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong? Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting. From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think. <doc-sep>Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle. Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it! Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars. Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country. Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians— Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj. Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft. <doc-sep>Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed outa high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinningrollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like thatof such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousandrelays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes,impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and,reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small roomwhere a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer. He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it asa stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the firstquestion, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with thestaccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out theanswer. For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbonand the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took toclose his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone,asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer,then went back to the grind. Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did histhinking with his eyes open. The question was: Does Maizie stand for Maelzel? He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasivelips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl. Suddenly he began to tape again. Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing,humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One:The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows.... But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl. <doc-sep>Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut offits fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry iteffortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrappedhimself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at thedried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knewhe had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little morethan that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho. Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, thefluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves andgyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley andparlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world offree fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man wouldtoss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimesshe swam for it frantically. After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawerand began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover onMars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm towar-battered mankind. The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled upon the air, and went to sleep. <doc-sep>Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handedeach to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs awaywith little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled overhis. Who the devil would Maelzel be? he asked. A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. EdgarAllen Poe, he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed. The grizzled general snapped his fingers. Sure! Maelzel's Chessplayer. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposedto play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it. The Secretary of Space frowned. Now what's the point in a foolquestion like that? You said it came from Opperly's group? Jorj asked sharply. The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two menpuzzledly. Who would that be? Jorj pressed. The group, I mean. The Secretary of Space shrugged. Oh, the usual little bunch over atthe Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and youngFarquar. Sounds like Opperly's getting senile, Jorj commented coldly. I'dinvestigate. The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. I will. Rightaway. <doc-sep>Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dustmotes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room waswell-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapesthere were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in placeof a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperlyknew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had beenriskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment inNew York City. The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The faceof the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down bya long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful,sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked ratherlike a bear. Opperly was saying, So when he asked who was responsible for theMaelzel question, I said I didn't remember. He smiled. They stillallow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt.Almost my sole remaining privilege. The smile faded. Why do you keepon teasing the zoo animals, Willard? he asked without rancor. I'vemaintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yieldingto their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest haveoverruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insultsisn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enoughabout this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes ofthis morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard? The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. Because theThinkers are charlatans who must be exposed, he rapped out. We knowtheir Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced theirMars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mentalscience is bunk. But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly, Opperlyinterposed quietly. You know the good it did. Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. Then it's got to bedone until it takes. Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. I thinkyou just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of whichyou probably aren't aware. Farquar scowled. We're the ones in the cages. <doc-sep>Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. All the morereason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigersstrolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. Butconsider the age in which we live. It wants magicians. His voice grewespecially tranquil. A scientist tells people the truth. When timesare good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind.But when times are very, very bad.... A shadow darkened his eyes.Well, we all know what happened to— And he mentioned three namesthat had been household words in the middle of the century. Theywere the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred threephysicists. He went on, A magician, on the other hand, tells people what theywish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be curedby colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, thatthey'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're aluxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell theirsouls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power theirwar rockets. Farquar clenched his fist. All the more reason to keep chipping awayat the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it'sdifficult and dangerous? Opperly shook his head. We're to keep clear of the infection ofviolence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later Iwas one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'mconvinced that all my reactions were futile. Exactly! Farquar agreed harshly. You reacted. You didn't act. Ifyou men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league,if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendousbargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future.... By the time you were born, Willard, Opperly interrupted dreamily,Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren'tthe stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagineOppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old WhiteHouse with a bomb in his briefcase? He smiled. Besides, that's notthe way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargainingfor power—only established facts or lies are. Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a littleviolence in you. No, Opperly said. I've got violence in me, Farquar announced, shoving himself to hisfeet. <doc-sep>Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed. But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle? Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then? Now you are justifying the Thinkers! No, I leave that to history. And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see. I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience.... The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly? The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry. The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off. What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this. He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron? No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help. An invitation? Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out? The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you. What do you mean? Farquar asked. <doc-sep>Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady? Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted. And didn't she go off with a Thinker? If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation? Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition. Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise. Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world. Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off? Not exactly. You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily. Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims. Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men. <doc-sep>As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward hisapartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment thesilver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind. Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at theparadox. Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flyingneutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive asteam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes thatwere as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourselfwarm. Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Thenwould come the thrilling order, Set sail for Mars! The vast umbrellawould unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward sidea gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thickand backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in theribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities.Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward. In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard theship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the shipitself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there becameexhausted. A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, hadconceived it completely except for the technical details! Havingstrengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting,memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himselfof the executive power to control the technicians and direct theirspecialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket. But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true MindBomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They woulddiscover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—hisimagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build thetrue Maizie! And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with thescientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception. He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carryhim past his door. He stepped inside and called, Caddy! He waited amoment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there. <doc-sep>Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when sheshould have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now,when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added apleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. Hereally should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and againthere sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that wouldsend her into obedient trance. No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some momentof crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strikesuddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merelya wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understandingthe tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time forit, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis. Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shookhis perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself ifhe'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consultingTregarron. But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't hisboss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in themumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. Hehimself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-overstrategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie. He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximumrelaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest heknew would be desirable before the big conference. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Farquar sparks the driving conflict of the story; the question he submits threatens the authority and legitimacy of the Thinkers, implying that the machine that guides society's decisions is a fake. This question disturbs the officials present at Maizie's event. Farquar also attempts to convince Opperly, a major Scientist, that the Thinkers should be exposed and called out for their deception. He is eager to take action against them. Farquar plays an additional role in the story as someone who Jorj must turn to for help; he is a skilled physician that the Thinkers need in order to develop their idea for a nuclear rocket. Farquar determines the fate of Jorj and the Thinkers as someone who both poses a threat to them and is needed by them.

<s> Appointment in Tomorrow BY FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Is it possible to have a world without moral values? Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also? The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs. They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr. It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet. Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning. Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him. <doc-sep>Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes. Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile. It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning. He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage: Dear Fellow Scientist: A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I. Jorj Helmuth Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot. The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio. The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him. Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes. <doc-sep>Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom. Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to. For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved. This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus! This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push, had built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie. Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered. <doc-sep>The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinkingthat this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy andusually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred hisire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligentthan himself. And always orders of the Tell me how to kill that manrather than the Kill that man sort. The distinction bothered himobscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controlswhich made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity'sright-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which. The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at amore turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility andthe dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble.He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnationbe in metal rather than flesh? The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken suchpains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Successwith Buddhism. Sitting before his guru , his teacher, feeling theOccidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he hadfelt a little like this. The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets,was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientistsweren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'dalways felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things,rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fillof the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a mistysort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—moredisciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie,which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat. <doc-sep>The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie! Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines. The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke. Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from? The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong? Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting. From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think. <doc-sep>Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle. Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it! Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars. Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country. Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians— Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj. Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft. <doc-sep>Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed outa high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinningrollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like thatof such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousandrelays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes,impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and,reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small roomwhere a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer. He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it asa stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the firstquestion, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with thestaccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out theanswer. For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbonand the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took toclose his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone,asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer,then went back to the grind. Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did histhinking with his eyes open. The question was: Does Maizie stand for Maelzel? He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasivelips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl. Suddenly he began to tape again. Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing,humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One:The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows.... But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl. <doc-sep>Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut offits fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry iteffortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrappedhimself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at thedried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knewhe had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little morethan that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho. Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, thefluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves andgyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley andparlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world offree fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man wouldtoss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimesshe swam for it frantically. After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawerand began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover onMars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm towar-battered mankind. The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled upon the air, and went to sleep. <doc-sep>Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handedeach to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs awaywith little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled overhis. Who the devil would Maelzel be? he asked. A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. EdgarAllen Poe, he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed. The grizzled general snapped his fingers. Sure! Maelzel's Chessplayer. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposedto play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it. The Secretary of Space frowned. Now what's the point in a foolquestion like that? You said it came from Opperly's group? Jorj asked sharply. The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two menpuzzledly. Who would that be? Jorj pressed. The group, I mean. The Secretary of Space shrugged. Oh, the usual little bunch over atthe Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and youngFarquar. Sounds like Opperly's getting senile, Jorj commented coldly. I'dinvestigate. The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. I will. Rightaway. <doc-sep>Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dustmotes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room waswell-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapesthere were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in placeof a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperlyknew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had beenriskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment inNew York City. The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The faceof the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down bya long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful,sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked ratherlike a bear. Opperly was saying, So when he asked who was responsible for theMaelzel question, I said I didn't remember. He smiled. They stillallow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt.Almost my sole remaining privilege. The smile faded. Why do you keepon teasing the zoo animals, Willard? he asked without rancor. I'vemaintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yieldingto their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest haveoverruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insultsisn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enoughabout this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes ofthis morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard? The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. Because theThinkers are charlatans who must be exposed, he rapped out. We knowtheir Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced theirMars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mentalscience is bunk. But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly, Opperlyinterposed quietly. You know the good it did. Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. Then it's got to bedone until it takes. Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. I thinkyou just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of whichyou probably aren't aware. Farquar scowled. We're the ones in the cages. <doc-sep>Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. All the morereason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigersstrolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. Butconsider the age in which we live. It wants magicians. His voice grewespecially tranquil. A scientist tells people the truth. When timesare good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind.But when times are very, very bad.... A shadow darkened his eyes.Well, we all know what happened to— And he mentioned three namesthat had been household words in the middle of the century. Theywere the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred threephysicists. He went on, A magician, on the other hand, tells people what theywish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be curedby colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, thatthey'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're aluxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell theirsouls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power theirwar rockets. Farquar clenched his fist. All the more reason to keep chipping awayat the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it'sdifficult and dangerous? Opperly shook his head. We're to keep clear of the infection ofviolence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later Iwas one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'mconvinced that all my reactions were futile. Exactly! Farquar agreed harshly. You reacted. You didn't act. Ifyou men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league,if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendousbargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future.... By the time you were born, Willard, Opperly interrupted dreamily,Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren'tthe stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagineOppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old WhiteHouse with a bomb in his briefcase? He smiled. Besides, that's notthe way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargainingfor power—only established facts or lies are. Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a littleviolence in you. No, Opperly said. I've got violence in me, Farquar announced, shoving himself to hisfeet. <doc-sep>Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed. But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle? Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then? Now you are justifying the Thinkers! No, I leave that to history. And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see. I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience.... The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly? The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry. The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off. What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this. He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron? No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help. An invitation? Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out? The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you. What do you mean? Farquar asked. <doc-sep>Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady? Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted. And didn't she go off with a Thinker? If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation? Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition. Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise. Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world. Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off? Not exactly. You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily. Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims. Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men. <doc-sep>As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward hisapartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment thesilver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind. Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at theparadox. Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flyingneutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive asteam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes thatwere as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourselfwarm. Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Thenwould come the thrilling order, Set sail for Mars! The vast umbrellawould unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward sidea gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thickand backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in theribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities.Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward. In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard theship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the shipitself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there becameexhausted. A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, hadconceived it completely except for the technical details! Havingstrengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting,memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himselfof the executive power to control the technicians and direct theirspecialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket. But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true MindBomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They woulddiscover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—hisimagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build thetrue Maizie! And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with thescientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception. He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carryhim past his door. He stepped inside and called, Caddy! He waited amoment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there. <doc-sep>Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when sheshould have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now,when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added apleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. Hereally should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and againthere sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that wouldsend her into obedient trance. No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some momentof crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strikesuddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merelya wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understandingthe tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time forit, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis. Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shookhis perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself ifhe'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consultingTregarron. But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't hisboss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in themumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. Hehimself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-overstrategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie. He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximumrelaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest heknew would be desirable before the big conference. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Opperly and Farquar are both physicists. They both have the same role in society as possessing knowledge and abilities to create technology and machinery. However, despite their similar titles, they are drastically different, both in appearance and character. Opperly is an elderly man, who looks timid and meek, though wise, next to the young, large, and impulsive Farquar. Opperly acts as a rational voice, discouraging Farquar from his rebellious and violent nature, specifically towards the Thinkers. Opperly, having lived through history, is hesitant to threaten the authority of the Thinkers and instead understands that society is in need of them. He believes that scientists should not have a place in taking action and being violent, and instead should allow the Thinkers to uphold the nation. Farquar, on the other hand, is a man of action who believes the Thinkers are immoral and inauthentic. He contrasts Opperly's reasonable nature with passion and free thinking.

<s> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou? By RANDALL GARRETT I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying. When I entered the office, he was [3] sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said: Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira? I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will. He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass [4] again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place. Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it. Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force. I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way. He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein. Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble. I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level. [5] So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil. He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract. I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win. Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one. I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise. Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him. I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage. My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite [6] the same as yours. Get to thepoint. He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master. As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself. Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct? Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened. <doc-sep>My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. Rhetorical. It follows thatyou are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey. Your robotocists can change that, I said. This time, I was giving himmy version of genuine innocence. [7] A man has to be a good actor to bea competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that Iknew a great deal more about the problem than he did. He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. No, they cannot. Theyrealize now that there should be some way of making that change, butthey failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completelydraining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data canthis bias be eliminated. Then why don't they do that? There are two very good reasons, he said. And there was a shade ofanger in his tone. In the first place, that sort of operation takestime, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead andmake the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some ofthe improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In otherwords, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which isprecisely the thing I hired you to prevent. It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst. He'd hired mebecause things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money onthe McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his positionas manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contractsmight be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, andRavenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely. But, I went on, hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you [8] money? It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, Ithink. Perfectly. It's mutual. He ignored me. I even considered going through with the rebuildingwork, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the firstsix models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either. He scowled atme. It seems, he went on, that McGuire refuses to allow his brain tobe tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to thefore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter hishull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any furtherattempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes. I can't say that I blame him, I said. What do you want me to do? Goto Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy? It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more ofthat kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking onthe McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every otherspacecraft company in the System. He looked suddenly very grim andvery determined. Mr. Oak, I am certain that the robot ship is theanswer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sakeof every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out ofMcGuire! What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody , I quotedto myself. I'd have said it out loud, [9] but I was fairly certain thatShalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics. Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with therobotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it tobe the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that canbe turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak. In other words, I've got you over a barrel. I don't deny it. You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll becharged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don'twant to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus. How much? Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take tobuild a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugsin it. He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: I willdo it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, oneeach six months for three years after the first successful commercialship is built by Viking. My lawyer will nail you down on that wording, I said, but it's adeal. Is there anything else? No. Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel. You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak, he said. And the soft oiliness [10] ofhis voice was the oil of vitriol. Your compassion for your fellowmanis a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shallwelcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure tosubside. I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and addinghis own touch of color to the room. And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbaltriumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almostnothing, he'd really have blown up. <doc-sep>Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres. For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce [11] automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt. They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your average velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed. I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire. Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says: DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst. Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of [12] various sub-governments all overthe System. And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong. The Political Survey Division does evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of [13] the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division. The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile. McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he was the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor [14] did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space. Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull. But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders— fast ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space. That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well. And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with. <doc-sep>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>When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat downon the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-ironof the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my ownperspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats,sitting on a [17] bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on abroomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between meand the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, youcan't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait untilyou hit the next beacon station. Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beaconstation. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. Andexcept for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres,lock, stock, and mining rights. Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership.There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get theirhands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everythingshort of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come tothat, too, before very long. Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobodywould cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap asdirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs agreat deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt. But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surfacegravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981,and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without undulyhampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six poundson Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is astrain that takes a [18] week to get used to. Kids that are brought up inthe Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it atleast an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps themfrom growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sensetakes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will giveyou a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise. I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me byLanding Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome. After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into theinner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me. Have a good trip, Oak? he asked, trying to put a smile on hisscarred, battered face. I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip, I said,shaking his extended hand. That's the definition of a good trip, he told me. Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bathand some sleep. You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Wanta drink? I could use one, I guess. Your treat? My treat, he said. Come on. I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. Bydefinition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directionsfollow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point. [19] Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold unionsuit that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own wasa tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridorseemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there wereshocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of othercolors. A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people ofMidwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt.You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if youdid, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinklethat chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you mighthave to get into a vac suit fast. In a safe area like the tunnelsinside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there areplaces where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds awayfrom his vac suit. I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which heclaimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actuallydue to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention tothe colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laidover. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of thesuit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right;I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I have spent summers innudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselveswith lavender [20] and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people whogo to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people whogo to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different. I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and goon wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits. <doc-sep>Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that saidO'Banion's Bar, and I followed him in. We sat down at a table andordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn'tsupposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the SecurityGuard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules. We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brockopened up with his troubles. Oak, he said, I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plantbecause I want you to know that there may be trouble. Yeah? What kind? Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant. Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership ofViking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation,which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out ofbusiness so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing ofprecious metals. Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hellaround [21] here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And wecan't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now! Now wait a minute, I said, still playing ignorant, I thought we'dpretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series wasJack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, notThurston's agents. Perfectly true, he said agreeably. We managed to block any attemptsof sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though wehadn't for a while. He chuckled wryly. We went all out to keep theMcGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them theworks. Then he looked sharply at me. I covered that, of course. Noone in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible. Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then? He took a hefty slug of his drink. They're around, all right. We haveour eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as weare, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothingabout. So? What does this have to do with me? He put his drink on the table. Oak, I want you to help me. Hisonyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directlyinto my own. I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know Ican't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will haveto come out of my [22] pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it fromoperating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't wantyou messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because hedoesn't like your methods of operation. And you're going to go against his orders? I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed himthat Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrationaldislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm goingto protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and thatmeans that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can. I grinned at him. The last I heard, you were sore at me for blattingit all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when shesneaked aboard McGuire. He nodded perfunctorily. I was. I still think you should have told mewhat you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd beenunable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as anirrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that. Thanks. There wasn't much else I could say. Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I couldoffer you— I shook my head, cutting him off. Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons.In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm workingfor Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want [23] me to work for you, then itwould be unethical for me to take the job. In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow acertain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; myservices are [24] not necessary to the survival of the individual, exceptin very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through alawyer when it's a charity case. No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't [25] possibly work for you. He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head veryslowly. I see. Yeah, I get your point. He scowled down at his drink. But , I said, it would be a pleasure [26] to work with you. He looked up quickly. How's that? Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm alreadyworking for Ravenhurst; I can't hire [27] you because you're working forRavenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're bothworking for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if weco-operate. Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I mayrender you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through? His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. Loudand clear. It's a deal. I held up a hand, palm toward him. Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal'involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is forfriendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair? Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of factsand figures. Will do. Let me finish my guzzle. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story begins with Daniel Oak going into Ravenhurst’s office to talk with him about another job. Ravenhurst tells Daniel that there is an issue with the robot McGuire because the robot will only listen to Daniel’s commands. This happened because of the way the robot was programmed and Daniel happened to trigger the programming that attaches the robot to whoever the first person was to speak to it. Ravenhurst does not like Daniel’s methods but hires him anyways to fix the situation. Daniel believes that he is hired because Ravenhurst is afraid of losing his manager position. Ravenhurst hires and sends Daniel to the planet Ceres to work with the roboticists at Viking. Daniel puts on his vacuum suit and boards a flitterboat to Ceres. The reader learns that Daniel is a double agent as he actually works for the UN government’s Secret Service agency, also known as the Political Survey Division.Daniel is sent to Ceres to help with the robot McGuire. When he arrives at Ceres he is met by Colonel Harrington Brock. He goes to have a drink with Colonel Brock and they create a separate plan from Ravenhurst and team up to implement their own solution to the McGuire problem.

<s> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou? By RANDALL GARRETT I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying. When I entered the office, he was [3] sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said: Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira? I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will. He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass [4] again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place. Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it. Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force. I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way. He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein. Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble. I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level. [5] So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil. He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract. I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win. Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one. I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise. Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him. I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage. My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite [6] the same as yours. Get to thepoint. He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master. As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself. Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct? Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened. <doc-sep>My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. Rhetorical. It follows thatyou are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey. Your robotocists can change that, I said. This time, I was giving himmy version of genuine innocence. [7] A man has to be a good actor to bea competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that Iknew a great deal more about the problem than he did. He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. No, they cannot. Theyrealize now that there should be some way of making that change, butthey failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completelydraining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data canthis bias be eliminated. Then why don't they do that? There are two very good reasons, he said. And there was a shade ofanger in his tone. In the first place, that sort of operation takestime, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead andmake the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some ofthe improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In otherwords, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which isprecisely the thing I hired you to prevent. It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst. He'd hired mebecause things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money onthe McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his positionas manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contractsmight be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, andRavenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely. But, I went on, hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you [8] money? It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, Ithink. Perfectly. It's mutual. He ignored me. I even considered going through with the rebuildingwork, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the firstsix models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either. He scowled atme. It seems, he went on, that McGuire refuses to allow his brain tobe tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to thefore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter hishull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any furtherattempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes. I can't say that I blame him, I said. What do you want me to do? Goto Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy? It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more ofthat kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking onthe McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every otherspacecraft company in the System. He looked suddenly very grim andvery determined. Mr. Oak, I am certain that the robot ship is theanswer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sakeof every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out ofMcGuire! What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody , I quotedto myself. I'd have said it out loud, [9] but I was fairly certain thatShalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics. Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with therobotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it tobe the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that canbe turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak. In other words, I've got you over a barrel. I don't deny it. You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll becharged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don'twant to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus. How much? Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take tobuild a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugsin it. He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: I willdo it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, oneeach six months for three years after the first successful commercialship is built by Viking. My lawyer will nail you down on that wording, I said, but it's adeal. Is there anything else? No. Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel. You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak, he said. And the soft oiliness [10] ofhis voice was the oil of vitriol. Your compassion for your fellowmanis a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shallwelcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure tosubside. I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and addinghis own touch of color to the room. And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbaltriumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almostnothing, he'd really have blown up. <doc-sep>Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres. For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce [11] automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt. They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your average velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed. I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire. Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says: DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst. Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of [12] various sub-governments all overthe System. And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong. The Political Survey Division does evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of [13] the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division. The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile. McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he was the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor [14] did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space. Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull. But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders— fast ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space. That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well. And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with. <doc-sep>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>When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat downon the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-ironof the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my ownperspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats,sitting on a [17] bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on abroomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between meand the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, youcan't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait untilyou hit the next beacon station. Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beaconstation. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. Andexcept for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres,lock, stock, and mining rights. Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership.There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get theirhands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everythingshort of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come tothat, too, before very long. Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobodywould cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap asdirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs agreat deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt. But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surfacegravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981,and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without undulyhampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six poundson Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is astrain that takes a [18] week to get used to. Kids that are brought up inthe Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it atleast an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps themfrom growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sensetakes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will giveyou a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise. I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me byLanding Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome. After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into theinner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me. Have a good trip, Oak? he asked, trying to put a smile on hisscarred, battered face. I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip, I said,shaking his extended hand. That's the definition of a good trip, he told me. Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bathand some sleep. You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Wanta drink? I could use one, I guess. Your treat? My treat, he said. Come on. I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. Bydefinition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directionsfollow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point. [19] Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold unionsuit that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own wasa tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridorseemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there wereshocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of othercolors. A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people ofMidwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt.You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if youdid, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinklethat chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you mighthave to get into a vac suit fast. In a safe area like the tunnelsinside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there areplaces where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds awayfrom his vac suit. I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which heclaimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actuallydue to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention tothe colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laidover. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of thesuit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right;I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I have spent summers innudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselveswith lavender [20] and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people whogo to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people whogo to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different. I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and goon wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits. <doc-sep>Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that saidO'Banion's Bar, and I followed him in. We sat down at a table andordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn'tsupposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the SecurityGuard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules. We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brockopened up with his troubles. Oak, he said, I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plantbecause I want you to know that there may be trouble. Yeah? What kind? Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant. Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership ofViking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation,which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out ofbusiness so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing ofprecious metals. Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hellaround [21] here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And wecan't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now! Now wait a minute, I said, still playing ignorant, I thought we'dpretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series wasJack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, notThurston's agents. Perfectly true, he said agreeably. We managed to block any attemptsof sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though wehadn't for a while. He chuckled wryly. We went all out to keep theMcGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them theworks. Then he looked sharply at me. I covered that, of course. Noone in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible. Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then? He took a hefty slug of his drink. They're around, all right. We haveour eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as weare, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothingabout. So? What does this have to do with me? He put his drink on the table. Oak, I want you to help me. Hisonyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directlyinto my own. I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know Ican't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will haveto come out of my [22] pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it fromoperating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't wantyou messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because hedoesn't like your methods of operation. And you're going to go against his orders? I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed himthat Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrationaldislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm goingto protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and thatmeans that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can. I grinned at him. The last I heard, you were sore at me for blattingit all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when shesneaked aboard McGuire. He nodded perfunctorily. I was. I still think you should have told mewhat you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd beenunable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as anirrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that. Thanks. There wasn't much else I could say. Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I couldoffer you— I shook my head, cutting him off. Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons.In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm workingfor Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want [23] me to work for you, then itwould be unethical for me to take the job. In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow acertain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; myservices are [24] not necessary to the survival of the individual, exceptin very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through alawyer when it's a charity case. No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't [25] possibly work for you. He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head veryslowly. I see. Yeah, I get your point. He scowled down at his drink. But , I said, it would be a pleasure [26] to work with you. He looked up quickly. How's that? Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm alreadyworking for Ravenhurst; I can't hire [27] you because you're working forRavenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're bothworking for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if weco-operate. Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I mayrender you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through? His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. Loudand clear. It's a deal. I held up a hand, palm toward him. Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal'involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is forfriendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair? Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of factsand figures. Will do. Let me finish my guzzle. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Daniel Oak states that he has an office in New York and describes himself as a Confidential Expediter. He has worked with Ravenhurst before and the story begins with an understanding that Daniel recently completed a job for Ravenhurst. He later mentions that he is a double agent. Daniel works for the Political Survey Division branch of the System Census Bureau for the UN government. Unbeknownst to most of the System’s citizens, the Political Survey Division is the Secret Service arm of the UN government. A flitterboat is a more economical option than a full spaceship. It is described as having a single gravitoinertial engine. It is meant to have the most basic necessities that are needed for a person to survive their journey, which includes oxygen, water, and the requirement of food necessary. The flitterboat is not necessarily more affordable, but it does provide the purpose of transporting from one Belt to another Belt. Daniel Oak details how a vacuum suit is needed to be worn in a flitterboat.

<s> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou? By RANDALL GARRETT I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying. When I entered the office, he was [3] sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said: Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira? I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will. He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass [4] again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place. Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it. Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force. I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way. He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein. Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble. I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level. [5] So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil. He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract. I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win. Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one. I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise. Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him. I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage. My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite [6] the same as yours. Get to thepoint. He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master. As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself. Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct? Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened. <doc-sep>My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. Rhetorical. It follows thatyou are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey. Your robotocists can change that, I said. This time, I was giving himmy version of genuine innocence. [7] A man has to be a good actor to bea competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that Iknew a great deal more about the problem than he did. He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. No, they cannot. Theyrealize now that there should be some way of making that change, butthey failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completelydraining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data canthis bias be eliminated. Then why don't they do that? There are two very good reasons, he said. And there was a shade ofanger in his tone. In the first place, that sort of operation takestime, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead andmake the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some ofthe improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In otherwords, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which isprecisely the thing I hired you to prevent. It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst. He'd hired mebecause things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money onthe McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his positionas manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contractsmight be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, andRavenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely. But, I went on, hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you [8] money? It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, Ithink. Perfectly. It's mutual. He ignored me. I even considered going through with the rebuildingwork, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the firstsix models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either. He scowled atme. It seems, he went on, that McGuire refuses to allow his brain tobe tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to thefore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter hishull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any furtherattempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes. I can't say that I blame him, I said. What do you want me to do? Goto Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy? It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more ofthat kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking onthe McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every otherspacecraft company in the System. He looked suddenly very grim andvery determined. Mr. Oak, I am certain that the robot ship is theanswer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sakeof every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out ofMcGuire! What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody , I quotedto myself. I'd have said it out loud, [9] but I was fairly certain thatShalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics. Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with therobotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it tobe the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that canbe turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak. In other words, I've got you over a barrel. I don't deny it. You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll becharged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don'twant to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus. How much? Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take tobuild a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugsin it. He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: I willdo it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, oneeach six months for three years after the first successful commercialship is built by Viking. My lawyer will nail you down on that wording, I said, but it's adeal. Is there anything else? No. Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel. You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak, he said. And the soft oiliness [10] ofhis voice was the oil of vitriol. Your compassion for your fellowmanis a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shallwelcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure tosubside. I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and addinghis own touch of color to the room. And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbaltriumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almostnothing, he'd really have blown up. <doc-sep>Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres. For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce [11] automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt. They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your average velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed. I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire. Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says: DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst. Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of [12] various sub-governments all overthe System. And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong. The Political Survey Division does evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of [13] the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division. The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile. McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he was the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor [14] did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space. Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull. But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders— fast ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space. That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well. And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with. <doc-sep>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>When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat downon the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-ironof the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my ownperspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats,sitting on a [17] bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on abroomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between meand the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, youcan't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait untilyou hit the next beacon station. Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beaconstation. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. Andexcept for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres,lock, stock, and mining rights. Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership.There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get theirhands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everythingshort of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come tothat, too, before very long. Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobodywould cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap asdirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs agreat deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt. But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surfacegravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981,and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without undulyhampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six poundson Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is astrain that takes a [18] week to get used to. Kids that are brought up inthe Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it atleast an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps themfrom growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sensetakes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will giveyou a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise. I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me byLanding Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome. After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into theinner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me. Have a good trip, Oak? he asked, trying to put a smile on hisscarred, battered face. I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip, I said,shaking his extended hand. That's the definition of a good trip, he told me. Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bathand some sleep. You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Wanta drink? I could use one, I guess. Your treat? My treat, he said. Come on. I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. Bydefinition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directionsfollow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point. [19] Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold unionsuit that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own wasa tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridorseemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there wereshocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of othercolors. A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people ofMidwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt.You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if youdid, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinklethat chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you mighthave to get into a vac suit fast. In a safe area like the tunnelsinside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there areplaces where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds awayfrom his vac suit. I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which heclaimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actuallydue to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention tothe colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laidover. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of thesuit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right;I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I have spent summers innudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselveswith lavender [20] and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people whogo to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people whogo to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different. I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and goon wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits. <doc-sep>Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that saidO'Banion's Bar, and I followed him in. We sat down at a table andordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn'tsupposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the SecurityGuard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules. We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brockopened up with his troubles. Oak, he said, I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plantbecause I want you to know that there may be trouble. Yeah? What kind? Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant. Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership ofViking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation,which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out ofbusiness so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing ofprecious metals. Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hellaround [21] here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And wecan't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now! Now wait a minute, I said, still playing ignorant, I thought we'dpretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series wasJack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, notThurston's agents. Perfectly true, he said agreeably. We managed to block any attemptsof sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though wehadn't for a while. He chuckled wryly. We went all out to keep theMcGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them theworks. Then he looked sharply at me. I covered that, of course. Noone in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible. Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then? He took a hefty slug of his drink. They're around, all right. We haveour eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as weare, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothingabout. So? What does this have to do with me? He put his drink on the table. Oak, I want you to help me. Hisonyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directlyinto my own. I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know Ican't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will haveto come out of my [22] pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it fromoperating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't wantyou messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because hedoesn't like your methods of operation. And you're going to go against his orders? I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed himthat Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrationaldislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm goingto protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and thatmeans that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can. I grinned at him. The last I heard, you were sore at me for blattingit all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when shesneaked aboard McGuire. He nodded perfunctorily. I was. I still think you should have told mewhat you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd beenunable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as anirrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that. Thanks. There wasn't much else I could say. Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I couldoffer you— I shook my head, cutting him off. Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons.In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm workingfor Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want [23] me to work for you, then itwould be unethical for me to take the job. In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow acertain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; myservices are [24] not necessary to the survival of the individual, exceptin very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through alawyer when it's a charity case. No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't [25] possibly work for you. He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head veryslowly. I see. Yeah, I get your point. He scowled down at his drink. But , I said, it would be a pleasure [26] to work with you. He looked up quickly. How's that? Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm alreadyworking for Ravenhurst; I can't hire [27] you because you're working forRavenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're bothworking for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if weco-operate. Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I mayrender you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through? His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. Loudand clear. It's a deal. I held up a hand, palm toward him. Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal'involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is forfriendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair? Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of factsand figures. Will do. Let me finish my guzzle. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Ravenhurst and Oak do not have a friendly relationship with each other. Occasionally, Ravenhurst occasionally hires Daniel to complete certain jobs for him. Ravenhurst is a high executive at a company that makes robots. He has recently hired Daniel to fix a problem with a robot and has to rehire him to fix a problem that Daniel caused on the previous job. Daniel is not loyal to Ravenhurst because he has acknowledged that he is a double agent working for the UN government and not just Ravenhurst. In addition, Daniel decides to team up with Colonel Harrington Brock to tackle the problem at hand. The Colonel says that he is doing it in Ravenhurst’s best interests.

<s> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou? By RANDALL GARRETT I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying. When I entered the office, he was [3] sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said: Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira? I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will. He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass [4] again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place. Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it. Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force. I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way. He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein. Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble. I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level. [5] So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil. He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract. I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win. Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one. I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise. Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him. I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage. My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite [6] the same as yours. Get to thepoint. He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master. As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself. Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct? Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened. <doc-sep>My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. Rhetorical. It follows thatyou are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey. Your robotocists can change that, I said. This time, I was giving himmy version of genuine innocence. [7] A man has to be a good actor to bea competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that Iknew a great deal more about the problem than he did. He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. No, they cannot. Theyrealize now that there should be some way of making that change, butthey failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completelydraining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data canthis bias be eliminated. Then why don't they do that? There are two very good reasons, he said. And there was a shade ofanger in his tone. In the first place, that sort of operation takestime, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead andmake the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some ofthe improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In otherwords, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which isprecisely the thing I hired you to prevent. It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst. He'd hired mebecause things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money onthe McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his positionas manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contractsmight be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, andRavenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely. But, I went on, hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you [8] money? It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, Ithink. Perfectly. It's mutual. He ignored me. I even considered going through with the rebuildingwork, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the firstsix models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either. He scowled atme. It seems, he went on, that McGuire refuses to allow his brain tobe tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to thefore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter hishull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any furtherattempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes. I can't say that I blame him, I said. What do you want me to do? Goto Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy? It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more ofthat kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking onthe McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every otherspacecraft company in the System. He looked suddenly very grim andvery determined. Mr. Oak, I am certain that the robot ship is theanswer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sakeof every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out ofMcGuire! What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody , I quotedto myself. I'd have said it out loud, [9] but I was fairly certain thatShalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics. Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with therobotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it tobe the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that canbe turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak. In other words, I've got you over a barrel. I don't deny it. You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll becharged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don'twant to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus. How much? Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take tobuild a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugsin it. He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: I willdo it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, oneeach six months for three years after the first successful commercialship is built by Viking. My lawyer will nail you down on that wording, I said, but it's adeal. Is there anything else? No. Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel. You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak, he said. And the soft oiliness [10] ofhis voice was the oil of vitriol. Your compassion for your fellowmanis a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shallwelcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure tosubside. I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and addinghis own touch of color to the room. And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbaltriumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almostnothing, he'd really have blown up. <doc-sep>Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres. For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce [11] automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt. They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your average velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed. I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire. Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says: DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst. Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of [12] various sub-governments all overthe System. And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong. The Political Survey Division does evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of [13] the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division. The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile. McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he was the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor [14] did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space. Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull. But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders— fast ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space. That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well. And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with. <doc-sep>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>When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat downon the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-ironof the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my ownperspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats,sitting on a [17] bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on abroomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between meand the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, youcan't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait untilyou hit the next beacon station. Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beaconstation. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. Andexcept for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres,lock, stock, and mining rights. Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership.There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get theirhands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everythingshort of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come tothat, too, before very long. Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobodywould cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap asdirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs agreat deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt. But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surfacegravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981,and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without undulyhampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six poundson Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is astrain that takes a [18] week to get used to. Kids that are brought up inthe Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it atleast an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps themfrom growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sensetakes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will giveyou a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise. I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me byLanding Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome. After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into theinner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me. Have a good trip, Oak? he asked, trying to put a smile on hisscarred, battered face. I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip, I said,shaking his extended hand. That's the definition of a good trip, he told me. Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bathand some sleep. You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Wanta drink? I could use one, I guess. Your treat? My treat, he said. Come on. I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. Bydefinition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directionsfollow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point. [19] Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold unionsuit that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own wasa tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridorseemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there wereshocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of othercolors. A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people ofMidwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt.You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if youdid, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinklethat chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you mighthave to get into a vac suit fast. In a safe area like the tunnelsinside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there areplaces where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds awayfrom his vac suit. I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which heclaimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actuallydue to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention tothe colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laidover. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of thesuit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right;I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I have spent summers innudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselveswith lavender [20] and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people whogo to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people whogo to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different. I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and goon wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits. <doc-sep>Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that saidO'Banion's Bar, and I followed him in. We sat down at a table andordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn'tsupposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the SecurityGuard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules. We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brockopened up with his troubles. Oak, he said, I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plantbecause I want you to know that there may be trouble. Yeah? What kind? Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant. Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership ofViking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation,which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out ofbusiness so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing ofprecious metals. Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hellaround [21] here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And wecan't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now! Now wait a minute, I said, still playing ignorant, I thought we'dpretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series wasJack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, notThurston's agents. Perfectly true, he said agreeably. We managed to block any attemptsof sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though wehadn't for a while. He chuckled wryly. We went all out to keep theMcGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them theworks. Then he looked sharply at me. I covered that, of course. Noone in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible. Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then? He took a hefty slug of his drink. They're around, all right. We haveour eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as weare, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothingabout. So? What does this have to do with me? He put his drink on the table. Oak, I want you to help me. Hisonyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directlyinto my own. I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know Ican't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will haveto come out of my [22] pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it fromoperating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't wantyou messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because hedoesn't like your methods of operation. And you're going to go against his orders? I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed himthat Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrationaldislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm goingto protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and thatmeans that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can. I grinned at him. The last I heard, you were sore at me for blattingit all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when shesneaked aboard McGuire. He nodded perfunctorily. I was. I still think you should have told mewhat you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd beenunable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as anirrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that. Thanks. There wasn't much else I could say. Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I couldoffer you— I shook my head, cutting him off. Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons.In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm workingfor Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want [23] me to work for you, then itwould be unethical for me to take the job. In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow acertain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; myservices are [24] not necessary to the survival of the individual, exceptin very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through alawyer when it's a charity case. No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't [25] possibly work for you. He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head veryslowly. I see. Yeah, I get your point. He scowled down at his drink. But , I said, it would be a pleasure [26] to work with you. He looked up quickly. How's that? Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm alreadyworking for Ravenhurst; I can't hire [27] you because you're working forRavenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're bothworking for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if weco-operate. Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I mayrender you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through? His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. Loudand clear. It's a deal. I held up a hand, palm toward him. Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal'involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is forfriendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair? Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of factsand figures. Will do. Let me finish my guzzle. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

A flitterboat is a more economical option than a full spaceship. It is described as having a single gravitoinertial engine. It is meant to have the most basic necessities that are needed for a person to survive their journey, which includes oxygen, water, and the requirement of food necessary. The flitterboat is not necessarily more affordable, but it does provide the purpose of transporting from one Belt to another Belt. Daniel Oak details how a vacuum suit is needed to be worn in a flitterboat. Daniel describes the flitterboat as a tool that does its job, but is not comfortable.

<s> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou? By RANDALL GARRETT I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying. When I entered the office, he was [3] sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said: Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira? I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will. He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass [4] again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place. Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it. Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force. I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way. He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein. Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble. I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level. [5] So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil. He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract. I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win. Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one. I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise. Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him. I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage. My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite [6] the same as yours. Get to thepoint. He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master. As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself. Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct? Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened. <doc-sep>My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. Rhetorical. It follows thatyou are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey. Your robotocists can change that, I said. This time, I was giving himmy version of genuine innocence. [7] A man has to be a good actor to bea competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that Iknew a great deal more about the problem than he did. He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. No, they cannot. Theyrealize now that there should be some way of making that change, butthey failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completelydraining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data canthis bias be eliminated. Then why don't they do that? There are two very good reasons, he said. And there was a shade ofanger in his tone. In the first place, that sort of operation takestime, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead andmake the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some ofthe improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In otherwords, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which isprecisely the thing I hired you to prevent. It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst. He'd hired mebecause things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money onthe McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his positionas manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contractsmight be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, andRavenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely. But, I went on, hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you [8] money? It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, Ithink. Perfectly. It's mutual. He ignored me. I even considered going through with the rebuildingwork, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the firstsix models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either. He scowled atme. It seems, he went on, that McGuire refuses to allow his brain tobe tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to thefore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter hishull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any furtherattempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes. I can't say that I blame him, I said. What do you want me to do? Goto Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy? It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more ofthat kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking onthe McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every otherspacecraft company in the System. He looked suddenly very grim andvery determined. Mr. Oak, I am certain that the robot ship is theanswer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sakeof every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out ofMcGuire! What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody , I quotedto myself. I'd have said it out loud, [9] but I was fairly certain thatShalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics. Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with therobotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it tobe the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that canbe turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak. In other words, I've got you over a barrel. I don't deny it. You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll becharged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don'twant to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus. How much? Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take tobuild a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugsin it. He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: I willdo it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, oneeach six months for three years after the first successful commercialship is built by Viking. My lawyer will nail you down on that wording, I said, but it's adeal. Is there anything else? No. Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel. You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak, he said. And the soft oiliness [10] ofhis voice was the oil of vitriol. Your compassion for your fellowmanis a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shallwelcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure tosubside. I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and addinghis own touch of color to the room. And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbaltriumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almostnothing, he'd really have blown up. <doc-sep>Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres. For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce [11] automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt. They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your average velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed. I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire. Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says: DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst. Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of [12] various sub-governments all overthe System. And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong. The Political Survey Division does evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of [13] the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division. The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile. McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he was the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor [14] did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space. Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull. But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders— fast ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space. That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well. And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with. <doc-sep>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>When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat downon the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-ironof the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my ownperspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats,sitting on a [17] bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on abroomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between meand the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, youcan't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait untilyou hit the next beacon station. Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beaconstation. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. Andexcept for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres,lock, stock, and mining rights. Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership.There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get theirhands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everythingshort of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come tothat, too, before very long. Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobodywould cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap asdirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs agreat deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt. But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surfacegravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981,and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without undulyhampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six poundson Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is astrain that takes a [18] week to get used to. Kids that are brought up inthe Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it atleast an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps themfrom growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sensetakes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will giveyou a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise. I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me byLanding Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome. After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into theinner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me. Have a good trip, Oak? he asked, trying to put a smile on hisscarred, battered face. I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip, I said,shaking his extended hand. That's the definition of a good trip, he told me. Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bathand some sleep. You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Wanta drink? I could use one, I guess. Your treat? My treat, he said. Come on. I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. Bydefinition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directionsfollow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point. [19] Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold unionsuit that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own wasa tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridorseemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there wereshocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of othercolors. A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people ofMidwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt.You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if youdid, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinklethat chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you mighthave to get into a vac suit fast. In a safe area like the tunnelsinside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there areplaces where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds awayfrom his vac suit. I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which heclaimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actuallydue to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention tothe colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laidover. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of thesuit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right;I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I have spent summers innudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselveswith lavender [20] and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people whogo to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people whogo to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different. I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and goon wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits. <doc-sep>Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that saidO'Banion's Bar, and I followed him in. We sat down at a table andordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn'tsupposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the SecurityGuard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules. We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brockopened up with his troubles. Oak, he said, I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plantbecause I want you to know that there may be trouble. Yeah? What kind? Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant. Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership ofViking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation,which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out ofbusiness so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing ofprecious metals. Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hellaround [21] here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And wecan't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now! Now wait a minute, I said, still playing ignorant, I thought we'dpretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series wasJack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, notThurston's agents. Perfectly true, he said agreeably. We managed to block any attemptsof sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though wehadn't for a while. He chuckled wryly. We went all out to keep theMcGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them theworks. Then he looked sharply at me. I covered that, of course. Noone in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible. Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then? He took a hefty slug of his drink. They're around, all right. We haveour eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as weare, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothingabout. So? What does this have to do with me? He put his drink on the table. Oak, I want you to help me. Hisonyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directlyinto my own. I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know Ican't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will haveto come out of my [22] pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it fromoperating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't wantyou messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because hedoesn't like your methods of operation. And you're going to go against his orders? I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed himthat Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrationaldislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm goingto protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and thatmeans that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can. I grinned at him. The last I heard, you were sore at me for blattingit all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when shesneaked aboard McGuire. He nodded perfunctorily. I was. I still think you should have told mewhat you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd beenunable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as anirrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that. Thanks. There wasn't much else I could say. Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I couldoffer you— I shook my head, cutting him off. Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons.In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm workingfor Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want [23] me to work for you, then itwould be unethical for me to take the job. In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow acertain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; myservices are [24] not necessary to the survival of the individual, exceptin very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through alawyer when it's a charity case. No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't [25] possibly work for you. He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head veryslowly. I see. Yeah, I get your point. He scowled down at his drink. But , I said, it would be a pleasure [26] to work with you. He looked up quickly. How's that? Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm alreadyworking for Ravenhurst; I can't hire [27] you because you're working forRavenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're bothworking for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if weco-operate. Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I mayrender you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through? His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. Loudand clear. It's a deal. I held up a hand, palm toward him. Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal'involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is forfriendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair? Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of factsand figures. Will do. Let me finish my guzzle. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The most recent McGuire is the seventh edition. It is described as being more mobile as it is a spacecraft. It is potentially dangerous because it can move at thousands of miles per second. The most recent version is different from the previous six because it follows Asimov’s famous Three Laws of Robotics more closely than the other versions. The laws emphasize that a robot should define a human being and making sure the robot does not hurt a human. That has previously proven difficult. McGuire version 7 circumnavigated the issue by defining whatever first awoken the robot as a human and its controller.

<s> DEATH STAR By TOM PACE Trapped by the most feared of space pirates Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space. Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him. For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake. That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon. However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place. It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star. His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star. The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back. Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun. The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart. Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye. He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing. While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun. If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl. <doc-sep>He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp. Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ... pirate ! Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade. The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate. Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl. Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness. An eternity seemed to pass. Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes. Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett. That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett. The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight. He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett. Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was. Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you! Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of? Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett! Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage. You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou.... Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull. <doc-sep>When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett! Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully. Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction. There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett. Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into! Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse. His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found. Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth. You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out! Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held. Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver. Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon. <doc-sep>Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death. He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon. Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it. The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true. A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade. Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it. The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere. The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand.... The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett. Which was right, in a way. Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter. Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result. Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine. It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl. Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty. Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened. But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head. It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him. <doc-sep>At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes. In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her. I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you? She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I knew what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had heard him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month! A month? Huh—please—you...? Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who are you? What areyou doing here? She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him? Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment ' BladeCosmian ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What— Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen. I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be.... No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates. I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea? Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see.... Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door. Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with. Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room. It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines. Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen. His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers. And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood. <doc-sep>Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! Itcould be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett. The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. Well? Garrett smiled his mocking grin. You grasp the principle, of course.But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbinesafter the wheels? Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead? Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface! Garrett said.Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can yourecognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my littleplant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes! Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over AlphaIII. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protectit! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocketshells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, orto warn if anyone lands on this planet! Garrett leaned forward, hiseyes aglow. Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet,and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be thefirst time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secretpatents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes.... Star twisted, and got his ace card out of its hiding place. It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for ajet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a devicefixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smallerthan an old-style fountain pen. He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved everbefore. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertnessof his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that oneinstant. And Devil Garrett died. There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue whitefire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of firefrom Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed intoGarrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even ashis muscles started the jerking movement. And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp. Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, andswore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's handhad already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press theelectron stud, she buried the knife in his back. Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though adevil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was hisfinal mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough tohim to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet. The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, notinto the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a roomfilled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in theroom below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, Are yougoing to come out, or am I coming in to get you? There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, Hecan't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door. Oh, yes? was the answer. Do you know who that guy is? He's the onethey call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight.You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. Then he lifted his voice.Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot. <doc-sep>Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him. Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down. He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate? Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel! What? Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor. Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays. Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how— Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers? Uh-huh. What are they, Star? They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life! He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri! <doc-sep>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></s>

The story starts with Starrett (Star) Blade’s ship falling into one of the lakes on Alpha Centauri III. We then learns that Currently Star is trying to hunt Devil Garrett down, but his ship was hit by an energy-beam shot by Garrett, who is the top space pirate for years. After he fell, he hopes that Garrett himself will come here to look for him, but only one of Garrett’s men appears and he is killed by Star. He also notices a person with another gun right after he murders that man. He almost kills this person as well, but is able to stop in time due to his strong reflex skills. The reason that he stopped is because she is a girl. She has beautiful dark colored hair and eyes. But she does not stop trying to capture him. Before he can explain himself, he is knocked out. When Star has finally waken up, he is already in a lab chair with Garrett is right in front of him. To his surprise, Garrett calls him Garrett, instead of Star. The girl clearly believes Garrett that Star is actually Garrett. However, again, before he can explain his situation to the girl, he is knocked out. Right after he wakes up, he learns that he will be executed. Then, he starts thinking of the girl again, but he does not really understand why he is thinking of her. Before he can do anything, he is taken from his cell. Standing 5 yards away from the gun that Garrett is holding, he tries to find a way that he could escape. He is glad to see that it is a two way transmitter, but loses his hope again when he realizes that it is an old-style transmitter. Then as the visual image started to form, Garrett is ready to perform the execution. Star cunningly kicks the metal fork onto the vision transmitter, which diverts Garrett’s attention, and causes him to miss the shot. But because he is outnumbered by Garrett’s men, he is caught and knocked out again. After he wake up, the girl finds him and tells him that she is capable of reading lips. Even though the visual images has no sound, she knows what the Section Void Headquarters said, and that he is the actual Star. Garrett enters the cell after he finds out that the girl knows the real identity of him and Star. So he brings them to a room filled with machines. He imagines to have hundreds of those on Alpha III and he will be able to rule an entire world. Then suddenly the girl takes Garrett’s weapon and Star is able to kill him very quickly. And Commander Weddel, getting the signal that Star tried to send using the metal fork, gets here just on time to capture Garrett’s men.

<s> DEATH STAR By TOM PACE Trapped by the most feared of space pirates Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space. Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him. For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake. That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon. However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place. It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star. His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star. The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back. Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun. The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart. Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye. He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing. While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun. If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl. <doc-sep>He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp. Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ... pirate ! Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade. The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate. Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl. Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness. An eternity seemed to pass. Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes. Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett. That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett. The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight. He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett. Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was. Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you! Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of? Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett! Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage. You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou.... Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull. <doc-sep>When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett! Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully. Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction. There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett. Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into! Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse. His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found. Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth. You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out! Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held. Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver. Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon. <doc-sep>Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death. He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon. Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it. The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true. A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade. Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it. The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere. The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand.... The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett. Which was right, in a way. Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter. Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result. Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine. It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl. Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty. Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened. But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head. It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him. <doc-sep>At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes. In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her. I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you? She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I knew what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had heard him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month! A month? Huh—please—you...? Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who are you? What areyou doing here? She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him? Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment ' BladeCosmian ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What— Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen. I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be.... No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates. I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea? Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see.... Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door. Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with. Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room. It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines. Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen. His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers. And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood. <doc-sep>Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! Itcould be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett. The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. Well? Garrett smiled his mocking grin. You grasp the principle, of course.But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbinesafter the wheels? Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead? Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface! Garrett said.Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can yourecognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my littleplant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes! Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over AlphaIII. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protectit! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocketshells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, orto warn if anyone lands on this planet! Garrett leaned forward, hiseyes aglow. Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet,and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be thefirst time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secretpatents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes.... Star twisted, and got his ace card out of its hiding place. It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for ajet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a devicefixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smallerthan an old-style fountain pen. He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved everbefore. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertnessof his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that oneinstant. And Devil Garrett died. There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue whitefire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of firefrom Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed intoGarrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even ashis muscles started the jerking movement. And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp. Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, andswore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's handhad already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press theelectron stud, she buried the knife in his back. Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though adevil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was hisfinal mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough tohim to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet. The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, notinto the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a roomfilled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in theroom below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, Are yougoing to come out, or am I coming in to get you? There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, Hecan't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door. Oh, yes? was the answer. Do you know who that guy is? He's the onethey call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight.You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. Then he lifted his voice.Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot. <doc-sep>Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him. Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down. He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate? Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel! What? Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor. Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays. Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how— Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers? Uh-huh. What are they, Star? They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life! He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri! <doc-sep>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></s>

Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate for many years, and Star is currently trying to hunt him down. We learn that Garrett has been secretly building machines on Alpha III which, if combine with Hinton ray screens, gives Garrett the power to rule the entire world. A month ago, Garrett captured Anne Hinton and started to pretend that he is Star. He was communicating with Anna’s father about new power processes. Then a month later, Star’s ship gets hit by the energy-beam. However, he survives after his ship fells into the lake, instead he is captured and Garrett wants to execute him. Luckily, he is able to divert Garret’s attention when he is shooting Star, leading him to miss it. Also, since the girl is able to read lips, she realizes that Garrett has been lying to her. She learns Garrett’s true identity as well as Star’s. In the end, as Garrett is showing them his great enterprise and explaining how he will be able to rule the world, he gets careless and Anna takes his weapon. Even though he tries to run, Star is quicker and has better reflexes. Without his weapons, Star easily had him killed.

<s> DEATH STAR By TOM PACE Trapped by the most feared of space pirates Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space. Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him. For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake. That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon. However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place. It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star. His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star. The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back. Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun. The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart. Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye. He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing. While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun. If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl. <doc-sep>He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp. Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ... pirate ! Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade. The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate. Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl. Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness. An eternity seemed to pass. Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes. Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett. That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett. The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight. He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett. Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was. Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you! Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of? Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett! Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage. You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou.... Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull. <doc-sep>When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett! Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully. Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction. There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett. Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into! Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse. His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found. Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth. You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out! Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held. Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver. Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon. <doc-sep>Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death. He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon. Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it. The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true. A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade. Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it. The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere. The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand.... The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett. Which was right, in a way. Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter. Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result. Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine. It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl. Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty. Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened. But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head. It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him. <doc-sep>At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes. In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her. I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you? She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I knew what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had heard him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month! A month? Huh—please—you...? Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who are you? What areyou doing here? She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him? Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment ' BladeCosmian ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What— Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen. I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be.... No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates. I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea? Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see.... Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door. Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with. Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room. It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines. Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen. His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers. And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood. <doc-sep>Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! Itcould be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett. The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. Well? Garrett smiled his mocking grin. You grasp the principle, of course.But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbinesafter the wheels? Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead? Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface! Garrett said.Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can yourecognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my littleplant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes! Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over AlphaIII. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protectit! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocketshells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, orto warn if anyone lands on this planet! Garrett leaned forward, hiseyes aglow. Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet,and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be thefirst time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secretpatents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes.... Star twisted, and got his ace card out of its hiding place. It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for ajet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a devicefixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smallerthan an old-style fountain pen. He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved everbefore. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertnessof his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that oneinstant. And Devil Garrett died. There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue whitefire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of firefrom Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed intoGarrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even ashis muscles started the jerking movement. And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp. Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, andswore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's handhad already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press theelectron stud, she buried the knife in his back. Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though adevil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was hisfinal mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough tohim to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet. The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, notinto the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a roomfilled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in theroom below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, Are yougoing to come out, or am I coming in to get you? There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, Hecan't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door. Oh, yes? was the answer. Do you know who that guy is? He's the onethey call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight.You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. Then he lifted his voice.Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot. <doc-sep>Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him. Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down. He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate? Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel! What? Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor. Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays. Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how— Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers? Uh-huh. What are they, Star? They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life! He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri! <doc-sep>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></s>

The story takes place on Alpha Centauri III, a planet that has many stagnant lakes that are only a few hundred feet across, but a few thousand feet deep. After Star’s ship fells into one of the lakes, he is knocked out and is captured by the girl and Garrett’s people to their craft. He is sitting on a lab chair where he realizes that he is being called “Garrett” instead of Star. He is still super surprised, but then is knocked out again. He wakes up in some kind of cell and is told he will be executed. He is brought to a room to be executed streaming to the Section Void Headquarters with a stellar vision screen. After some distraction, Garrett misses the shot. But Star is knocked out again to be brought back to the cell again. After acknowledging that the girl knows his true identity, Garrett notices them and brought them to see his grand operation that will allow him to rule over the world. However, he dies before he was able to finish introducing the rest of the machineries.

<s> DEATH STAR By TOM PACE Trapped by the most feared of space pirates Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space. Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him. For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake. That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon. However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place. It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star. His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star. The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back. Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun. The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart. Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye. He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing. While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun. If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl. <doc-sep>He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp. Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ... pirate ! Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade. The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate. Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl. Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness. An eternity seemed to pass. Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes. Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett. That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett. The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight. He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett. Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was. Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you! Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of? Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett! Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage. You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou.... Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull. <doc-sep>When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett! Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully. Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction. There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett. Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into! Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse. His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found. Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth. You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out! Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held. Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver. Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon. <doc-sep>Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death. He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon. Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it. The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true. A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade. Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it. The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere. The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand.... The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett. Which was right, in a way. Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter. Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result. Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine. It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl. Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty. Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened. But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head. It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him. <doc-sep>At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes. In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her. I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you? She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I knew what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had heard him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month! A month? Huh—please—you...? Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who are you? What areyou doing here? She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him? Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment ' BladeCosmian ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What— Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen. I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be.... No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates. I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea? Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see.... Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door. Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with. Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room. It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines. Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen. His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers. And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood. <doc-sep>Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! Itcould be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett. The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. Well? Garrett smiled his mocking grin. You grasp the principle, of course.But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbinesafter the wheels? Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead? Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface! Garrett said.Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can yourecognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my littleplant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes! Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over AlphaIII. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protectit! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocketshells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, orto warn if anyone lands on this planet! Garrett leaned forward, hiseyes aglow. Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet,and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be thefirst time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secretpatents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes.... Star twisted, and got his ace card out of its hiding place. It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for ajet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a devicefixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smallerthan an old-style fountain pen. He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved everbefore. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertnessof his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that oneinstant. And Devil Garrett died. There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue whitefire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of firefrom Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed intoGarrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even ashis muscles started the jerking movement. And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp. Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, andswore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's handhad already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press theelectron stud, she buried the knife in his back. Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though adevil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was hisfinal mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough tohim to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet. The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, notinto the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a roomfilled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in theroom below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, Are yougoing to come out, or am I coming in to get you? There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, Hecan't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door. Oh, yes? was the answer. Do you know who that guy is? He's the onethey call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight.You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. Then he lifted his voice.Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot. <doc-sep>Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him. Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down. He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate? Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel! What? Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor. Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays. Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how— Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers? Uh-huh. What are they, Star? They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life! He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri! <doc-sep>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></s>

Firstly, a month ago, Garrett pretends to be Star and successfully deceived the girl’s father and was communicating with him about his development on some power processes. And according to the girl, she was captured by Garrett and brought to the craft around a month ago. Note that no one knows what he is really hoping to accomplish by pretending to be Star. Secondly, for the past month, he has been using 3-dimensional images and detailed description of Star as Garrett to make the girl believe his made-up identity. This also finishes successfully and the girl was sure that Star was Garrett, Garret as Star. Thirdly, during the execution, Garrett uses the delay in voice from the visual images to make sure that the girl will not be able to hear anything that the Section Void Headquarters would say when they see Garrett murdering Star. But he lets her see the images so that when their faces are filled with surprises to see Star being captured, the visual images will lead the girl to believe that they are shocked because they see Garret. However, this part of the plan failed. The girl is able to read lips, thus from the visuals, she knows exactly what the headquarters are saying. Hence she learns the truth of Garrett and Star’s identity. She also learns that he has been lying to him and her father.

<s> DEATH STAR By TOM PACE Trapped by the most feared of space pirates Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space. Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him. For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake. That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon. However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place. It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star. His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star. The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back. Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun. The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart. Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye. He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing. While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun. If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl. <doc-sep>He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp. Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ... pirate ! Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade. The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate. Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl. Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness. An eternity seemed to pass. Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes. Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett. That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett. The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight. He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett. Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was. Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you! Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of? Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett! Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage. You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou.... Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull. <doc-sep>When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett! Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully. Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction. There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett. Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into! Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse. His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found. Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth. You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out! Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held. Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver. Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon. <doc-sep>Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death. He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon. Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it. The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true. A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade. Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it. The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere. The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand.... The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett. Which was right, in a way. Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter. Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result. Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine. It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl. Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty. Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened. But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head. It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him. <doc-sep>At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes. In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her. I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you? She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I knew what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had heard him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month! A month? Huh—please—you...? Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who are you? What areyou doing here? She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him? Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment ' BladeCosmian ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What— Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen. I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be.... No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates. I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea? Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see.... Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door. Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with. Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room. It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines. Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen. His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers. And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood. <doc-sep>Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! Itcould be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett. The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. Well? Garrett smiled his mocking grin. You grasp the principle, of course.But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbinesafter the wheels? Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead? Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface! Garrett said.Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can yourecognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my littleplant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes! Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over AlphaIII. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protectit! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocketshells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, orto warn if anyone lands on this planet! Garrett leaned forward, hiseyes aglow. Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet,and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be thefirst time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secretpatents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes.... Star twisted, and got his ace card out of its hiding place. It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for ajet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a devicefixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smallerthan an old-style fountain pen. He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved everbefore. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertnessof his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that oneinstant. And Devil Garrett died. There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue whitefire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of firefrom Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed intoGarrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even ashis muscles started the jerking movement. And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp. Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, andswore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's handhad already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press theelectron stud, she buried the knife in his back. Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though adevil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was hisfinal mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough tohim to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet. The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, notinto the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a roomfilled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in theroom below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, Are yougoing to come out, or am I coming in to get you? There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, Hecan't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door. Oh, yes? was the answer. Do you know who that guy is? He's the onethey call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight.You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. Then he lifted his voice.Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot. <doc-sep>Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him. Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down. He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate? Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel! What? Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor. Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays. Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how— Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers? Uh-huh. What are they, Star? They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life! He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri! <doc-sep>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></s>

When Star’s ship is hit by the electric beam, he has an electron knife with him. And when he heard footsteps coming his way, he holds onto it firmly. When the man gets near the water and sees the ship sink, Star quickly kills him with the electron knife by stabbing right to his heart. He takes the man’s jet-gun with him as well. He is also going to use the jet-gun on the girl, but his great reflexes are able to stop him from doing so, however, she paralyzes him first. After he is knocked out and brought to the cell, he looks for his weapons, but they are all taken by Garrett’s men except one. At the place that execution is supposed to take place, Star kicks the metal fork towards the visual transmitter, which will send signals for help. When Garrett takes them to the machinery room, the girl takes the jet weapon from Garrett, Star uses a tiny jet to shoot Garret right before Garret shot him. While Star’s scalp gets injured, he is able to shoot right at Garret’s vitals with his quickness and alertness, thus making him die almost immediately.

<s> The Snare By RICHARD R. SMITH Illustrated by WEISS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none! I glanced at the path we had made across the Mare Serenitatis . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt. Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity. Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth. We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface. The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before. <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>We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kaneshouted, Look! A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was brokenby a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead andflashed his head-lamp into the dark recess. There's a small room inside, he told us, and climbed through theopening. We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot openingto give him as much light as possible. Come on in, Marie, he called to his wife. This is really something!It must be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on thewalls and gadgets that look like controls for something.... Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her featuresstruggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by thealienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. Shehesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage. You want to go in? my wife asked. Do you? Let's. I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turnedto help Miller. Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alertmentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to helphim as he stepped into the passageway. For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouetteagainst the star-studded sky. The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gaspedwith pain when he struck the ground. Something pushed me! Are you all right? Yes. He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started throughthe passage.... ... and struck an invisible solid wall. <doc-sep>My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from arecess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened withthe absence of starlight. What happened? The door to this damned place closed, I explained. What? Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with abrilliant glare. We turned off our lamps. The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. Theceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at thesmooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault. The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings andinstruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically. Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal doorthat had imprisoned us. Miller! Yes? See if you can get this thing open from the outside. I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. Therewere no visible recesses or controls. Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed arough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightenedbreaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong;Miller's was faltering and weak. Miller, get help! I'll— The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently. What happened to him? I'll phone Lunar City. My fingers fumbled at the radio controls andtrembled beneath the thick gloves. I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City.... Static grated against my ear drums. Static! <doc-sep>I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak bycomparison: Calling Lunar City. Static! Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts betweenhis eyebrows. There's no static between inter-lunar radio! Verana's voice was small and frightened. That sounds like the staticwe hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth. It does, Marie agreed. But we wouldn't have that kind of static over our radio, unless—Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles ofwhite—unless we were in outer space! We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even tospeak of our fantastic suspicion. I deactivated my radio. Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrowcorridor beyond. Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air pressagainst my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by thepressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling onour bodies. We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond theopen door. We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followednext and I was the last. We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls werefeatureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls werethe outlines of doors without handles or locks. Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door wasunyielding. I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a smallamount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously.It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, Iincreased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removedmy helmet. Shut off your oxy, I suggested. We might as well breathe the air inthis place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suitslater. They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one byone removed their own helmets. <doc-sep>At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel. The end of the line, he grunted. As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly. He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand. The door closed behind him. Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry! Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice. Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway. Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock. The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form. Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall. I put my arms around her, held her close. Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly. For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon. We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship. My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality. <doc-sep>I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing oursteps. We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doorsopened soundlessly. Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were theones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered. This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms. I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly. The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containingthousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and fourchairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Eachchair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supportingcolumn. Ed! I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed atrembling finger at some crude drawings. The things in this room arefood! The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them.The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes andbottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple openingthe containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxesand the woman drinking from a bottle. Let's see how it tastes, I said. I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of myfingers. The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance. I tasted a small piece. Chocolate! Just like chocolate! Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid. Milk! she exclaimed. Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms, I told her. <doc-sep>The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers werefilled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in theform of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such afashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen. Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with aspongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing. Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water,waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap. The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall weretransparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, thendisappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position. Hyper-space drive, Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated bythe movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought ahyperspatial drive to conquer the stars. We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, litcigarettes and waited. A few minutes later, Marie entered the room. I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she wasexcited, her actions didn't betray it. She sat next to Verana. What happened? my wife asked. Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussinga new recipe, That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scaredsilly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect.Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice— Telepathic? Verana interrupted. Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going tohurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It wasthe oddest feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me ina nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt something search my mind and gather information. I could actually feel it search my memories! What memories? I inquired. She frowned with concentration. Memories of high school mostly. Itseemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searchedfor memories of our customs and lives in general.... <doc-sep>Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger. Do you know where we are? he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs! Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically. Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo! Start at the beginning, I suggested. He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it— like rabbits in a snare! And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed. Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us. How long will the trip take? I asked. Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners! Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her. Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us— Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped. Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't have to dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods. Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon! It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room. <doc-sep>Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us! Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you? Who are you? I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine. Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves? No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical. What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously. You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity. I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship? The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship. Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth. It's useless, the ship warned us. For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal. <doc-sep>Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes hadbeen imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to workon. The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones thatopened into the corridor. After intensive searching, we realized there was no way to damage theship or reach any section other than our allotted space. We gave up. The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went tothe kitchen. At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles anddiscussed our predicament. Trapped, Kane said angrily. Trapped in a steel prison. He slammedhis fist against the table top. But there must be a way to get out!Every problem has a solution! You sure? I asked. What? Does every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Someproblems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in ourcivilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape.Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. Amurderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit anentire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than oursis now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damnedfew criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowdsto lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. Idon't think we have a chance. My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane'swife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity thatfew people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry. <doc-sep>For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth. Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked. Whiskey! My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained. I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine. We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles. Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded. Why? Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care? My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition. Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then! I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language. It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment. After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana. I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons. Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one! I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be. They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon. The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking, And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever . I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning. <doc-sep>When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully. I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they werefunctioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallenasleep a few hours before. I was tied to one of the chairs in the kitchen. Beside me, Verana wasbound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us,Marie was secured to another chair. Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, heappeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpledand his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness. Awake, huh? What have you done, Harry? his wife screamed at him. Her eyes werered with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when shelooked at him. Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of youon the head, dragged you in here and tied you up. He smiled crookedly.It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry Ihad to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree orcooperate with me. What's your plan? I asked. He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. I don't want to live ina zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory thatthis problem has a solution. I grunted my disgust. The solution is simple, he said. We're in a trap so strong that thealiens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men puta lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lionbecause the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation. So what? Verana queried in a sarcastic tone. The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine andquestion us. Right? Right. Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night? What remark? It said, ' My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in adamaged condition.' What does that indicate to you? <doc-sep>I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so. Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it? Hell, I don't know, I confessed. Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a conscience so it'd do its best at alltimes. Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him. Our machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process! So what? He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring— What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know— I'll show you, Ed. He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath. Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air. Yes, the electronic brain replied. Watch! Kane tightened his fingers around my throat. Verana and Marie screamed shrilly. My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully. Please stop, the machine pleaded. What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people! <doc-sep>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions! Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens! No, the machine admitted. If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill all of us ! The alien electronic brain was silent. By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled. If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure. My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem. Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater. A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness. You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon. Kane released his grip on my throat. See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution? I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again. <doc-sep></s>

Ed, along with his wife Verana, and their friends Kane, Miller and Marie are out for a walk on the surface of the Moon. They live there, working in the lunar city. They come across a spherical object, about 2 miles in diameter. Miller, a mineralogist, declares that the metal must be at least a few thousand years old. A circular door opens, revealing a small room inside. Kane enters the room. The rest of the group decide to join Kane, but as Miller tries to cross the threshold, he is thrown back. The door shuts behind the group and they are trapped inside. The group try to intercom back to Miller, and then radio back to Lunar City, but all they get is static. The group realise that they are flying through outer space. An inner door opens to reveal a passageway. They arrive at a dead end at the end of the passageway. Just then, a door opens to the right of Kane, an invisible force pushing him into a separate room, and locking the entrance behind him. Marie, his wife is lifted up and placed into a separate chamber. Ed and Verana search the corridor, the remaining doors opening for them. The couple wander around the rooms for eating, sleeping, recreation, bathing and an observatory. A few minutes later, they are joined by Marie and Kane. The two relay how they were told that this ship belongs to an Alien race which arrived on Earth thousands of years ago, and wanted to study humans once they gained the ability of space flight. They mean no harm and want to take them to their planet to study them. They are met by the voice of a faceless artificial intelligence controlling the ship. It informs them there is no way to turn it's course around. The group search the rooms for tools for escape, but soon realise that there is nothing. Kane tries to think of a solution to their problem. Kane starts to drink a liquid like whiskey, which makes him intoxicated. Kane begins to beat himself up. The machine tells him to stop, and that if it arrives with a damaged crew, it's masters will be disappointed. The machine informs the crew that it has no way to physically interact with or restrain them. *blank* brings Kane to his bunker and goes back to his wife to go to sleep. They wake up later, all tied to chairs in the "kitchen". Kane has knocked them out in their sleep and restrained them. Kane starts to choke Ed, asking the machine what will happen if the ship arrives to the alien world, and all the crew are dead. The machine would have failed its assignment. Kane proposes that if the machine takes them back to the Moon, then the computer will not have failed, and it might have the chance again to pick up a crew. The machine agrees and takes them on a course for the Moon.

<s> The Snare By RICHARD R. SMITH Illustrated by WEISS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none! I glanced at the path we had made across the Mare Serenitatis . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt. Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity. Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth. We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface. The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before. <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>We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kaneshouted, Look! A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was brokenby a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead andflashed his head-lamp into the dark recess. There's a small room inside, he told us, and climbed through theopening. We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot openingto give him as much light as possible. Come on in, Marie, he called to his wife. This is really something!It must be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on thewalls and gadgets that look like controls for something.... Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her featuresstruggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by thealienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. Shehesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage. You want to go in? my wife asked. Do you? Let's. I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turnedto help Miller. Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alertmentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to helphim as he stepped into the passageway. For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouetteagainst the star-studded sky. The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gaspedwith pain when he struck the ground. Something pushed me! Are you all right? Yes. He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started throughthe passage.... ... and struck an invisible solid wall. <doc-sep>My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from arecess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened withthe absence of starlight. What happened? The door to this damned place closed, I explained. What? Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with abrilliant glare. We turned off our lamps. The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. Theceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at thesmooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault. The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings andinstruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically. Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal doorthat had imprisoned us. Miller! Yes? See if you can get this thing open from the outside. I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. Therewere no visible recesses or controls. Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed arough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightenedbreaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong;Miller's was faltering and weak. Miller, get help! I'll— The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently. What happened to him? I'll phone Lunar City. My fingers fumbled at the radio controls andtrembled beneath the thick gloves. I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City.... Static grated against my ear drums. Static! <doc-sep>I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak bycomparison: Calling Lunar City. Static! Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts betweenhis eyebrows. There's no static between inter-lunar radio! Verana's voice was small and frightened. That sounds like the staticwe hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth. It does, Marie agreed. But we wouldn't have that kind of static over our radio, unless—Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles ofwhite—unless we were in outer space! We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even tospeak of our fantastic suspicion. I deactivated my radio. Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrowcorridor beyond. Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air pressagainst my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by thepressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling onour bodies. We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond theopen door. We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followednext and I was the last. We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls werefeatureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls werethe outlines of doors without handles or locks. Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door wasunyielding. I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a smallamount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously.It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, Iincreased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removedmy helmet. Shut off your oxy, I suggested. We might as well breathe the air inthis place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suitslater. They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one byone removed their own helmets. <doc-sep>At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel. The end of the line, he grunted. As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly. He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand. The door closed behind him. Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry! Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice. Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway. Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock. The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form. Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall. I put my arms around her, held her close. Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly. For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon. We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship. My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality. <doc-sep>I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing oursteps. We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doorsopened soundlessly. Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were theones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered. This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms. I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly. The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containingthousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and fourchairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Eachchair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supportingcolumn. Ed! I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed atrembling finger at some crude drawings. The things in this room arefood! The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them.The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes andbottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple openingthe containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxesand the woman drinking from a bottle. Let's see how it tastes, I said. I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of myfingers. The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance. I tasted a small piece. Chocolate! Just like chocolate! Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid. Milk! she exclaimed. Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms, I told her. <doc-sep>The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers werefilled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in theform of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such afashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen. Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with aspongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing. Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water,waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap. The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall weretransparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, thendisappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position. Hyper-space drive, Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated bythe movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought ahyperspatial drive to conquer the stars. We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, litcigarettes and waited. A few minutes later, Marie entered the room. I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she wasexcited, her actions didn't betray it. She sat next to Verana. What happened? my wife asked. Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussinga new recipe, That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scaredsilly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect.Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice— Telepathic? Verana interrupted. Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going tohurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It wasthe oddest feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me ina nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt something search my mind and gather information. I could actually feel it search my memories! What memories? I inquired. She frowned with concentration. Memories of high school mostly. Itseemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searchedfor memories of our customs and lives in general.... <doc-sep>Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger. Do you know where we are? he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs! Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically. Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo! Start at the beginning, I suggested. He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it— like rabbits in a snare! And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed. Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us. How long will the trip take? I asked. Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners! Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her. Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us— Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped. Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't have to dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods. Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon! It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room. <doc-sep>Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us! Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you? Who are you? I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine. Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves? No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical. What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously. You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity. I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship? The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship. Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth. It's useless, the ship warned us. For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal. <doc-sep>Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes hadbeen imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to workon. The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones thatopened into the corridor. After intensive searching, we realized there was no way to damage theship or reach any section other than our allotted space. We gave up. The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went tothe kitchen. At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles anddiscussed our predicament. Trapped, Kane said angrily. Trapped in a steel prison. He slammedhis fist against the table top. But there must be a way to get out!Every problem has a solution! You sure? I asked. What? Does every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Someproblems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in ourcivilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape.Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. Amurderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit anentire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than oursis now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damnedfew criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowdsto lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. Idon't think we have a chance. My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane'swife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity thatfew people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry. <doc-sep>For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth. Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked. Whiskey! My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained. I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine. We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles. Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded. Why? Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care? My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition. Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then! I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language. It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment. After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana. I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons. Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one! I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be. They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon. The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking, And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever . I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning. <doc-sep>When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully. I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they werefunctioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallenasleep a few hours before. I was tied to one of the chairs in the kitchen. Beside me, Verana wasbound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us,Marie was secured to another chair. Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, heappeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpledand his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness. Awake, huh? What have you done, Harry? his wife screamed at him. Her eyes werered with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when shelooked at him. Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of youon the head, dragged you in here and tied you up. He smiled crookedly.It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry Ihad to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree orcooperate with me. What's your plan? I asked. He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. I don't want to live ina zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory thatthis problem has a solution. I grunted my disgust. The solution is simple, he said. We're in a trap so strong that thealiens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men puta lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lionbecause the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation. So what? Verana queried in a sarcastic tone. The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine andquestion us. Right? Right. Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night? What remark? It said, ' My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in adamaged condition.' What does that indicate to you? <doc-sep>I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so. Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it? Hell, I don't know, I confessed. Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a conscience so it'd do its best at alltimes. Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him. Our machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process! So what? He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring— What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know— I'll show you, Ed. He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath. Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air. Yes, the electronic brain replied. Watch! Kane tightened his fingers around my throat. Verana and Marie screamed shrilly. My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully. Please stop, the machine pleaded. What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people! <doc-sep>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions! Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens! No, the machine admitted. If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill all of us ! The alien electronic brain was silent. By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled. If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure. My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem. Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater. A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness. You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon. Kane released his grip on my throat. See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution? I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again. <doc-sep></s>

The story begins on the surface of the Moon. The group revels in its beauty and the clear, star filled sky. They soon enter into the alien spaceship. The opening chamber's walls are filled with drawings and instruments. There are "Kaleidoscopic" lights that flash on and off. A small door opens to reveal a narrow passageway. The passageway is lined with eight doors, with no way to open them. Kane and Marie are pulled by some invisible forces into the first two rooms. Ed and Verana first enter into the "kitchen". It's a large room with shelves running along its walls, full of multicoloured containers and bottles. There is a table and four backless chairs in the centre, and the floor is a shiny green. There are drawings of a naked man and woman eating from the contents of the boxes. The second room is dedicated to recreation. There are numerous containers filled with alien games and books. There are more simple drawings to use as instructions to go along with them. They enter the sleeping quarters next, where the floors are squishy and the lights are ambient and relaxing. They go into a bathroom, with a large bath, alien toilets and soap. They finally enter an observatory. On one side is floor to ceiling see through, and the room is furnished with comfortable chairs.

<s> The Snare By RICHARD R. SMITH Illustrated by WEISS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none! I glanced at the path we had made across the Mare Serenitatis . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt. Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity. Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth. We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface. The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before. <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>We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kaneshouted, Look! A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was brokenby a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead andflashed his head-lamp into the dark recess. There's a small room inside, he told us, and climbed through theopening. We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot openingto give him as much light as possible. Come on in, Marie, he called to his wife. This is really something!It must be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on thewalls and gadgets that look like controls for something.... Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her featuresstruggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by thealienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. Shehesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage. You want to go in? my wife asked. Do you? Let's. I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turnedto help Miller. Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alertmentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to helphim as he stepped into the passageway. For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouetteagainst the star-studded sky. The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gaspedwith pain when he struck the ground. Something pushed me! Are you all right? Yes. He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started throughthe passage.... ... and struck an invisible solid wall. <doc-sep>My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from arecess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened withthe absence of starlight. What happened? The door to this damned place closed, I explained. What? Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with abrilliant glare. We turned off our lamps. The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. Theceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at thesmooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault. The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings andinstruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically. Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal doorthat had imprisoned us. Miller! Yes? See if you can get this thing open from the outside. I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. Therewere no visible recesses or controls. Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed arough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightenedbreaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong;Miller's was faltering and weak. Miller, get help! I'll— The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently. What happened to him? I'll phone Lunar City. My fingers fumbled at the radio controls andtrembled beneath the thick gloves. I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City.... Static grated against my ear drums. Static! <doc-sep>I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak bycomparison: Calling Lunar City. Static! Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts betweenhis eyebrows. There's no static between inter-lunar radio! Verana's voice was small and frightened. That sounds like the staticwe hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth. It does, Marie agreed. But we wouldn't have that kind of static over our radio, unless—Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles ofwhite—unless we were in outer space! We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even tospeak of our fantastic suspicion. I deactivated my radio. Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrowcorridor beyond. Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air pressagainst my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by thepressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling onour bodies. We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond theopen door. We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followednext and I was the last. We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls werefeatureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls werethe outlines of doors without handles or locks. Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door wasunyielding. I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a smallamount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously.It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, Iincreased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removedmy helmet. Shut off your oxy, I suggested. We might as well breathe the air inthis place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suitslater. They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one byone removed their own helmets. <doc-sep>At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel. The end of the line, he grunted. As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly. He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand. The door closed behind him. Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry! Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice. Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway. Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock. The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form. Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall. I put my arms around her, held her close. Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly. For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon. We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship. My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality. <doc-sep>I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing oursteps. We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doorsopened soundlessly. Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were theones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered. This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms. I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly. The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containingthousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and fourchairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Eachchair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supportingcolumn. Ed! I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed atrembling finger at some crude drawings. The things in this room arefood! The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them.The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes andbottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple openingthe containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxesand the woman drinking from a bottle. Let's see how it tastes, I said. I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of myfingers. The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance. I tasted a small piece. Chocolate! Just like chocolate! Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid. Milk! she exclaimed. Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms, I told her. <doc-sep>The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers werefilled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in theform of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such afashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen. Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with aspongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing. Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water,waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap. The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall weretransparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, thendisappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position. Hyper-space drive, Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated bythe movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought ahyperspatial drive to conquer the stars. We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, litcigarettes and waited. A few minutes later, Marie entered the room. I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she wasexcited, her actions didn't betray it. She sat next to Verana. What happened? my wife asked. Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussinga new recipe, That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scaredsilly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect.Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice— Telepathic? Verana interrupted. Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going tohurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It wasthe oddest feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me ina nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt something search my mind and gather information. I could actually feel it search my memories! What memories? I inquired. She frowned with concentration. Memories of high school mostly. Itseemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searchedfor memories of our customs and lives in general.... <doc-sep>Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger. Do you know where we are? he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs! Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically. Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo! Start at the beginning, I suggested. He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it— like rabbits in a snare! And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed. Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us. How long will the trip take? I asked. Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners! Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her. Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us— Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped. Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't have to dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods. Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon! It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room. <doc-sep>Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us! Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you? Who are you? I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine. Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves? No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical. What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously. You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity. I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship? The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship. Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth. It's useless, the ship warned us. For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal. <doc-sep>Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes hadbeen imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to workon. The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones thatopened into the corridor. After intensive searching, we realized there was no way to damage theship or reach any section other than our allotted space. We gave up. The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went tothe kitchen. At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles anddiscussed our predicament. Trapped, Kane said angrily. Trapped in a steel prison. He slammedhis fist against the table top. But there must be a way to get out!Every problem has a solution! You sure? I asked. What? Does every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Someproblems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in ourcivilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape.Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. Amurderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit anentire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than oursis now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damnedfew criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowdsto lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. Idon't think we have a chance. My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane'swife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity thatfew people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry. <doc-sep>For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth. Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked. Whiskey! My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained. I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine. We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles. Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded. Why? Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care? My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition. Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then! I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language. It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment. After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana. I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons. Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one! I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be. They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon. The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking, And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever . I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning. <doc-sep>When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully. I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they werefunctioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallenasleep a few hours before. I was tied to one of the chairs in the kitchen. Beside me, Verana wasbound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us,Marie was secured to another chair. Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, heappeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpledand his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness. Awake, huh? What have you done, Harry? his wife screamed at him. Her eyes werered with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when shelooked at him. Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of youon the head, dragged you in here and tied you up. He smiled crookedly.It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry Ihad to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree orcooperate with me. What's your plan? I asked. He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. I don't want to live ina zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory thatthis problem has a solution. I grunted my disgust. The solution is simple, he said. We're in a trap so strong that thealiens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men puta lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lionbecause the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation. So what? Verana queried in a sarcastic tone. The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine andquestion us. Right? Right. Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night? What remark? It said, ' My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in adamaged condition.' What does that indicate to you? <doc-sep>I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so. Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it? Hell, I don't know, I confessed. Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a conscience so it'd do its best at alltimes. Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him. Our machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process! So what? He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring— What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know— I'll show you, Ed. He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath. Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air. Yes, the electronic brain replied. Watch! Kane tightened his fingers around my throat. Verana and Marie screamed shrilly. My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully. Please stop, the machine pleaded. What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people! <doc-sep>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions! Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens! No, the machine admitted. If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill all of us ! The alien electronic brain was silent. By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled. If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure. My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem. Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater. A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness. You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon. Kane released his grip on my throat. See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution? I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again. <doc-sep></s>

Ed and Kane go to the kitchen and start to sample random bottles and foods. Kane finds a brown bottle filled with a strong liquid. The artificial intelligence explains that it is a liquor intended to mimic something like what the alien race presumed would be created on Earth. He starts to drink it and soon becomes intoxicated. He starts to punch himself and then beats his head against the wall. His knuckles become bloody and he gets a bruise on his head. The computer asks him not to hurt himself, as its masters will be disappointed if they arrive in the alien world injured. The computer has no way to physically interfere with the crew. This hatches an idea in Kane's mind. If the computer arrives with a damaged or even dead crew, then the machine will have failed its assignment. He threatens to kill the entire crew, which would mean that the machine would arrive on the planet empty handed. He offers the machine an alternative. If it drops them back on Mars, then it will not have really failed, because the only way to truly fail would be to arrive with a dead crew. Additionally, if the machine stayed on the Moon's surface, it might have an opportunity to pick up another crew in the future. This plan is all due to a whiskey-like substance.

<s> The Snare By RICHARD R. SMITH Illustrated by WEISS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none! I glanced at the path we had made across the Mare Serenitatis . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt. Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity. Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth. We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface. The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before. <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>We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kaneshouted, Look! A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was brokenby a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead andflashed his head-lamp into the dark recess. There's a small room inside, he told us, and climbed through theopening. We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot openingto give him as much light as possible. Come on in, Marie, he called to his wife. This is really something!It must be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on thewalls and gadgets that look like controls for something.... Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her featuresstruggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by thealienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. Shehesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage. You want to go in? my wife asked. Do you? Let's. I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turnedto help Miller. Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alertmentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to helphim as he stepped into the passageway. For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouetteagainst the star-studded sky. The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gaspedwith pain when he struck the ground. Something pushed me! Are you all right? Yes. He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started throughthe passage.... ... and struck an invisible solid wall. <doc-sep>My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from arecess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened withthe absence of starlight. What happened? The door to this damned place closed, I explained. What? Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with abrilliant glare. We turned off our lamps. The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. Theceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at thesmooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault. The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings andinstruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically. Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal doorthat had imprisoned us. Miller! Yes? See if you can get this thing open from the outside. I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. Therewere no visible recesses or controls. Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed arough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightenedbreaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong;Miller's was faltering and weak. Miller, get help! I'll— The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently. What happened to him? I'll phone Lunar City. My fingers fumbled at the radio controls andtrembled beneath the thick gloves. I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City.... Static grated against my ear drums. Static! <doc-sep>I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak bycomparison: Calling Lunar City. Static! Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts betweenhis eyebrows. There's no static between inter-lunar radio! Verana's voice was small and frightened. That sounds like the staticwe hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth. It does, Marie agreed. But we wouldn't have that kind of static over our radio, unless—Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles ofwhite—unless we were in outer space! We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even tospeak of our fantastic suspicion. I deactivated my radio. Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrowcorridor beyond. Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air pressagainst my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by thepressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling onour bodies. We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond theopen door. We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followednext and I was the last. We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls werefeatureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls werethe outlines of doors without handles or locks. Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door wasunyielding. I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a smallamount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously.It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, Iincreased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removedmy helmet. Shut off your oxy, I suggested. We might as well breathe the air inthis place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suitslater. They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one byone removed their own helmets. <doc-sep>At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel. The end of the line, he grunted. As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly. He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand. The door closed behind him. Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry! Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice. Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway. Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock. The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form. Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall. I put my arms around her, held her close. Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly. For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon. We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship. My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality. <doc-sep>I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing oursteps. We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doorsopened soundlessly. Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were theones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered. This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms. I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly. The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containingthousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and fourchairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Eachchair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supportingcolumn. Ed! I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed atrembling finger at some crude drawings. The things in this room arefood! The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them.The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes andbottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple openingthe containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxesand the woman drinking from a bottle. Let's see how it tastes, I said. I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of myfingers. The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance. I tasted a small piece. Chocolate! Just like chocolate! Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid. Milk! she exclaimed. Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms, I told her. <doc-sep>The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers werefilled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in theform of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such afashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen. Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with aspongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing. Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water,waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap. The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall weretransparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, thendisappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position. Hyper-space drive, Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated bythe movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought ahyperspatial drive to conquer the stars. We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, litcigarettes and waited. A few minutes later, Marie entered the room. I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she wasexcited, her actions didn't betray it. She sat next to Verana. What happened? my wife asked. Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussinga new recipe, That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scaredsilly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect.Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice— Telepathic? Verana interrupted. Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going tohurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It wasthe oddest feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me ina nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt something search my mind and gather information. I could actually feel it search my memories! What memories? I inquired. She frowned with concentration. Memories of high school mostly. Itseemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searchedfor memories of our customs and lives in general.... <doc-sep>Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger. Do you know where we are? he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs! Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically. Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo! Start at the beginning, I suggested. He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it— like rabbits in a snare! And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed. Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us. How long will the trip take? I asked. Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners! Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her. Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us— Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped. Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't have to dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods. Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon! It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room. <doc-sep>Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us! Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you? Who are you? I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine. Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves? No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical. What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously. You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity. I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship? The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship. Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth. It's useless, the ship warned us. For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal. <doc-sep>Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes hadbeen imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to workon. The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones thatopened into the corridor. After intensive searching, we realized there was no way to damage theship or reach any section other than our allotted space. We gave up. The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went tothe kitchen. At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles anddiscussed our predicament. Trapped, Kane said angrily. Trapped in a steel prison. He slammedhis fist against the table top. But there must be a way to get out!Every problem has a solution! You sure? I asked. What? Does every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Someproblems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in ourcivilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape.Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. Amurderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit anentire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than oursis now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damnedfew criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowdsto lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. Idon't think we have a chance. My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane'swife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity thatfew people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry. <doc-sep>For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth. Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked. Whiskey! My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained. I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine. We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles. Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded. Why? Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care? My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition. Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then! I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language. It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment. After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana. I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons. Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one! I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be. They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon. The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking, And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever . I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning. <doc-sep>When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully. I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they werefunctioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallenasleep a few hours before. I was tied to one of the chairs in the kitchen. Beside me, Verana wasbound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us,Marie was secured to another chair. Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, heappeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpledand his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness. Awake, huh? What have you done, Harry? his wife screamed at him. Her eyes werered with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when shelooked at him. Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of youon the head, dragged you in here and tied you up. He smiled crookedly.It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry Ihad to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree orcooperate with me. What's your plan? I asked. He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. I don't want to live ina zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory thatthis problem has a solution. I grunted my disgust. The solution is simple, he said. We're in a trap so strong that thealiens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men puta lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lionbecause the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation. So what? Verana queried in a sarcastic tone. The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine andquestion us. Right? Right. Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night? What remark? It said, ' My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in adamaged condition.' What does that indicate to you? <doc-sep>I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so. Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it? Hell, I don't know, I confessed. Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a conscience so it'd do its best at alltimes. Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him. Our machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process! So what? He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring— What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know— I'll show you, Ed. He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath. Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air. Yes, the electronic brain replied. Watch! Kane tightened his fingers around my throat. Verana and Marie screamed shrilly. My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully. Please stop, the machine pleaded. What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people! <doc-sep>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions! Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens! No, the machine admitted. If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill all of us ! The alien electronic brain was silent. By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled. If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure. My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem. Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater. A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness. You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon. Kane released his grip on my throat. See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution? I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again. <doc-sep></s>

Marie is the wife of Kane, the sharp, brash anti-hero of the story. She begins on the walk with the rest of the crew, ending up on the alien spaceship. When Kane is thrown into a separate room from the rest of the crew, Marie throws herself against the door and tries with all her strength to get it to open, until she herself is put in a separate room. The room is dark, and she is touched by a telepathic voice that tells her not to worry. They won't hurt her, and they only want to learn something about her. The voice seems to search through her memories, looking at her high school days. It also looked at human customs and their lives in general. The room must be filled with some sort of happiness gas, because she comes out of it to join the rest of the crew in an airy, relaxed mood that soon wears off. She then searches the ship for a way to break out with the rest of the group but finds nothing. She goes to sleep with Verana. She wakes up to Kane having tied them all up. When Kane is strangling Ed, she screams at him to stop. Eventually though, the computer lets them go home.

<s> The Snare By RICHARD R. SMITH Illustrated by WEISS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none! I glanced at the path we had made across the Mare Serenitatis . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt. Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity. Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth. We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface. The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before. <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>We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kaneshouted, Look! A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was brokenby a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead andflashed his head-lamp into the dark recess. There's a small room inside, he told us, and climbed through theopening. We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot openingto give him as much light as possible. Come on in, Marie, he called to his wife. This is really something!It must be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on thewalls and gadgets that look like controls for something.... Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her featuresstruggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by thealienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. Shehesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage. You want to go in? my wife asked. Do you? Let's. I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turnedto help Miller. Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alertmentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to helphim as he stepped into the passageway. For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouetteagainst the star-studded sky. The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gaspedwith pain when he struck the ground. Something pushed me! Are you all right? Yes. He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started throughthe passage.... ... and struck an invisible solid wall. <doc-sep>My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from arecess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened withthe absence of starlight. What happened? The door to this damned place closed, I explained. What? Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with abrilliant glare. We turned off our lamps. The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. Theceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at thesmooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault. The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings andinstruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically. Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal doorthat had imprisoned us. Miller! Yes? See if you can get this thing open from the outside. I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. Therewere no visible recesses or controls. Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed arough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightenedbreaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong;Miller's was faltering and weak. Miller, get help! I'll— The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently. What happened to him? I'll phone Lunar City. My fingers fumbled at the radio controls andtrembled beneath the thick gloves. I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City.... Static grated against my ear drums. Static! <doc-sep>I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak bycomparison: Calling Lunar City. Static! Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts betweenhis eyebrows. There's no static between inter-lunar radio! Verana's voice was small and frightened. That sounds like the staticwe hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth. It does, Marie agreed. But we wouldn't have that kind of static over our radio, unless—Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles ofwhite—unless we were in outer space! We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even tospeak of our fantastic suspicion. I deactivated my radio. Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrowcorridor beyond. Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air pressagainst my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by thepressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling onour bodies. We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond theopen door. We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followednext and I was the last. We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls werefeatureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls werethe outlines of doors without handles or locks. Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door wasunyielding. I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a smallamount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously.It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, Iincreased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removedmy helmet. Shut off your oxy, I suggested. We might as well breathe the air inthis place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suitslater. They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one byone removed their own helmets. <doc-sep>At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel. The end of the line, he grunted. As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly. He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand. The door closed behind him. Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry! Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice. Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway. Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock. The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form. Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall. I put my arms around her, held her close. Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly. For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon. We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship. My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality. <doc-sep>I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing oursteps. We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doorsopened soundlessly. Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were theones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered. This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms. I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly. The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containingthousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and fourchairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Eachchair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supportingcolumn. Ed! I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed atrembling finger at some crude drawings. The things in this room arefood! The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them.The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes andbottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple openingthe containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxesand the woman drinking from a bottle. Let's see how it tastes, I said. I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of myfingers. The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance. I tasted a small piece. Chocolate! Just like chocolate! Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid. Milk! she exclaimed. Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms, I told her. <doc-sep>The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers werefilled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in theform of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such afashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen. Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with aspongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing. Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water,waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap. The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall weretransparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, thendisappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position. Hyper-space drive, Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated bythe movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought ahyperspatial drive to conquer the stars. We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, litcigarettes and waited. A few minutes later, Marie entered the room. I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she wasexcited, her actions didn't betray it. She sat next to Verana. What happened? my wife asked. Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussinga new recipe, That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scaredsilly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect.Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice— Telepathic? Verana interrupted. Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going tohurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It wasthe oddest feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me ina nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt something search my mind and gather information. I could actually feel it search my memories! What memories? I inquired. She frowned with concentration. Memories of high school mostly. Itseemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searchedfor memories of our customs and lives in general.... <doc-sep>Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger. Do you know where we are? he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs! Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically. Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo! Start at the beginning, I suggested. He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it— like rabbits in a snare! And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed. Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us. How long will the trip take? I asked. Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners! Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her. Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us— Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped. Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't have to dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods. Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon! It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room. <doc-sep>Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us! Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you? Who are you? I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine. Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves? No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical. What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously. You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity. I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship? The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship. Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth. It's useless, the ship warned us. For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal. <doc-sep>Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes hadbeen imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to workon. The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones thatopened into the corridor. After intensive searching, we realized there was no way to damage theship or reach any section other than our allotted space. We gave up. The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went tothe kitchen. At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles anddiscussed our predicament. Trapped, Kane said angrily. Trapped in a steel prison. He slammedhis fist against the table top. But there must be a way to get out!Every problem has a solution! You sure? I asked. What? Does every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Someproblems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in ourcivilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape.Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. Amurderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit anentire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than oursis now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damnedfew criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowdsto lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. Idon't think we have a chance. My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane'swife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity thatfew people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry. <doc-sep>For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth. Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked. Whiskey! My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained. I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine. We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles. Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded. Why? Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care? My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition. Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then! I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language. It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment. After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana. I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons. Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one! I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be. They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon. The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking, And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever . I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning. <doc-sep>When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully. I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they werefunctioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallenasleep a few hours before. I was tied to one of the chairs in the kitchen. Beside me, Verana wasbound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us,Marie was secured to another chair. Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, heappeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpledand his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness. Awake, huh? What have you done, Harry? his wife screamed at him. Her eyes werered with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when shelooked at him. Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of youon the head, dragged you in here and tied you up. He smiled crookedly.It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry Ihad to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree orcooperate with me. What's your plan? I asked. He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. I don't want to live ina zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory thatthis problem has a solution. I grunted my disgust. The solution is simple, he said. We're in a trap so strong that thealiens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men puta lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lionbecause the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation. So what? Verana queried in a sarcastic tone. The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine andquestion us. Right? Right. Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night? What remark? It said, ' My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in adamaged condition.' What does that indicate to you? <doc-sep>I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so. Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it? Hell, I don't know, I confessed. Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a conscience so it'd do its best at alltimes. Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him. Our machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process! So what? He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring— What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know— I'll show you, Ed. He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath. Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air. Yes, the electronic brain replied. Watch! Kane tightened his fingers around my throat. Verana and Marie screamed shrilly. My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully. Please stop, the machine pleaded. What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people! <doc-sep>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions! Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens! No, the machine admitted. If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill all of us ! The alien electronic brain was silent. By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled. If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure. My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem. Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater. A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness. You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon. Kane released his grip on my throat. See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution? I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again. <doc-sep></s>

Ed and Verana are husband and wife. They live together in "Lunar City, on the Moon, and have for the past year. Together, they're friends with the rest of the group. After Marie climbs into the star ship, Ed asks Verana if she wants to go in. They act as a team, always doing everything together. They are left in the passageway alone after Kane and Marie are taken. Ed holds Verana's hand as they walk down the corridor, a sign of affection. They explore the ship together first, always working together, discovering the meaning of the instructive drawings and the purpose of the different rooms. They sleep together in the same pod.

<s> SIGNAL RED By HENRY GUTH They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him. Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But Shano already knew this was his last ride. [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.] Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out. Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said. Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad. He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes. The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner Stardust —sank slowly down. There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die. As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs. The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed: Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes. Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long. Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes. The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed. Red signal. In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk. He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously. A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there. Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked. Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light. He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back. Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind. The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man. The loud-speaker blared. Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking— With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off. Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them. We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in. <doc-sep>Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yetcrushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel ofstuds in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, satin a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones. Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard, the captain said, glancingbriefly sideways. You're entitled to know of the danger ahead. Heflicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious,squared face to Shano. Old man, he said. There's a Uranian fleet outthere. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one,which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not beso lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are. Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. Dirty devils, he said. I wasdriv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know thingsabout them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hearsthings, a laborer does. The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status ofhis lone passenger, and he became a little gruff. Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your ownrisk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible.When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a fewhours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical deviceaboard, to try to avoid detection. His mustaches rose like two spearsfrom each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alertwatchfulness. Going home, eh? he said. You've knocked around some,by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough. Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. Yeah, he said. Pluto.Where a man's lungs fights gas. He blinked watery eyes. Captain,what's a notched jaw mean to you? Well, old man, the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned himaround. It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight toyour cabin. He nodded curtly and indicated the door. Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed thenick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. Theman turned and gripped Shano's thin arm. A light? he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighterdisk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemedcut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast ofhis tunic was a purple band, with the name Rourke . Why are you soanxious to get aboard, old man? He searched Shano's face. There'strouble ahead, you know. Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirredsluggishly in his mind. Yup, he said, and jerked free and stumbleddown the steel deck. In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked,coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movementof his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other. What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where hadhe heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretivesuspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs ofUranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was arumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evadedit. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead andwaited. <doc-sep>The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a brokenwatch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as aloud-speaker blared throughout the ship. All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop allmachinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there,listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance.Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stoppumps. Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and thevibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out. Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through thepipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin andhis lungs. He choked. The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on thedeck outside. Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously. Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men,glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shanoblinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched,hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship. He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand.Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, throughlabyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leeringagainst the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in thedistance and Shano stopped. He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in hiscabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return. A bell clanged. Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffledhopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figuredisappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM. Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick clusterof vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw agray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radiumdial that quivered delicately. Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, aboveand below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noisesdiminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out;everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears. <doc-sep>The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy. The ship's speaker rasped softly. Emergency. Battle posts. The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us. The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet. Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die. This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence. Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension. The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall. Fire number seven. He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band. This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the Stardust out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see. He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough. The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead. Hold fire. He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said. Stand by. Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands. This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown.... It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty. Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner Stardust . Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered. He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man. He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously. A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face. Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here? Shano blinked. Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble? Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid. Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face. He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints. Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked. He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing. <doc-sep>A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises ofprotesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it wasstill. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voicecame, almost yelling. Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engineroom—report! Engine room— Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed andput a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from hispocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed poundingof feet. What was going on now? Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system.Engine room! Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atommotors whirring in the background. Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates.We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours. Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth. Captain! A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano'shead, then a disconnected voice. Get the men out of there. It'suseless. Hurry it up! A series of clicks and the heavy voice of thechief engineer. Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber.Engine room's full of toxia gas! Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe. The Stardust's mechanical voice bellowed: Engine room! Itreproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. We'reabout midway to Venus, it said. There were two ships and we drovethem off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They knowwe've been hit. We have to get away fast! Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slickwith moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find outwhat the matter was with his space ship. The engineer's answer came from the grill. Impossible, sir. Engineroom full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. Andwe have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function withoutthe gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repairthe broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand. Blast it! roared the captain. No way of getting in there? Can't youby-pass the selector? No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must passthrough selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filamentswill operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keeptrying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating enginetemperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're commontungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off anddrop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in therehe might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place eachtime it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel. The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to thetalk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn'tunderstand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were brokendown in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils wouldcome streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them tobits. And he would never get home to die. Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-cloggedlungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in thetunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But withgum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just gettingsick where other men had died, their insides burned out. Shano smoked and thought. <doc-sep>They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed. He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship. Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head. One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum. He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway. What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again. Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive. A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened? Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years. Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't.... Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner Stardust toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat.... Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home? He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man. Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing. <doc-sep></s>

Shano is a sickly old man in line to board the space liner Stardust to go home. There is a red signal announcement for the liner, and guests are given an option to receive a refund. Many guests leave after hearing the danger signal, but Shano sticks his ticket into the scanner and moves to get on the liner. Shano chooses to step in anyways despite the dangers, and the Stardust takes off into space again. Captain Menthlo informs him of the Uranian enemy fleets and the high possibility of running into danger with one of them. When the captain realizes Shano's role as a laborer, he makes him sign a waiver because of the possible danger his life will be when they shut off the ship and mechanical device to avoid the enemies. Once he exits to the next deck, he sees the same lieutenant from earlier speak to him again. The lieutenant's name is Rourke, and he asks why Shano is so anxious to board the ship. Later, as Shano smokes in his cabin, he tries to remember the specific saying for people with nicked jaws. Later, the ship announces that it will now maintain dead silence mode to avoid the Uranian fleets. Shano leaves his room to follow one of the young ensign, who walks by with a blaster. He then realizes that he cannot go back to his room. However, he sees an indistinguishable figure enter the engine room and notices a grey box with switches. Not soon after, the ship enters an offensive attack mode because the Uranian fleets have noticed them. Shano suddenly remembers the rumors to watch out for a man with a nicked jaw because he sells out information to Uranus. He knows that nobody will believe him about a traitor on the ship, so he faces Rourke himself. Shano digs his cigarette into the other man's body and clings to his body. He then twists Rourke's neck with his hands and kills the traitor. The frantic yelling of the other members catches his attention again, and the Stardust informs everybody on board that the ship is midway to Venus. However, there is toxic gas in the engine room now, and nobody on board can withstand the fumes to fix the engines. Although Shano continues to smoke, he does go into the engine room through the emergency exit to fix the space liner. The other crew on the ship are confused by how the liner continues to fly towards Venus. They realize that Shano is working the valve rods in the engine room. Shano thinks about how the Uranian fleet will come into the area and expect to find the Starliner but only find nothing. The fact that this escape is because of him makes him laugh and cough more.

<s> SIGNAL RED By HENRY GUTH They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him. Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But Shano already knew this was his last ride. [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.] Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out. Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said. Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad. He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes. The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner Stardust —sank slowly down. There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die. As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs. The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed: Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes. Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long. Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes. The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed. Red signal. In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk. He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously. A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there. Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked. Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light. He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back. Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind. The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man. The loud-speaker blared. Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking— With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off. Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them. We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in. <doc-sep>Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yetcrushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel ofstuds in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, satin a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones. Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard, the captain said, glancingbriefly sideways. You're entitled to know of the danger ahead. Heflicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious,squared face to Shano. Old man, he said. There's a Uranian fleet outthere. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one,which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not beso lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are. Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. Dirty devils, he said. I wasdriv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know thingsabout them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hearsthings, a laborer does. The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status ofhis lone passenger, and he became a little gruff. Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your ownrisk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible.When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a fewhours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical deviceaboard, to try to avoid detection. His mustaches rose like two spearsfrom each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alertwatchfulness. Going home, eh? he said. You've knocked around some,by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough. Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. Yeah, he said. Pluto.Where a man's lungs fights gas. He blinked watery eyes. Captain,what's a notched jaw mean to you? Well, old man, the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned himaround. It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight toyour cabin. He nodded curtly and indicated the door. Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed thenick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. Theman turned and gripped Shano's thin arm. A light? he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighterdisk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemedcut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast ofhis tunic was a purple band, with the name Rourke . Why are you soanxious to get aboard, old man? He searched Shano's face. There'strouble ahead, you know. Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirredsluggishly in his mind. Yup, he said, and jerked free and stumbleddown the steel deck. In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked,coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movementof his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other. What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where hadhe heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretivesuspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs ofUranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was arumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evadedit. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead andwaited. <doc-sep>The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a brokenwatch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as aloud-speaker blared throughout the ship. All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop allmachinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there,listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance.Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stoppumps. Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and thevibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out. Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through thepipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin andhis lungs. He choked. The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on thedeck outside. Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously. Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men,glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shanoblinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched,hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship. He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand.Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, throughlabyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leeringagainst the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in thedistance and Shano stopped. He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in hiscabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return. A bell clanged. Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffledhopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figuredisappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM. Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick clusterof vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw agray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radiumdial that quivered delicately. Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, aboveand below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noisesdiminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out;everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears. <doc-sep>The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy. The ship's speaker rasped softly. Emergency. Battle posts. The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us. The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet. Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die. This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence. Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension. The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall. Fire number seven. He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band. This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the Stardust out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see. He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough. The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead. Hold fire. He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said. Stand by. Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands. This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown.... It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty. Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner Stardust . Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered. He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man. He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously. A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face. Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here? Shano blinked. Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble? Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid. Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face. He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints. Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked. He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing. <doc-sep>A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises ofprotesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it wasstill. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voicecame, almost yelling. Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engineroom—report! Engine room— Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed andput a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from hispocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed poundingof feet. What was going on now? Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system.Engine room! Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atommotors whirring in the background. Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates.We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours. Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth. Captain! A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano'shead, then a disconnected voice. Get the men out of there. It'suseless. Hurry it up! A series of clicks and the heavy voice of thechief engineer. Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber.Engine room's full of toxia gas! Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe. The Stardust's mechanical voice bellowed: Engine room! Itreproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. We'reabout midway to Venus, it said. There were two ships and we drovethem off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They knowwe've been hit. We have to get away fast! Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slickwith moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find outwhat the matter was with his space ship. The engineer's answer came from the grill. Impossible, sir. Engineroom full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. Andwe have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function withoutthe gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repairthe broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand. Blast it! roared the captain. No way of getting in there? Can't youby-pass the selector? No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must passthrough selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filamentswill operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keeptrying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating enginetemperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're commontungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off anddrop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in therehe might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place eachtime it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel. The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to thetalk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn'tunderstand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were brokendown in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils wouldcome streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them tobits. And he would never get home to die. Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-cloggedlungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in thetunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But withgum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just gettingsick where other men had died, their insides burned out. Shano smoked and thought. <doc-sep>They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed. He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship. Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head. One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum. He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway. What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again. Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive. A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened? Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years. Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't.... Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner Stardust toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat.... Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home? He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man. Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing. <doc-sep></s>

Rourke is the lieutenant with the nicked jaw who Shano first meets at the air lock. He initially refuses the ticket and reminds Shano that there is a Red signal placed on the Stardust. He tells Shano that the latter is heading towards his funeral but still ends up punching his ticket. Rourke is indirectly mentioned when Shano asks the captain about nicked jaws, a question to which the captain responds that it happens when somebody has cut himself shaving. Rourke is later revealed to be a traitor loyal to the Uranians and attempts to sabotage the ship so that the Uranian fleet can force the Stardust to surrender. He is a manipulative individual, capable of convincing most crew members that he is innocent and means no harm. He also pretends to act surprised that Shano is on board, knowing that he will betray them to the Uranians. Rourke is also a very sneaky person. When the ship turns off all mechanics to avoid detection, he uses the opportunity to sneak into the engine room and mess up the ship’s controls. He can remain mostly undetected, only seen by Shano as he hurries into the room.

<s> SIGNAL RED By HENRY GUTH They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him. Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But Shano already knew this was his last ride. [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.] Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out. Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said. Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad. He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes. The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner Stardust —sank slowly down. There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die. As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs. The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed: Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes. Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long. Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes. The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed. Red signal. In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk. He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously. A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there. Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked. Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light. He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back. Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind. The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man. The loud-speaker blared. Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking— With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off. Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them. We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in. <doc-sep>Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yetcrushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel ofstuds in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, satin a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones. Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard, the captain said, glancingbriefly sideways. You're entitled to know of the danger ahead. Heflicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious,squared face to Shano. Old man, he said. There's a Uranian fleet outthere. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one,which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not beso lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are. Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. Dirty devils, he said. I wasdriv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know thingsabout them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hearsthings, a laborer does. The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status ofhis lone passenger, and he became a little gruff. Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your ownrisk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible.When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a fewhours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical deviceaboard, to try to avoid detection. His mustaches rose like two spearsfrom each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alertwatchfulness. Going home, eh? he said. You've knocked around some,by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough. Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. Yeah, he said. Pluto.Where a man's lungs fights gas. He blinked watery eyes. Captain,what's a notched jaw mean to you? Well, old man, the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned himaround. It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight toyour cabin. He nodded curtly and indicated the door. Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed thenick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. Theman turned and gripped Shano's thin arm. A light? he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighterdisk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemedcut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast ofhis tunic was a purple band, with the name Rourke . Why are you soanxious to get aboard, old man? He searched Shano's face. There'strouble ahead, you know. Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirredsluggishly in his mind. Yup, he said, and jerked free and stumbleddown the steel deck. In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked,coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movementof his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other. What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where hadhe heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretivesuspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs ofUranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was arumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evadedit. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead andwaited. <doc-sep>The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a brokenwatch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as aloud-speaker blared throughout the ship. All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop allmachinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there,listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance.Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stoppumps. Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and thevibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out. Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through thepipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin andhis lungs. He choked. The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on thedeck outside. Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously. Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men,glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shanoblinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched,hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship. He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand.Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, throughlabyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leeringagainst the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in thedistance and Shano stopped. He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in hiscabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return. A bell clanged. Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffledhopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figuredisappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM. Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick clusterof vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw agray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radiumdial that quivered delicately. Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, aboveand below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noisesdiminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out;everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears. <doc-sep>The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy. The ship's speaker rasped softly. Emergency. Battle posts. The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us. The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet. Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die. This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence. Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension. The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall. Fire number seven. He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band. This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the Stardust out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see. He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough. The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead. Hold fire. He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said. Stand by. Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands. This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown.... It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty. Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner Stardust . Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered. He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man. He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously. A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face. Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here? Shano blinked. Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble? Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid. Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face. He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints. Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked. He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing. <doc-sep>A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises ofprotesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it wasstill. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voicecame, almost yelling. Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engineroom—report! Engine room— Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed andput a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from hispocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed poundingof feet. What was going on now? Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system.Engine room! Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atommotors whirring in the background. Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates.We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours. Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth. Captain! A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano'shead, then a disconnected voice. Get the men out of there. It'suseless. Hurry it up! A series of clicks and the heavy voice of thechief engineer. Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber.Engine room's full of toxia gas! Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe. The Stardust's mechanical voice bellowed: Engine room! Itreproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. We'reabout midway to Venus, it said. There were two ships and we drovethem off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They knowwe've been hit. We have to get away fast! Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slickwith moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find outwhat the matter was with his space ship. The engineer's answer came from the grill. Impossible, sir. Engineroom full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. Andwe have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function withoutthe gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repairthe broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand. Blast it! roared the captain. No way of getting in there? Can't youby-pass the selector? No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must passthrough selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filamentswill operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keeptrying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating enginetemperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're commontungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off anddrop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in therehe might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place eachtime it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel. The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to thetalk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn'tunderstand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were brokendown in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils wouldcome streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them tobits. And he would never get home to die. Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-cloggedlungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in thetunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But withgum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just gettingsick where other men had died, their insides burned out. Shano smoked and thought. <doc-sep>They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed. He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship. Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head. One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum. He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway. What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again. Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive. A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened? Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years. Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't.... Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner Stardust toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat.... Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home? He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man. Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing. <doc-sep></s>

Shano’s occupation is being a miner and laborer. His time mining on Pluto leaves his lungs permanently damaged, and he has a constant cough that never seems to go away. However, he has been to many other planets as well, including Mars and Uranus. Although Shano is only a lowly miner, his actions also reveal how courageous and righteous he is as a person. His decision to take the liner, despite the red signal, shows that he is willing to take risks to reach his goal. Later, when he remembers why Rourke cannot be trusted, he does not hesitate to take matters into his own hands to deal with the traitor. Shano’s bravery is also shown when he braves the toxic gas to save the liner. He knows that he can last for up to 12 hours at most and that he will most likely die on the trip home. However, this does not deter him if he can get the ship safely to Venus. While Shano’s occupation in the story is not regarded highly, his actions show that he should not be underestimated.

<s> SIGNAL RED By HENRY GUTH They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him. Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But Shano already knew this was his last ride. [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.] Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out. Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said. Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad. He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes. The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner Stardust —sank slowly down. There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die. As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs. The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed: Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes. Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long. Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes. The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed. Red signal. In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk. He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously. A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there. Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked. Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light. He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back. Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind. The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man. The loud-speaker blared. Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking— With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off. Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them. We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in. <doc-sep>Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yetcrushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel ofstuds in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, satin a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones. Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard, the captain said, glancingbriefly sideways. You're entitled to know of the danger ahead. Heflicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious,squared face to Shano. Old man, he said. There's a Uranian fleet outthere. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one,which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not beso lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are. Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. Dirty devils, he said. I wasdriv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know thingsabout them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hearsthings, a laborer does. The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status ofhis lone passenger, and he became a little gruff. Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your ownrisk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible.When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a fewhours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical deviceaboard, to try to avoid detection. His mustaches rose like two spearsfrom each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alertwatchfulness. Going home, eh? he said. You've knocked around some,by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough. Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. Yeah, he said. Pluto.Where a man's lungs fights gas. He blinked watery eyes. Captain,what's a notched jaw mean to you? Well, old man, the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned himaround. It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight toyour cabin. He nodded curtly and indicated the door. Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed thenick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. Theman turned and gripped Shano's thin arm. A light? he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighterdisk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemedcut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast ofhis tunic was a purple band, with the name Rourke . Why are you soanxious to get aboard, old man? He searched Shano's face. There'strouble ahead, you know. Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirredsluggishly in his mind. Yup, he said, and jerked free and stumbleddown the steel deck. In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked,coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movementof his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other. What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where hadhe heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretivesuspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs ofUranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was arumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evadedit. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead andwaited. <doc-sep>The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a brokenwatch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as aloud-speaker blared throughout the ship. All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop allmachinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there,listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance.Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stoppumps. Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and thevibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out. Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through thepipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin andhis lungs. He choked. The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on thedeck outside. Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously. Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men,glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shanoblinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched,hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship. He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand.Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, throughlabyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leeringagainst the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in thedistance and Shano stopped. He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in hiscabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return. A bell clanged. Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffledhopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figuredisappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM. Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick clusterof vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw agray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radiumdial that quivered delicately. Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, aboveand below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noisesdiminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out;everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears. <doc-sep>The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy. The ship's speaker rasped softly. Emergency. Battle posts. The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us. The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet. Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die. This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence. Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension. The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall. Fire number seven. He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band. This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the Stardust out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see. He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough. The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead. Hold fire. He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said. Stand by. Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands. This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown.... It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty. Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner Stardust . Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered. He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man. He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously. A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face. Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here? Shano blinked. Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble? Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid. Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face. He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints. Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked. He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing. <doc-sep>A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises ofprotesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it wasstill. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voicecame, almost yelling. Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engineroom—report! Engine room— Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed andput a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from hispocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed poundingof feet. What was going on now? Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system.Engine room! Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atommotors whirring in the background. Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates.We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours. Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth. Captain! A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano'shead, then a disconnected voice. Get the men out of there. It'suseless. Hurry it up! A series of clicks and the heavy voice of thechief engineer. Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber.Engine room's full of toxia gas! Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe. The Stardust's mechanical voice bellowed: Engine room! Itreproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. We'reabout midway to Venus, it said. There were two ships and we drovethem off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They knowwe've been hit. We have to get away fast! Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slickwith moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find outwhat the matter was with his space ship. The engineer's answer came from the grill. Impossible, sir. Engineroom full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. Andwe have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function withoutthe gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repairthe broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand. Blast it! roared the captain. No way of getting in there? Can't youby-pass the selector? No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must passthrough selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filamentswill operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keeptrying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating enginetemperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're commontungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off anddrop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in therehe might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place eachtime it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel. The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to thetalk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn'tunderstand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were brokendown in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils wouldcome streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them tobits. And he would never get home to die. Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-cloggedlungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in thetunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But withgum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just gettingsick where other men had died, their insides burned out. Shano smoked and thought. <doc-sep>They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed. He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship. Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head. One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum. He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway. What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again. Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive. A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened? Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years. Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't.... Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner Stardust toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat.... Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home? He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man. Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing. <doc-sep></s>

One of the main pieces of equipment used on the Stardust liner is a loudspeaker. The primary role of the speaker is to give out instructions to the crew on the ship and makes any important announcements. The men also use phosphorescent bulbs as a light source to navigate their surroundings when the liner goes into total shutdown. Crew members also carry around a blaster for protection, most likely if there is ever a need for self-defense. There is also usage of a ray gun to fight back against the Uranian fleets. To ensure survival, emergency oxygen pipes are used to maintain atmosphere. Shano also carries a pack of cigarettes that do not seem important but later become essential to the story.

<s> SIGNAL RED By HENRY GUTH They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him. Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But Shano already knew this was his last ride. [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.] Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out. Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said. Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad. He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes. The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner Stardust —sank slowly down. There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die. As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs. The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed: Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes. Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long. Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes. The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed. Red signal. In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk. He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously. A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there. Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked. Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light. He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back. Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind. The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man. The loud-speaker blared. Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking— With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off. Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them. We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in. <doc-sep>Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yetcrushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel ofstuds in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, satin a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones. Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard, the captain said, glancingbriefly sideways. You're entitled to know of the danger ahead. Heflicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious,squared face to Shano. Old man, he said. There's a Uranian fleet outthere. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one,which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not beso lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are. Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. Dirty devils, he said. I wasdriv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know thingsabout them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hearsthings, a laborer does. The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status ofhis lone passenger, and he became a little gruff. Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your ownrisk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible.When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a fewhours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical deviceaboard, to try to avoid detection. His mustaches rose like two spearsfrom each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alertwatchfulness. Going home, eh? he said. You've knocked around some,by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough. Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. Yeah, he said. Pluto.Where a man's lungs fights gas. He blinked watery eyes. Captain,what's a notched jaw mean to you? Well, old man, the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned himaround. It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight toyour cabin. He nodded curtly and indicated the door. Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed thenick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. Theman turned and gripped Shano's thin arm. A light? he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighterdisk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemedcut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast ofhis tunic was a purple band, with the name Rourke . Why are you soanxious to get aboard, old man? He searched Shano's face. There'strouble ahead, you know. Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirredsluggishly in his mind. Yup, he said, and jerked free and stumbleddown the steel deck. In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked,coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movementof his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other. What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where hadhe heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretivesuspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs ofUranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was arumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evadedit. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead andwaited. <doc-sep>The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a brokenwatch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as aloud-speaker blared throughout the ship. All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop allmachinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there,listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance.Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stoppumps. Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and thevibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out. Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through thepipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin andhis lungs. He choked. The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on thedeck outside. Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously. Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men,glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shanoblinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched,hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship. He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand.Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, throughlabyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leeringagainst the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in thedistance and Shano stopped. He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in hiscabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return. A bell clanged. Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffledhopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figuredisappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM. Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick clusterof vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw agray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radiumdial that quivered delicately. Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, aboveand below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noisesdiminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out;everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears. <doc-sep>The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy. The ship's speaker rasped softly. Emergency. Battle posts. The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us. The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet. Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die. This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence. Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension. The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall. Fire number seven. He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band. This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the Stardust out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see. He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough. The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead. Hold fire. He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said. Stand by. Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands. This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown.... It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty. Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner Stardust . Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered. He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man. He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously. A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face. Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here? Shano blinked. Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble? Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid. Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face. He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints. Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked. He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing. <doc-sep>A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises ofprotesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it wasstill. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voicecame, almost yelling. Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engineroom—report! Engine room— Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed andput a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from hispocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed poundingof feet. What was going on now? Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system.Engine room! Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atommotors whirring in the background. Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates.We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours. Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth. Captain! A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano'shead, then a disconnected voice. Get the men out of there. It'suseless. Hurry it up! A series of clicks and the heavy voice of thechief engineer. Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber.Engine room's full of toxia gas! Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe. The Stardust's mechanical voice bellowed: Engine room! Itreproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. We'reabout midway to Venus, it said. There were two ships and we drovethem off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They knowwe've been hit. We have to get away fast! Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slickwith moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find outwhat the matter was with his space ship. The engineer's answer came from the grill. Impossible, sir. Engineroom full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. Andwe have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function withoutthe gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repairthe broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand. Blast it! roared the captain. No way of getting in there? Can't youby-pass the selector? No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must passthrough selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filamentswill operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keeptrying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating enginetemperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're commontungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off anddrop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in therehe might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place eachtime it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel. The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to thetalk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn'tunderstand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were brokendown in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils wouldcome streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them tobits. And he would never get home to die. Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-cloggedlungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in thetunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But withgum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just gettingsick where other men had died, their insides burned out. Shano smoked and thought. <doc-sep>They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed. He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship. Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head. One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum. He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway. What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again. Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive. A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened? Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years. Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't.... Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner Stardust toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat.... Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home? He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man. Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing. <doc-sep></s>

The very first setting of the story is the Q City Spaceport. Many space liners come in and out, making the space very busy. The spaceport also features freighter catapults, long runaways, cradles, and hangars. Inside, there are also ticket scanners and turnstiles that the passengers go through before boarding the ship.The second and primary setting is the Stardust space liner. The space liner has an air lock that closes when the ship begins to fly. There is a control room with buttons and seats for the pilot to sit in as well. Although Shano is the only passenger on board, there are many cabins for the passengers to use. The cabin that Shano stays in also has a bunk to sleep on. Other basic parts include numerous steel decks and companionways. Later, the ship is revealed to have an engine room too, where the most crucial mechanical parts of the ship are. These parts are all advanced technology, including a new cosmic drive, selector valves (Carrsteel rods), and tube chambers to keep the filaments operating. These parts are essential to operate the jets of the liner and keep them running smoothly.

<s> THE FIRST MAN INTO SPACE Cadet Marshall Farnsworth woke from anightmare of exploding novae and fouling rockets.After recovering from his fright, he laughed contemptuouslyat himself. “Here I was picked as themost stable of a group of two hundred cadets,” hethought, “and chosen to make man’s first trip intospace, yet I’m shaking like a leaf.” He got out of bed and went over to the window.From his father’s temporary apartment, he couldsee distant Skyharbor, the scene of the plunge intospace tomorrow night. He had been awarded thefrightening honor of making that trip. 10 As he watched teardrop cars whip along Phoenix,Arizona’s, double-decked streets, elevated over oneanother to avoid dangerous intersections and delayingstop lights, he thought back over the years; tothe 1950’s, when mice and monkeys were sent upin Vikings to launch mankind’s first probing of themysterious space beyond Earth, and the first satelliteswere launched; to the 1960’s, when huger,multiple-stage rockets finally conquered the problemof escape velocity; to 1975—today—when manwas finally ready to send one of his own kind intothe uninhabited deeps. Marsh climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldnot come. In the adjoining room, he could hear the footstepsof mother and father. By their sound he knewthey were the footsteps of worried people. Thishurt Marsh more than his own uneasiness. The anxiety had begun for them, he knew, whenhe had first signed up for space-cadet training. Theyhad known there was an extremely high percentageof washouts, and after each test he passed, they hadpretended to be glad. But Marsh knew that inwardlythey had hoped he would fail, for they wereaware of the ultimate goal that the space scientistswere working for—the goal that had just now beenreached. Marsh finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasteduntil morning. He woke early, before the alarm rang. He gotup, showered, pulled on his blue-corded cadet uniform,and tugged on the polished gray boots. Hetook one final look around his room as though infarewell, then went out to the kitchen. 11 His folks were up ahead of time too, trying toact as though it were just another day. Dad was pretendingto enjoy his morning paper, nodding onlycasually to Marsh as he came in. Mom was stirringscrambled eggs in the skillet, but she wasn’t a verygood actor, Marsh noticed, for she furtively wipedher eyes with her free hand. The eggs were cooked too hard and the toast hadto be scraped, but no one seemed to care. The threeof them sat down at the table, still speaking inmonosyllables and of unimportant things. Theymade a pretense of eating. “Well, Mom,” Dad suddenly said with a forcedjollity that was intended to break the tension, “theFarnsworth family has finally got a celebrity in it.” “I don’t see why they don’t send an older man!”Mom burst out, as though she had been holding itin as long as she could. “Sending a boy who isn’teven twenty-two—” “Things are different nowadays, Mom,” Dad explained,still with the assumed calmness thatmasked his real feelings. “These days, men growup faster and mature quicker. They’re stronger andmore alert than older men—” His voice trailed offas if he were unable to convince himself. “ Some body has to go,” Marsh said. “Why not ayounger man without family and responsibility?That’s why they’re giving younger men more opportunitiestoday than they used to.” “It’s not younger men I’m talking about!” Momblurted. “It’s you, Marsh!” 12 Dad leaned over and patted Mom on the shoulder.“Now, Ruth, we promised not to get excitedthis morning.” “I’m sorry,” Mom said weakly. “But Marsh is tooyoung to—” She caught herself and put her handover her mouth. “Stop talking like that!” Dad said. “Marsh iscoming back. There’ve been thousands of rocketssent aloft. The space engineers have made sure thatevery bug has been ironed out before risking aman’s life. Why, that rocket which Marsh is goingup in is as safe as our auto in the garage, isn’t it,Marsh?” “I hope so, Dad,” Marsh murmured. Later, as Dad drove Marsh to the field, eachbrooded silently. Every scene along the way seemedto take on a new look for Marsh. He saw thingsthat he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortablefeeling, almost as if he were seeing thesethings for the last as well as the first time. Finally the airport came into view. The guardsat the gate recognized Marsh and ushered theFarnsworth car through ahead of scores of othersthat crowded the entrance. Some eager news photographersslipped up close and shot off flash bulbsin Marsh’s eyes. Skyharbor, once a small commercial field, hadbeen taken over by the Air Force in recent yearsand converted into the largest rocket experimentalcenter in the United States. 13 Dad drove up to the building that would be thescene of Marsh’s first exhaustive tests and briefings.He stopped the car, and Marsh jumped out. Theirgood-by was brief. Marsh saw his father’s mouthquiver. There was a tightness in his own throat. Hehad gone through any number of grueling tests toprove that he could take the rigors of space, butnot one of them had prepared him for the hardestmoments of parting. When Dad had driven off, Marsh reported firstto the psychiatrist who checked his condition. “Pulse fast, a rise in blood pressure,” he said.“You’re excited, aren’t you, son?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh admitted. “Maybe they’ve gotthe wrong man, sir. I might fail them.” The doctor grinned. “They don’t have the wrongman,” he said. “They might have, with a so-callediron-nerved fellow. He could contain his tensionand fears until later, until maybe the moment ofblast-off. Then he’d let go, and when he needed hiscalmest judgment he wouldn’t have it. No, Marshall,there isn’t a man alive who could make thishistory-making flight without some anxiety. Forgetit. You’ll feel better as the day goes on. I’ll see youonce more before the blast-off.” Marsh felt more at ease already. He went on tothe space surgeon, was given a complete physicalexamination, and was pronounced in perfect condition.Then began his review briefing on everythinghe would encounter during the flight. 14 Blast-off time was for 2230, an hour and a halfbefore midnight. Since at night, in the WesternHemisphere, Earth was masking the sun, the complicationsof excessive temperatures in the outerreaches were avoided during the time Marsh wouldbe outside the ship. Marsh would occupy the smallupper third section of a three-stage rocket. The firsttwo parts would be jettisoned after reaching theirpeak velocities. Top speed of the third stage wouldcarry Marsh into a perpetual-flight orbit aroundEarth, along the route that a permanent space stationwas to be built after the results of the flightwere studied. After spending a little while in thisorbit, Marsh would begin the precarious journeyback to Earth, in gliding flight. He got a few hours of sleep after sunset. Whenan officer shook him, he rose from the cot he hadbeen lying on in a private room of General Forsythe,Chief of Space Operations. “It’s almost time, son,” the officer said. “YourCO wants to see you in the outside office.” Marsh went into the adjoining room and foundhis cadet chief awaiting him. The youth detected anunusual warmth about the severe gentleman whopreviously had shown only a firm, uncompromisingattitude. Colonel Tregasker was past middle age,and his white, sparse hair was smoothed down closeto his head in regulation neatness. 15 “Well, this is it, Marshall,” the colonel said.“How I envy you this honor of being the first humanto enter space. However, I do feel that a partof me is going along too, since I had a small sharein preparing you for the trip. If the training washarsh at times, I believe that shortly you willunderstand the reason for it.” “I didn’t feel that the Colonel was either too softor strict, sir,” Marsh said diplomatically. A speaker out on the brilliantly lit field blaredloudly in the cool desert night: “X minus fortyminutes.” “We can’t talk all night, Marshall,” the colonelsaid briskly. “You’ve got a job to do. But first, a fewof your friends want to wish you luck.” He calledinto the anteroom, “You may come in, gentlemen!” There filed smartly into the room ten youths whohad survived the hard prespace course with Marshand would be his successors in case he failed tonight.They formed a line and shook hands withMarsh. The first was Armen Norton who had gottensick in the rugged centrifuge at a force of 9 G’s,then had rallied to pass the test. “Good luck, Marsh,” he said. Next was lanky Lawrence Egan who had beencertain he would wash out during navigation phasein the planetarium. “All the luck in the world,Marsh,” he added. Each cadet brought back a special memory of histraining as they passed before him, wishing himsuccess. 16 When they had gone and the speaker outsidehad announced: “X minus thirty minutes,” thecolonel said that he and Marsh had better be leaving.Colonel Tregasker was to be Marsh’s escort tothe ship. Photographers and newspapermen swarmedabout them as they climbed into the jeep that wasto take them to the launching site farther out onthe field. Questions were flung at the two from allsides, but the colonel deftly maneuvered the jeepthrough the mob and sped off over the asphalt. At the blast-off site, Marsh could see that thepolice had their hands full keeping out thousandsof spectators who were trying to get into the closed-offarea. The field was choked with a tide of humanitymilling about in wild confusion. Giant searchlights,both at the airport and in other parts ofPhoenix, directed spears of light on the toweringrocket that held the interest of all the world tonight.There was one light, far larger than the rest,with powerful condensing lenses and connected toa giant radar screen, which would guide Marshhome from his trip among the stars. A high wire fence surrounded the launchingramp and blockhouses. International scientists anddignitaries with priorities formed a ring aroundthe fence, but even they were not allowed insidethe small circle of important activity. The guardswaved the colonel and Marsh through the gate. 17 Marsh had spent many weeks in a mock-up of thetiny third stage in which he was to spend his timealoft, but he had never been close to the completelyassembled ship until this moment. The three stageshad been nicknamed, “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”Marsh swallowed as his eyes roved up the side ofthe great vessel, part of a project that had cost millionsto perfect and was as high as a four-storybuilding. The gigantic base, “Big Tom,” was the sectionthat would have the hardest job to do, that ofthrusting the rocket through the densest part of theatmosphere, and this was a great deal larger thanthe other sections. Marsh knew that most of theship’s bulk was made up of the propellant fuel ofhydrazine hydrate and its oxidizer, nitric acid. “We’re going into that blockhouse over there,”Colonel Tregasker said. “You’ll don your space gearin there.” First a multitude of gadgets with wires were fastenedto the cadet’s wrists, ankles, nose, and head.Marsh knew this to be one of the most importantphases of the flight—to find out a man’s reaction tospace flight under actual rocketing conditions. Eachwire would telemeter certain information by radioback to the airport. After a tight inner G suit hadbeen put on to prevent blackout, the plastic andrubber outer garment was zipped up around Marsh,and then he was ready except for his helmet, whichwould not be donned until later. 18 Marsh and the colonel went back outside. Theopen-cage elevator was lowered from the top of thebig latticed platform that surrounded the rocket.The two got into the cage, and it rose with them.Marsh had lost most of his anxiety and tensionduring the activities of the day, but his knees feltrubbery in these final moments as the elevator carriedhim high above the noisy confusion of the airport. This was it. As they stepped from the cage onto the platformof the third stage, Marsh heard the speaker belowcall out: “X minus twenty minutes.” There were eleven engineers and workmen onthe platform readying the compartment that Marshwould occupy. Marsh suddenly felt helpless andalone as he faced the small chamber that mightvery well be his death cell. Its intricate dials andwires were staggering in their complexity. Marsh turned and shook hands with Colonel Tregasker.“Good-by, sir,” he said in a quavering voice.“I hope I remember everything the Corps taughtme.” He tried to smile, but his facial musclestwitched uncontrollably. “Good luck, son—lots of it,” the officer saidhuskily. Suddenly he leaned forward and embracedthe youth with a firm, fatherly hug. “This is notregulations,” he mumbled gruffly, “but hang regulations!”He turned quickly and asked to be carrieddown to the ground. A man brought Marsh’s helmet and placed itover his head, then clamped it to the suit. Knobson the suit were twisted, and Marsh felt a warm,pressurized helium-oxygen mixture fill his suit andheadpiece. 19 Marsh stepped through the hatch into the smallcompartment. He reclined in the soft contourchair, and the straps were fastened by one of theengineers over his chest, waist, and legs. The wiresconnected to various parts of his body had beenbrought together into a single unit in the helmet.A wire cable leading from the panel was pluggedinto the outside of the helmet to complete the circuit. Final tests were run off to make sure everythingwas in proper working order, including the two-wayshort-wave radio that would have to penetrate theelectrical ocean of the ionosphere. Then the double-hatchair lock was closed. Through his helmet receiver,Marsh could hear the final minutes and secondsbeing called off from inside the blockhouse. “Everything O.K.?” Marsh was asked by someoneon the platform. “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “Then you’re on your own,” were the final ominouswords. “X minus five minutes,” called the speaker. 20 It was the longest five minutes that Marsh couldremember. He was painfully aware of his crampedquarters. He thought of the tons of explosive beneathhim that presently would literally blow himsky-high. And he thought of the millions of peoplethe world over who, at this moment, were hoveringat radios and TV’s anxiously awaiting the dawn ofthe space age. Finally he thought of Dad and Mom,lost in that multitude of night watchers, and amongthe few who were not primarily concerned with thescientific aspect of the experiment. He wondered ifhe would ever see them again. “X minus sixty seconds!” Marsh knew that a warning flare was being sentup, to be followed by a whistle and a cloud ofsmoke from one of the blockhouses. As he felt feartrying to master him, he began reviewing all thethings he must remember and, above all, what todo in an emergency. “X minus ten seconds—five—four—three—two—one—FIRE!” There was a mighty explosion at Skyharbor. The initial jolt which Marsh felt was much fiercerthan the gradually built up speed of the whirlingcentrifuge in training. He was crushed deeply intohis contour chair. It felt as though someone werepressing on his eyeballs; indeed, as if every organ inhis body were clinging to his backbone. But thesefirst moments would be the worst. A gauge showeda force of 7 G’s on him—equal to half a ton. He watched the Mach numbers rise on the dialin front of his eyes on an overhead panel. EachMach number represented that much times thespeed of sound, 1,090 feet per second, 740 miles anhour. Marsh knew “Big Tom” would blast for about aminute and a half under control of the automaticpilot, at which time it would drop free at an altitudeof twenty-five miles and sink Earthward in ametal mesh ’chute. 21 Marsh’s hurting eyes flicked to the outside temperaturegauge. It was on a steady 67 degrees belowzero Fahrenheit, and would be until he reachedtwenty miles. A reflecting prism gave him a squareof view of the sky outside. The clear deep blue ofthe cloud-free stratosphere met his eyes. Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 7 passed very quickly. Heheard a rumble and felt a jerk. “Big Tom” wasbreaking free. The first hurdle had been successfullyovercome, and the ship had already begun tiltinginto its trajectory. There was a new surge of agony on his body asthe second stage picked up the acceleration at aforce of 7 G’s again. Marsh clamped his jaws as theforce pulled his lips back from his teeth anddragged his cheek muscles down. The Mach numberscontinued to rise—11, 12, 13—to altitude 200miles, the outer fringe of the earth’s atmosphere.There was a slight lifting of the pressure on hisbody. The rocket was still in the stratosphere, butthe sky was getting purple. Mach 14—10,000 miles an hour. “Dick” would jettison any moment. Marsh hadbeen aloft only about four minutes, but it hadseemed an age, every tortured second of it. 22 There was another rumble as the second stagebroke free. Marsh felt a new surge directly beneathhim as his own occupied section, “Harry,” beganblasting. It was comforting to realize he had successfullyweathered those tons of exploding hydrazineand acid that could have reduced him to nothingif something had gone wrong. Although hisspeed was still building up, the weight on himbegan to ease steadily as his body’s inertia finallyyielded to the sickeningly swift acceleration. The speedometer needle climbed to Mach 21, thepeak velocity of the rocket, 16,000 miles per hour.His altitude was 350 miles—man’s highest ascent.Slowly then, the speedometer began to drop back.Marsh heard the turbo pumps and jets go silent asthe “lift” fuel was spent and rocket “Harry” beganits free-flight orbit around Earth. The ship had reached a speed which exactlycounterbalanced the pull of gravity, and it could,theoretically, travel this way forever, provided noother outside force acted upon it. The effect onMarsh now was as if he had stopped moving. Relievedof the viselike pressure, his stomach andchest for a few seconds felt like inflated balloons. “Cadet Farnsworth,” the voice of General Forsythespoke into his helmet receiver, “are you allright?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “That is, I think so.” It was good to hear a human voice again, somethingto hold onto in this crazy unreal world intowhich he had been hurtled. “We’re getting the electronic readings from yourgauges O.K.,” the voice went on. “The doctor saysyour pulse is satisfactory under the circumstances.” It was queer having your pulse read from 350miles up in the air. 23 Marsh realized, of course, that he was not trulyin the “air.” A glance at his air-pressure gauge confirmedthis. He was virtually in a vacuum. The temperatureand wind velocity outside might have astoundedhim if he were not prepared for the readings.The heat was over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit,and the wind velocity was of hurricane force! Butthese figures meant nothing because of the sparsenessof air molecules. Temperature and wind appliedonly to the individual particles, which werethousands of feet apart. “How is your cosmic-ray count?” asked the general. Marsh checked the C-ray counter on the panelfrom which clicking sounds were coming. “It’s low,sir. Nothing to worry about.” Cosmic rays, the most powerful emanationsknown, were the only radiation in space that couldnot be protected against. But in small doses theyhad been found not to be dangerous. “As soon as our recorders get more of the figuresyour telemeter is giving us,” the operations chiefsaid, “you can leave the rocket.” When Marsh got the O.K. a few minutes later,he eagerly unstrapped the belts around his body.He could hardly contain his excitement at beingthe first person to view the globe of Earth fromspace. As he struggled to his feet, the lightness ofzero gravity made him momentarily giddy, and ittook some minutes for him to adjust to the terriblystrange sensation. 24 He had disconnected the cable leading from hishelmet to the ship’s transmitter and switched onthe ship’s fast-lens movie camera that would photographthe area covered by “Harry.” Then he wasready to go outside. He pressed a button on thewall, and the first air-lock hatch opened. He floatedinto the narrow alcove and closed the door in thecramped chamber behind him. He watched agauge, and when it showed normal pressure andtemperature again, he opened the outside hatch,closing it behind him. Had Marsh permitted thevacuum of space to contact the interior of theship’s quarters, delicate instruments would havebeen ruined by the sudden decompression and lossof heat. Marsh fastened his safety line to the shipso that there was no chance of his becoming separatedfrom it. Then he looked “downward,” to experience thethrill of his life. Like a gigantic relief map, thepanorama of Earth stretched across his vision. Adowny blanket of gray atmosphere spread over thewhole of it, and patches of clouds were seen floatinglike phantom shapes beneath the clear vastnessof the stratosphere. It was a stunning sight forMarsh, seeing the pinpoint lights of the night citiesextending from horizon to horizon. It gave himan exhilarating feeling of being a king over it all. 25 Earth appeared to be rotating, but Marsh knewit was largely his own and the rocket’s fast speedthat was responsible for the illusion. As he hungin this region of the exosphere, he was thankful forhis cadet training in zero gravity. A special machine,developed only in recent years, simulatedthe weightlessness of space and trained the cadetsfor endurance in such artificial conditions. “Describe some of the things you see, Marshall,”General Forsythe said over Marsh’s helmet receiver.“I’ve just cut in a recorder.” “It’s a scene almost beyond description, sir,”Marsh said into the helmet mike. “The sky isthickly powdered with stars. The Milky Way is verydistinct, and I can make out lots of fuzzy spots thatmust be star clusters and nebulae and comets. Marsis like an extremely bright taillight, and the moonis so strong it hurts my eyes as much as the directsun does on earth.” Marsh saw a faintly luminous blur pass beyondthe ship. It had been almost too sudden to catch.He believed it to be a meteor diving Earthward ata speed around forty-five miles a second. He reportedthis to the general. As he brought his eyes down from the more distantfixtures of space to those closer by on Earth, astrange thing happened. He was suddenly seizedwith a fear of falling, although his zero-gravitytraining had been intended to prepare him againstthis very thing. A cold sweat come out over hisbody, and an uncontrollable panic threatened totake hold of him. 26 He made a sudden movement as though to catchhimself. Forgetting the magnification of motion infrictionless space and his own weightlessness, hewas shot quickly to the end of his safety line like acracked whip. His body jerked at the taut end andthen sped swiftly back in reaction toward the ship,head foremost. A collision could crack his helmet,exposing his body to decompression, causing himto swell like a balloon and finally explode. In the grip of numbing fear, only at the last momentdid he have the presence of mind to fliphis body in a half-cartwheel and bring his boots upin front of him for protection. His feet bumpedagainst the rocket’s side, and the motion sent himhurtling back out to the end of the safety lineagain. This back-and-forth action occurred severaltimes before he could stop completely. “I’ve got to be careful,” he panted to himself,as he thought of how close his space career hadcome to being ended scarcely before it had begun. General Forsythe cut in with great concern, wonderingwhat had happened. When Marsh had explainedand the general seemed satisfied that Marshhad recovered himself, he had Marsh go on with hisdescription. His senseless fear having gone now, Marsh lookeddown calmly, entranced as the features of theUnited States passed below his gaze. He named thecities he could identify, also the mountain ranges,lakes, and rivers, explaining just how they lookedfrom 350 miles up. In only a fraction of an hour’stime, the rocket had traversed the entire countryand was approaching the twinkling phosphorescenceof the Atlantic. 27 Marsh asked if “Tom” and “Dick” had landedsafely. “‘Tom’ landed near Roswell, New Mexico,” GeneralForsythe told him, “and the ’chute of the secondsection has been reported seen north of Dallas.I think you’d better start back now, Marshall. It’lltake us many months to analyze all the informationwe’ve gotten. We can’t contact you very well on theother side of the world either, and thirdly, I don’twant you exposed to the sun’s rays outside theatmosphere in the Eastern Hemisphere any longerthan can be helped.” Marsh tugged carefully on his safety line andfloated slowly back toward the ship. He enteredthe air lock. Then, inside, he raised the angle of hiscontour chair to upright position, facing the consoleof the ship’s manual controls for the glideEarthward. He plugged in his telemeter helmetcable and buckled one of the straps across his waist. Since he was still moving at many thousands ofmiles an hour, it would be suicide to plungestraight downward. He and the glider would beturned into a meteoric torch. Rather, he wouldhave to spend considerable time soaring in and outof the atmosphere in braking ellipses until hereached much lower speed. Then the Earth’s gravitationalpull would do the rest. 28 This was going to be the trickiest part of the operation,and the most dangerous. Where before,Marsh had depended on automatic controls toguide him, now much of the responsibility was onhis own judgment. He remembered the manyhours he had sweated through to log his flyingtime. Now he could look back on that period in histraining and thank his lucky stars for it. He took the manual controls and angled into theatmosphere. He carefully watched the AHF dial—theatmospheric heat friction gauge. When he hadneared the dangerous incendiary point, with theship having literally become red-hot, he soared intothe frictionless vacuum again. He had to keep thisup a long time in order to reduce his devastatingspeed. It was something of a shock to him to leave theblack midnight of Earth’s slumbering side for thebrilliant hemisphere where the people of Europeand Asia were going about their daytime tasks. Hewould have liked to study this other half of theworld which he had glimpsed only a few times beforein his supersonic test flights, but he knew thiswould have to wait for future flights. Finally, after a long time, his velocity was slowedenough so that the tug of gravity was stronger thanthe rocket’s ability to pull up out of the atmosphere.At this point, Marsh cut in “Harry’s” forwardbraking jets to check his falling speed. “There’s something else to worry about,” hethought to himself. “Will old Harry hold togetheror will he fly apart in the crushing atmosphere?” 29 The directional radio signals from the powerfulSkyharbor transmitter were growing stronger asMarsh neared the shores of California. He couldsee the winking lights of San Diego and LosAngeles, and farther inland the swinging threadthat was the beacon at Skyharbor. All planes in hispath of flight had been grounded for the past fewhours because of the space flight. The only groundlight scanning the skies was the gigantic space beaconin Phoenix. When Marsh reached Arizona, he began spiralingdownward over the state to kill the rest of hisaltitude and air speed. Even now the plane was ahurtling supersonic metal sliver streaking throughthe night skies like a comet. He topped the snow-cappedsummits of the towering San FranciscoPeaks on the drive southward, and he recognizedthe sprawling serpent of the Grand Canyon. Thenhe was in the lower desert regions of moon-splashedsand and cactus. Although the fire-hot temperatureof the outer skin had subsided, there had been damagedone to the walls and instruments, and possiblyto other parts, too. Marsh was worried lest his outsidecontrols might be too warped to give him agood touchdown, if indeed he could get down safelyat all. A few thousand feet up, Marsh lowered his landinggear. Now the only problem left was to landhimself and the valuable ship safely inside the narrowparallels of the airstrip. He circled the airportseveral times as his altitude continued to plummet. 30 The meter fell rapidly. His braking rocket fuelwas gone now. From here on in, he would be ongliding power alone. “Easy does it, Marshall,” the general said quietlyinto his ear. “You’re lining up fine. Level it out alittle and keep straight with the approach lights.That’s fine. You’re just about in.” The lights of the airport seeming to rush up athim, Marsh felt a jolt as the wheels touched groundon the west end of the runway. He kept the shipsteady as it scurried along the smooth asphalt, losingthe last of its once tremendous velocity. Theplane hit the restraining wire across the strip andcame to a sudden stop, shoving Marsh hard againstthe single safety belt he wore. Finally, incredibly,the ship was still and he was safe. He unfastened his strap and removed his spacehelmet. The heat of the compartment brought thesweat out on his face. He rose on wobbly legs andpressed the buttons to the hatches. The last doorflew open to admit the cool, bracing air of Earthwhich he had wondered if he would ever inhaleagain. His aloneness was over then, suddenly and boisterously,as men swarmed over him with congratulations,eager questions, and looks of respect. Reporters’flash bulbs popped, and he felt like a newLindbergh as he was pulled down to the groundand mobbed. Finally the police came to his rescueand pushed back the curiosity seekers and newspapermen.Then only three men were allowedthrough the cordon. <doc-sep></s>

Cadet Marshall Farnsworth wakes up at night, frightened by the sound of rockets. He looks in the window and thinks about his upcoming trip to space, as a first man, reflecting upon the history of mankind and space interaction. The next morning he has a short but difficult talk with his anxious parents. Marsh's dad takes him to the Skyharbor, the young man feels uneasy. Then he goes through a check up at psychiatrist's and space surgeon's, revises the route, and takes a nap. Then his Colonel gives him a brief speech, and his cadet friends wish him luck. Thousands of spectators and reporters try to see Marsh on his way to the rocket. Various gadgets are put on Marsh, he rises to the platform, says warm goodbye to the Colonel, and puts the helmet on. Inside the ship Marsh is fastened and final tests take place before he is left alone with his nerves. The last five minutes are long, Marsh thinks about his planet and parents, and then the ship sets off. Minutes seem an eternity, the first phase is behind, and upon reaching the peak velocity the speed starts to drop back. The free-flight orbit is reached and Marsh hears General Forsythe's earthly and calming voice. All the indicators are good and Marsh gets excited to be the first one to leave the rocket and look at the globe from space. He takes all the precautions and the first glance "downward" makes him feel like the king of the universe. Suddenly, he feels like he is falling and makes a forbidden movement, which leads to him bouncing from and back to the rocket a couple times, when he has to try hard to stop. When he calms down after the fright, he starts describing what he sees. General orders Marsh to go back and he returns to his cabin. The hardest part begins, as the speed of the ship is high and needs to be reduced. When Marsh succeeds in doing so, the ship heads back to Earth. Marsh has to make a couple spirals and near the airport the braking fuel is gone. Eventually, he manages to exit and breathe the air of Earth and is attacked by the reporters, until he is left with only three men.

<s> THE FIRST MAN INTO SPACE Cadet Marshall Farnsworth woke from anightmare of exploding novae and fouling rockets.After recovering from his fright, he laughed contemptuouslyat himself. “Here I was picked as themost stable of a group of two hundred cadets,” hethought, “and chosen to make man’s first trip intospace, yet I’m shaking like a leaf.” He got out of bed and went over to the window.From his father’s temporary apartment, he couldsee distant Skyharbor, the scene of the plunge intospace tomorrow night. He had been awarded thefrightening honor of making that trip. 10 As he watched teardrop cars whip along Phoenix,Arizona’s, double-decked streets, elevated over oneanother to avoid dangerous intersections and delayingstop lights, he thought back over the years; tothe 1950’s, when mice and monkeys were sent upin Vikings to launch mankind’s first probing of themysterious space beyond Earth, and the first satelliteswere launched; to the 1960’s, when huger,multiple-stage rockets finally conquered the problemof escape velocity; to 1975—today—when manwas finally ready to send one of his own kind intothe uninhabited deeps. Marsh climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldnot come. In the adjoining room, he could hear the footstepsof mother and father. By their sound he knewthey were the footsteps of worried people. Thishurt Marsh more than his own uneasiness. The anxiety had begun for them, he knew, whenhe had first signed up for space-cadet training. Theyhad known there was an extremely high percentageof washouts, and after each test he passed, they hadpretended to be glad. But Marsh knew that inwardlythey had hoped he would fail, for they wereaware of the ultimate goal that the space scientistswere working for—the goal that had just now beenreached. Marsh finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasteduntil morning. He woke early, before the alarm rang. He gotup, showered, pulled on his blue-corded cadet uniform,and tugged on the polished gray boots. Hetook one final look around his room as though infarewell, then went out to the kitchen. 11 His folks were up ahead of time too, trying toact as though it were just another day. Dad was pretendingto enjoy his morning paper, nodding onlycasually to Marsh as he came in. Mom was stirringscrambled eggs in the skillet, but she wasn’t a verygood actor, Marsh noticed, for she furtively wipedher eyes with her free hand. The eggs were cooked too hard and the toast hadto be scraped, but no one seemed to care. The threeof them sat down at the table, still speaking inmonosyllables and of unimportant things. Theymade a pretense of eating. “Well, Mom,” Dad suddenly said with a forcedjollity that was intended to break the tension, “theFarnsworth family has finally got a celebrity in it.” “I don’t see why they don’t send an older man!”Mom burst out, as though she had been holding itin as long as she could. “Sending a boy who isn’teven twenty-two—” “Things are different nowadays, Mom,” Dad explained,still with the assumed calmness thatmasked his real feelings. “These days, men growup faster and mature quicker. They’re stronger andmore alert than older men—” His voice trailed offas if he were unable to convince himself. “ Some body has to go,” Marsh said. “Why not ayounger man without family and responsibility?That’s why they’re giving younger men more opportunitiestoday than they used to.” “It’s not younger men I’m talking about!” Momblurted. “It’s you, Marsh!” 12 Dad leaned over and patted Mom on the shoulder.“Now, Ruth, we promised not to get excitedthis morning.” “I’m sorry,” Mom said weakly. “But Marsh is tooyoung to—” She caught herself and put her handover her mouth. “Stop talking like that!” Dad said. “Marsh iscoming back. There’ve been thousands of rocketssent aloft. The space engineers have made sure thatevery bug has been ironed out before risking aman’s life. Why, that rocket which Marsh is goingup in is as safe as our auto in the garage, isn’t it,Marsh?” “I hope so, Dad,” Marsh murmured. Later, as Dad drove Marsh to the field, eachbrooded silently. Every scene along the way seemedto take on a new look for Marsh. He saw thingsthat he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortablefeeling, almost as if he were seeing thesethings for the last as well as the first time. Finally the airport came into view. The guardsat the gate recognized Marsh and ushered theFarnsworth car through ahead of scores of othersthat crowded the entrance. Some eager news photographersslipped up close and shot off flash bulbsin Marsh’s eyes. Skyharbor, once a small commercial field, hadbeen taken over by the Air Force in recent yearsand converted into the largest rocket experimentalcenter in the United States. 13 Dad drove up to the building that would be thescene of Marsh’s first exhaustive tests and briefings.He stopped the car, and Marsh jumped out. Theirgood-by was brief. Marsh saw his father’s mouthquiver. There was a tightness in his own throat. Hehad gone through any number of grueling tests toprove that he could take the rigors of space, butnot one of them had prepared him for the hardestmoments of parting. When Dad had driven off, Marsh reported firstto the psychiatrist who checked his condition. “Pulse fast, a rise in blood pressure,” he said.“You’re excited, aren’t you, son?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh admitted. “Maybe they’ve gotthe wrong man, sir. I might fail them.” The doctor grinned. “They don’t have the wrongman,” he said. “They might have, with a so-callediron-nerved fellow. He could contain his tensionand fears until later, until maybe the moment ofblast-off. Then he’d let go, and when he needed hiscalmest judgment he wouldn’t have it. No, Marshall,there isn’t a man alive who could make thishistory-making flight without some anxiety. Forgetit. You’ll feel better as the day goes on. I’ll see youonce more before the blast-off.” Marsh felt more at ease already. He went on tothe space surgeon, was given a complete physicalexamination, and was pronounced in perfect condition.Then began his review briefing on everythinghe would encounter during the flight. 14 Blast-off time was for 2230, an hour and a halfbefore midnight. Since at night, in the WesternHemisphere, Earth was masking the sun, the complicationsof excessive temperatures in the outerreaches were avoided during the time Marsh wouldbe outside the ship. Marsh would occupy the smallupper third section of a three-stage rocket. The firsttwo parts would be jettisoned after reaching theirpeak velocities. Top speed of the third stage wouldcarry Marsh into a perpetual-flight orbit aroundEarth, along the route that a permanent space stationwas to be built after the results of the flightwere studied. After spending a little while in thisorbit, Marsh would begin the precarious journeyback to Earth, in gliding flight. He got a few hours of sleep after sunset. Whenan officer shook him, he rose from the cot he hadbeen lying on in a private room of General Forsythe,Chief of Space Operations. “It’s almost time, son,” the officer said. “YourCO wants to see you in the outside office.” Marsh went into the adjoining room and foundhis cadet chief awaiting him. The youth detected anunusual warmth about the severe gentleman whopreviously had shown only a firm, uncompromisingattitude. Colonel Tregasker was past middle age,and his white, sparse hair was smoothed down closeto his head in regulation neatness. 15 “Well, this is it, Marshall,” the colonel said.“How I envy you this honor of being the first humanto enter space. However, I do feel that a partof me is going along too, since I had a small sharein preparing you for the trip. If the training washarsh at times, I believe that shortly you willunderstand the reason for it.” “I didn’t feel that the Colonel was either too softor strict, sir,” Marsh said diplomatically. A speaker out on the brilliantly lit field blaredloudly in the cool desert night: “X minus fortyminutes.” “We can’t talk all night, Marshall,” the colonelsaid briskly. “You’ve got a job to do. But first, a fewof your friends want to wish you luck.” He calledinto the anteroom, “You may come in, gentlemen!” There filed smartly into the room ten youths whohad survived the hard prespace course with Marshand would be his successors in case he failed tonight.They formed a line and shook hands withMarsh. The first was Armen Norton who had gottensick in the rugged centrifuge at a force of 9 G’s,then had rallied to pass the test. “Good luck, Marsh,” he said. Next was lanky Lawrence Egan who had beencertain he would wash out during navigation phasein the planetarium. “All the luck in the world,Marsh,” he added. Each cadet brought back a special memory of histraining as they passed before him, wishing himsuccess. 16 When they had gone and the speaker outsidehad announced: “X minus thirty minutes,” thecolonel said that he and Marsh had better be leaving.Colonel Tregasker was to be Marsh’s escort tothe ship. Photographers and newspapermen swarmedabout them as they climbed into the jeep that wasto take them to the launching site farther out onthe field. Questions were flung at the two from allsides, but the colonel deftly maneuvered the jeepthrough the mob and sped off over the asphalt. At the blast-off site, Marsh could see that thepolice had their hands full keeping out thousandsof spectators who were trying to get into the closed-offarea. The field was choked with a tide of humanitymilling about in wild confusion. Giant searchlights,both at the airport and in other parts ofPhoenix, directed spears of light on the toweringrocket that held the interest of all the world tonight.There was one light, far larger than the rest,with powerful condensing lenses and connected toa giant radar screen, which would guide Marshhome from his trip among the stars. A high wire fence surrounded the launchingramp and blockhouses. International scientists anddignitaries with priorities formed a ring aroundthe fence, but even they were not allowed insidethe small circle of important activity. The guardswaved the colonel and Marsh through the gate. 17 Marsh had spent many weeks in a mock-up of thetiny third stage in which he was to spend his timealoft, but he had never been close to the completelyassembled ship until this moment. The three stageshad been nicknamed, “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”Marsh swallowed as his eyes roved up the side ofthe great vessel, part of a project that had cost millionsto perfect and was as high as a four-storybuilding. The gigantic base, “Big Tom,” was the sectionthat would have the hardest job to do, that ofthrusting the rocket through the densest part of theatmosphere, and this was a great deal larger thanthe other sections. Marsh knew that most of theship’s bulk was made up of the propellant fuel ofhydrazine hydrate and its oxidizer, nitric acid. “We’re going into that blockhouse over there,”Colonel Tregasker said. “You’ll don your space gearin there.” First a multitude of gadgets with wires were fastenedto the cadet’s wrists, ankles, nose, and head.Marsh knew this to be one of the most importantphases of the flight—to find out a man’s reaction tospace flight under actual rocketing conditions. Eachwire would telemeter certain information by radioback to the airport. After a tight inner G suit hadbeen put on to prevent blackout, the plastic andrubber outer garment was zipped up around Marsh,and then he was ready except for his helmet, whichwould not be donned until later. 18 Marsh and the colonel went back outside. Theopen-cage elevator was lowered from the top of thebig latticed platform that surrounded the rocket.The two got into the cage, and it rose with them.Marsh had lost most of his anxiety and tensionduring the activities of the day, but his knees feltrubbery in these final moments as the elevator carriedhim high above the noisy confusion of the airport. This was it. As they stepped from the cage onto the platformof the third stage, Marsh heard the speaker belowcall out: “X minus twenty minutes.” There were eleven engineers and workmen onthe platform readying the compartment that Marshwould occupy. Marsh suddenly felt helpless andalone as he faced the small chamber that mightvery well be his death cell. Its intricate dials andwires were staggering in their complexity. Marsh turned and shook hands with Colonel Tregasker.“Good-by, sir,” he said in a quavering voice.“I hope I remember everything the Corps taughtme.” He tried to smile, but his facial musclestwitched uncontrollably. “Good luck, son—lots of it,” the officer saidhuskily. Suddenly he leaned forward and embracedthe youth with a firm, fatherly hug. “This is notregulations,” he mumbled gruffly, “but hang regulations!”He turned quickly and asked to be carrieddown to the ground. A man brought Marsh’s helmet and placed itover his head, then clamped it to the suit. Knobson the suit were twisted, and Marsh felt a warm,pressurized helium-oxygen mixture fill his suit andheadpiece. 19 Marsh stepped through the hatch into the smallcompartment. He reclined in the soft contourchair, and the straps were fastened by one of theengineers over his chest, waist, and legs. The wiresconnected to various parts of his body had beenbrought together into a single unit in the helmet.A wire cable leading from the panel was pluggedinto the outside of the helmet to complete the circuit. Final tests were run off to make sure everythingwas in proper working order, including the two-wayshort-wave radio that would have to penetrate theelectrical ocean of the ionosphere. Then the double-hatchair lock was closed. Through his helmet receiver,Marsh could hear the final minutes and secondsbeing called off from inside the blockhouse. “Everything O.K.?” Marsh was asked by someoneon the platform. “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “Then you’re on your own,” were the final ominouswords. “X minus five minutes,” called the speaker. 20 It was the longest five minutes that Marsh couldremember. He was painfully aware of his crampedquarters. He thought of the tons of explosive beneathhim that presently would literally blow himsky-high. And he thought of the millions of peoplethe world over who, at this moment, were hoveringat radios and TV’s anxiously awaiting the dawn ofthe space age. Finally he thought of Dad and Mom,lost in that multitude of night watchers, and amongthe few who were not primarily concerned with thescientific aspect of the experiment. He wondered ifhe would ever see them again. “X minus sixty seconds!” Marsh knew that a warning flare was being sentup, to be followed by a whistle and a cloud ofsmoke from one of the blockhouses. As he felt feartrying to master him, he began reviewing all thethings he must remember and, above all, what todo in an emergency. “X minus ten seconds—five—four—three—two—one—FIRE!” There was a mighty explosion at Skyharbor. The initial jolt which Marsh felt was much fiercerthan the gradually built up speed of the whirlingcentrifuge in training. He was crushed deeply intohis contour chair. It felt as though someone werepressing on his eyeballs; indeed, as if every organ inhis body were clinging to his backbone. But thesefirst moments would be the worst. A gauge showeda force of 7 G’s on him—equal to half a ton. He watched the Mach numbers rise on the dialin front of his eyes on an overhead panel. EachMach number represented that much times thespeed of sound, 1,090 feet per second, 740 miles anhour. Marsh knew “Big Tom” would blast for about aminute and a half under control of the automaticpilot, at which time it would drop free at an altitudeof twenty-five miles and sink Earthward in ametal mesh ’chute. 21 Marsh’s hurting eyes flicked to the outside temperaturegauge. It was on a steady 67 degrees belowzero Fahrenheit, and would be until he reachedtwenty miles. A reflecting prism gave him a squareof view of the sky outside. The clear deep blue ofthe cloud-free stratosphere met his eyes. Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 7 passed very quickly. Heheard a rumble and felt a jerk. “Big Tom” wasbreaking free. The first hurdle had been successfullyovercome, and the ship had already begun tiltinginto its trajectory. There was a new surge of agony on his body asthe second stage picked up the acceleration at aforce of 7 G’s again. Marsh clamped his jaws as theforce pulled his lips back from his teeth anddragged his cheek muscles down. The Mach numberscontinued to rise—11, 12, 13—to altitude 200miles, the outer fringe of the earth’s atmosphere.There was a slight lifting of the pressure on hisbody. The rocket was still in the stratosphere, butthe sky was getting purple. Mach 14—10,000 miles an hour. “Dick” would jettison any moment. Marsh hadbeen aloft only about four minutes, but it hadseemed an age, every tortured second of it. 22 There was another rumble as the second stagebroke free. Marsh felt a new surge directly beneathhim as his own occupied section, “Harry,” beganblasting. It was comforting to realize he had successfullyweathered those tons of exploding hydrazineand acid that could have reduced him to nothingif something had gone wrong. Although hisspeed was still building up, the weight on himbegan to ease steadily as his body’s inertia finallyyielded to the sickeningly swift acceleration. The speedometer needle climbed to Mach 21, thepeak velocity of the rocket, 16,000 miles per hour.His altitude was 350 miles—man’s highest ascent.Slowly then, the speedometer began to drop back.Marsh heard the turbo pumps and jets go silent asthe “lift” fuel was spent and rocket “Harry” beganits free-flight orbit around Earth. The ship had reached a speed which exactlycounterbalanced the pull of gravity, and it could,theoretically, travel this way forever, provided noother outside force acted upon it. The effect onMarsh now was as if he had stopped moving. Relievedof the viselike pressure, his stomach andchest for a few seconds felt like inflated balloons. “Cadet Farnsworth,” the voice of General Forsythespoke into his helmet receiver, “are you allright?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “That is, I think so.” It was good to hear a human voice again, somethingto hold onto in this crazy unreal world intowhich he had been hurtled. “We’re getting the electronic readings from yourgauges O.K.,” the voice went on. “The doctor saysyour pulse is satisfactory under the circumstances.” It was queer having your pulse read from 350miles up in the air. 23 Marsh realized, of course, that he was not trulyin the “air.” A glance at his air-pressure gauge confirmedthis. He was virtually in a vacuum. The temperatureand wind velocity outside might have astoundedhim if he were not prepared for the readings.The heat was over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit,and the wind velocity was of hurricane force! Butthese figures meant nothing because of the sparsenessof air molecules. Temperature and wind appliedonly to the individual particles, which werethousands of feet apart. “How is your cosmic-ray count?” asked the general. Marsh checked the C-ray counter on the panelfrom which clicking sounds were coming. “It’s low,sir. Nothing to worry about.” Cosmic rays, the most powerful emanationsknown, were the only radiation in space that couldnot be protected against. But in small doses theyhad been found not to be dangerous. “As soon as our recorders get more of the figuresyour telemeter is giving us,” the operations chiefsaid, “you can leave the rocket.” When Marsh got the O.K. a few minutes later,he eagerly unstrapped the belts around his body.He could hardly contain his excitement at beingthe first person to view the globe of Earth fromspace. As he struggled to his feet, the lightness ofzero gravity made him momentarily giddy, and ittook some minutes for him to adjust to the terriblystrange sensation. 24 He had disconnected the cable leading from hishelmet to the ship’s transmitter and switched onthe ship’s fast-lens movie camera that would photographthe area covered by “Harry.” Then he wasready to go outside. He pressed a button on thewall, and the first air-lock hatch opened. He floatedinto the narrow alcove and closed the door in thecramped chamber behind him. He watched agauge, and when it showed normal pressure andtemperature again, he opened the outside hatch,closing it behind him. Had Marsh permitted thevacuum of space to contact the interior of theship’s quarters, delicate instruments would havebeen ruined by the sudden decompression and lossof heat. Marsh fastened his safety line to the shipso that there was no chance of his becoming separatedfrom it. Then he looked “downward,” to experience thethrill of his life. Like a gigantic relief map, thepanorama of Earth stretched across his vision. Adowny blanket of gray atmosphere spread over thewhole of it, and patches of clouds were seen floatinglike phantom shapes beneath the clear vastnessof the stratosphere. It was a stunning sight forMarsh, seeing the pinpoint lights of the night citiesextending from horizon to horizon. It gave himan exhilarating feeling of being a king over it all. 25 Earth appeared to be rotating, but Marsh knewit was largely his own and the rocket’s fast speedthat was responsible for the illusion. As he hungin this region of the exosphere, he was thankful forhis cadet training in zero gravity. A special machine,developed only in recent years, simulatedthe weightlessness of space and trained the cadetsfor endurance in such artificial conditions. “Describe some of the things you see, Marshall,”General Forsythe said over Marsh’s helmet receiver.“I’ve just cut in a recorder.” “It’s a scene almost beyond description, sir,”Marsh said into the helmet mike. “The sky isthickly powdered with stars. The Milky Way is verydistinct, and I can make out lots of fuzzy spots thatmust be star clusters and nebulae and comets. Marsis like an extremely bright taillight, and the moonis so strong it hurts my eyes as much as the directsun does on earth.” Marsh saw a faintly luminous blur pass beyondthe ship. It had been almost too sudden to catch.He believed it to be a meteor diving Earthward ata speed around forty-five miles a second. He reportedthis to the general. As he brought his eyes down from the more distantfixtures of space to those closer by on Earth, astrange thing happened. He was suddenly seizedwith a fear of falling, although his zero-gravitytraining had been intended to prepare him againstthis very thing. A cold sweat come out over hisbody, and an uncontrollable panic threatened totake hold of him. 26 He made a sudden movement as though to catchhimself. Forgetting the magnification of motion infrictionless space and his own weightlessness, hewas shot quickly to the end of his safety line like acracked whip. His body jerked at the taut end andthen sped swiftly back in reaction toward the ship,head foremost. A collision could crack his helmet,exposing his body to decompression, causing himto swell like a balloon and finally explode. In the grip of numbing fear, only at the last momentdid he have the presence of mind to fliphis body in a half-cartwheel and bring his boots upin front of him for protection. His feet bumpedagainst the rocket’s side, and the motion sent himhurtling back out to the end of the safety lineagain. This back-and-forth action occurred severaltimes before he could stop completely. “I’ve got to be careful,” he panted to himself,as he thought of how close his space career hadcome to being ended scarcely before it had begun. General Forsythe cut in with great concern, wonderingwhat had happened. When Marsh had explainedand the general seemed satisfied that Marshhad recovered himself, he had Marsh go on with hisdescription. His senseless fear having gone now, Marsh lookeddown calmly, entranced as the features of theUnited States passed below his gaze. He named thecities he could identify, also the mountain ranges,lakes, and rivers, explaining just how they lookedfrom 350 miles up. In only a fraction of an hour’stime, the rocket had traversed the entire countryand was approaching the twinkling phosphorescenceof the Atlantic. 27 Marsh asked if “Tom” and “Dick” had landedsafely. “‘Tom’ landed near Roswell, New Mexico,” GeneralForsythe told him, “and the ’chute of the secondsection has been reported seen north of Dallas.I think you’d better start back now, Marshall. It’lltake us many months to analyze all the informationwe’ve gotten. We can’t contact you very well on theother side of the world either, and thirdly, I don’twant you exposed to the sun’s rays outside theatmosphere in the Eastern Hemisphere any longerthan can be helped.” Marsh tugged carefully on his safety line andfloated slowly back toward the ship. He enteredthe air lock. Then, inside, he raised the angle of hiscontour chair to upright position, facing the consoleof the ship’s manual controls for the glideEarthward. He plugged in his telemeter helmetcable and buckled one of the straps across his waist. Since he was still moving at many thousands ofmiles an hour, it would be suicide to plungestraight downward. He and the glider would beturned into a meteoric torch. Rather, he wouldhave to spend considerable time soaring in and outof the atmosphere in braking ellipses until hereached much lower speed. Then the Earth’s gravitationalpull would do the rest. 28 This was going to be the trickiest part of the operation,and the most dangerous. Where before,Marsh had depended on automatic controls toguide him, now much of the responsibility was onhis own judgment. He remembered the manyhours he had sweated through to log his flyingtime. Now he could look back on that period in histraining and thank his lucky stars for it. He took the manual controls and angled into theatmosphere. He carefully watched the AHF dial—theatmospheric heat friction gauge. When he hadneared the dangerous incendiary point, with theship having literally become red-hot, he soared intothe frictionless vacuum again. He had to keep thisup a long time in order to reduce his devastatingspeed. It was something of a shock to him to leave theblack midnight of Earth’s slumbering side for thebrilliant hemisphere where the people of Europeand Asia were going about their daytime tasks. Hewould have liked to study this other half of theworld which he had glimpsed only a few times beforein his supersonic test flights, but he knew thiswould have to wait for future flights. Finally, after a long time, his velocity was slowedenough so that the tug of gravity was stronger thanthe rocket’s ability to pull up out of the atmosphere.At this point, Marsh cut in “Harry’s” forwardbraking jets to check his falling speed. “There’s something else to worry about,” hethought to himself. “Will old Harry hold togetheror will he fly apart in the crushing atmosphere?” 29 The directional radio signals from the powerfulSkyharbor transmitter were growing stronger asMarsh neared the shores of California. He couldsee the winking lights of San Diego and LosAngeles, and farther inland the swinging threadthat was the beacon at Skyharbor. All planes in hispath of flight had been grounded for the past fewhours because of the space flight. The only groundlight scanning the skies was the gigantic space beaconin Phoenix. When Marsh reached Arizona, he began spiralingdownward over the state to kill the rest of hisaltitude and air speed. Even now the plane was ahurtling supersonic metal sliver streaking throughthe night skies like a comet. He topped the snow-cappedsummits of the towering San FranciscoPeaks on the drive southward, and he recognizedthe sprawling serpent of the Grand Canyon. Thenhe was in the lower desert regions of moon-splashedsand and cactus. Although the fire-hot temperatureof the outer skin had subsided, there had been damagedone to the walls and instruments, and possiblyto other parts, too. Marsh was worried lest his outsidecontrols might be too warped to give him agood touchdown, if indeed he could get down safelyat all. A few thousand feet up, Marsh lowered his landinggear. Now the only problem left was to landhimself and the valuable ship safely inside the narrowparallels of the airstrip. He circled the airportseveral times as his altitude continued to plummet. 30 The meter fell rapidly. His braking rocket fuelwas gone now. From here on in, he would be ongliding power alone. “Easy does it, Marshall,” the general said quietlyinto his ear. “You’re lining up fine. Level it out alittle and keep straight with the approach lights.That’s fine. You’re just about in.” The lights of the airport seeming to rush up athim, Marsh felt a jolt as the wheels touched groundon the west end of the runway. He kept the shipsteady as it scurried along the smooth asphalt, losingthe last of its once tremendous velocity. Theplane hit the restraining wire across the strip andcame to a sudden stop, shoving Marsh hard againstthe single safety belt he wore. Finally, incredibly,the ship was still and he was safe. He unfastened his strap and removed his spacehelmet. The heat of the compartment brought thesweat out on his face. He rose on wobbly legs andpressed the buttons to the hatches. The last doorflew open to admit the cool, bracing air of Earthwhich he had wondered if he would ever inhaleagain. His aloneness was over then, suddenly and boisterously,as men swarmed over him with congratulations,eager questions, and looks of respect. Reporters’flash bulbs popped, and he felt like a newLindbergh as he was pulled down to the groundand mobbed. Finally the police came to his rescueand pushed back the curiosity seekers and newspapermen.Then only three men were allowedthrough the cordon. <doc-sep></s>

During his last night on Earth, Marsh appears to be tense and scared, blaming himself for not being as strong as he wishes to be. He also feels the anxiety of his parents and is sad to see them like that. All the day before the trip, Marsh looks at everything around as if it is the last time he sees it. He feels unprepared and uneasy about parting. At the same time, he is excited, and his pulse goes up, which makes him feel unworthy of the honor. Then Marsh eases a little and even takes a nap. The atmosphere of goodbyes with his team is warm and full of good memories. When Marsh is left alone in the cabin, he becomes scared and thinks about the spectators and his parents, wondering if he sees his home ever again The countdown adds to his anxiety and the last seconds before departure seem an eternity. Marsh tries to concentrate and distract himself from the thoughts. The voice of the general brings ease and seeing how well things go, Marsh gets excited. He feels proud and extremely impressed with the view, forgetting about caution. Suddenly he is afraid to fall and makes a wrong move, which scares him a lot. Calming down after that, Marsh is able to manage himself and complete the mission. When he gets back to Earth he is full of disbelief that he made it, and he is extremely happy to smell the air of home.

<s> THE FIRST MAN INTO SPACE Cadet Marshall Farnsworth woke from anightmare of exploding novae and fouling rockets.After recovering from his fright, he laughed contemptuouslyat himself. “Here I was picked as themost stable of a group of two hundred cadets,” hethought, “and chosen to make man’s first trip intospace, yet I’m shaking like a leaf.” He got out of bed and went over to the window.From his father’s temporary apartment, he couldsee distant Skyharbor, the scene of the plunge intospace tomorrow night. He had been awarded thefrightening honor of making that trip. 10 As he watched teardrop cars whip along Phoenix,Arizona’s, double-decked streets, elevated over oneanother to avoid dangerous intersections and delayingstop lights, he thought back over the years; tothe 1950’s, when mice and monkeys were sent upin Vikings to launch mankind’s first probing of themysterious space beyond Earth, and the first satelliteswere launched; to the 1960’s, when huger,multiple-stage rockets finally conquered the problemof escape velocity; to 1975—today—when manwas finally ready to send one of his own kind intothe uninhabited deeps. Marsh climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldnot come. In the adjoining room, he could hear the footstepsof mother and father. By their sound he knewthey were the footsteps of worried people. Thishurt Marsh more than his own uneasiness. The anxiety had begun for them, he knew, whenhe had first signed up for space-cadet training. Theyhad known there was an extremely high percentageof washouts, and after each test he passed, they hadpretended to be glad. But Marsh knew that inwardlythey had hoped he would fail, for they wereaware of the ultimate goal that the space scientistswere working for—the goal that had just now beenreached. Marsh finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasteduntil morning. He woke early, before the alarm rang. He gotup, showered, pulled on his blue-corded cadet uniform,and tugged on the polished gray boots. Hetook one final look around his room as though infarewell, then went out to the kitchen. 11 His folks were up ahead of time too, trying toact as though it were just another day. Dad was pretendingto enjoy his morning paper, nodding onlycasually to Marsh as he came in. Mom was stirringscrambled eggs in the skillet, but she wasn’t a verygood actor, Marsh noticed, for she furtively wipedher eyes with her free hand. The eggs were cooked too hard and the toast hadto be scraped, but no one seemed to care. The threeof them sat down at the table, still speaking inmonosyllables and of unimportant things. Theymade a pretense of eating. “Well, Mom,” Dad suddenly said with a forcedjollity that was intended to break the tension, “theFarnsworth family has finally got a celebrity in it.” “I don’t see why they don’t send an older man!”Mom burst out, as though she had been holding itin as long as she could. “Sending a boy who isn’teven twenty-two—” “Things are different nowadays, Mom,” Dad explained,still with the assumed calmness thatmasked his real feelings. “These days, men growup faster and mature quicker. They’re stronger andmore alert than older men—” His voice trailed offas if he were unable to convince himself. “ Some body has to go,” Marsh said. “Why not ayounger man without family and responsibility?That’s why they’re giving younger men more opportunitiestoday than they used to.” “It’s not younger men I’m talking about!” Momblurted. “It’s you, Marsh!” 12 Dad leaned over and patted Mom on the shoulder.“Now, Ruth, we promised not to get excitedthis morning.” “I’m sorry,” Mom said weakly. “But Marsh is tooyoung to—” She caught herself and put her handover her mouth. “Stop talking like that!” Dad said. “Marsh iscoming back. There’ve been thousands of rocketssent aloft. The space engineers have made sure thatevery bug has been ironed out before risking aman’s life. Why, that rocket which Marsh is goingup in is as safe as our auto in the garage, isn’t it,Marsh?” “I hope so, Dad,” Marsh murmured. Later, as Dad drove Marsh to the field, eachbrooded silently. Every scene along the way seemedto take on a new look for Marsh. He saw thingsthat he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortablefeeling, almost as if he were seeing thesethings for the last as well as the first time. Finally the airport came into view. The guardsat the gate recognized Marsh and ushered theFarnsworth car through ahead of scores of othersthat crowded the entrance. Some eager news photographersslipped up close and shot off flash bulbsin Marsh’s eyes. Skyharbor, once a small commercial field, hadbeen taken over by the Air Force in recent yearsand converted into the largest rocket experimentalcenter in the United States. 13 Dad drove up to the building that would be thescene of Marsh’s first exhaustive tests and briefings.He stopped the car, and Marsh jumped out. Theirgood-by was brief. Marsh saw his father’s mouthquiver. There was a tightness in his own throat. Hehad gone through any number of grueling tests toprove that he could take the rigors of space, butnot one of them had prepared him for the hardestmoments of parting. When Dad had driven off, Marsh reported firstto the psychiatrist who checked his condition. “Pulse fast, a rise in blood pressure,” he said.“You’re excited, aren’t you, son?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh admitted. “Maybe they’ve gotthe wrong man, sir. I might fail them.” The doctor grinned. “They don’t have the wrongman,” he said. “They might have, with a so-callediron-nerved fellow. He could contain his tensionand fears until later, until maybe the moment ofblast-off. Then he’d let go, and when he needed hiscalmest judgment he wouldn’t have it. No, Marshall,there isn’t a man alive who could make thishistory-making flight without some anxiety. Forgetit. You’ll feel better as the day goes on. I’ll see youonce more before the blast-off.” Marsh felt more at ease already. He went on tothe space surgeon, was given a complete physicalexamination, and was pronounced in perfect condition.Then began his review briefing on everythinghe would encounter during the flight. 14 Blast-off time was for 2230, an hour and a halfbefore midnight. Since at night, in the WesternHemisphere, Earth was masking the sun, the complicationsof excessive temperatures in the outerreaches were avoided during the time Marsh wouldbe outside the ship. Marsh would occupy the smallupper third section of a three-stage rocket. The firsttwo parts would be jettisoned after reaching theirpeak velocities. Top speed of the third stage wouldcarry Marsh into a perpetual-flight orbit aroundEarth, along the route that a permanent space stationwas to be built after the results of the flightwere studied. After spending a little while in thisorbit, Marsh would begin the precarious journeyback to Earth, in gliding flight. He got a few hours of sleep after sunset. Whenan officer shook him, he rose from the cot he hadbeen lying on in a private room of General Forsythe,Chief of Space Operations. “It’s almost time, son,” the officer said. “YourCO wants to see you in the outside office.” Marsh went into the adjoining room and foundhis cadet chief awaiting him. The youth detected anunusual warmth about the severe gentleman whopreviously had shown only a firm, uncompromisingattitude. Colonel Tregasker was past middle age,and his white, sparse hair was smoothed down closeto his head in regulation neatness. 15 “Well, this is it, Marshall,” the colonel said.“How I envy you this honor of being the first humanto enter space. However, I do feel that a partof me is going along too, since I had a small sharein preparing you for the trip. If the training washarsh at times, I believe that shortly you willunderstand the reason for it.” “I didn’t feel that the Colonel was either too softor strict, sir,” Marsh said diplomatically. A speaker out on the brilliantly lit field blaredloudly in the cool desert night: “X minus fortyminutes.” “We can’t talk all night, Marshall,” the colonelsaid briskly. “You’ve got a job to do. But first, a fewof your friends want to wish you luck.” He calledinto the anteroom, “You may come in, gentlemen!” There filed smartly into the room ten youths whohad survived the hard prespace course with Marshand would be his successors in case he failed tonight.They formed a line and shook hands withMarsh. The first was Armen Norton who had gottensick in the rugged centrifuge at a force of 9 G’s,then had rallied to pass the test. “Good luck, Marsh,” he said. Next was lanky Lawrence Egan who had beencertain he would wash out during navigation phasein the planetarium. “All the luck in the world,Marsh,” he added. Each cadet brought back a special memory of histraining as they passed before him, wishing himsuccess. 16 When they had gone and the speaker outsidehad announced: “X minus thirty minutes,” thecolonel said that he and Marsh had better be leaving.Colonel Tregasker was to be Marsh’s escort tothe ship. Photographers and newspapermen swarmedabout them as they climbed into the jeep that wasto take them to the launching site farther out onthe field. Questions were flung at the two from allsides, but the colonel deftly maneuvered the jeepthrough the mob and sped off over the asphalt. At the blast-off site, Marsh could see that thepolice had their hands full keeping out thousandsof spectators who were trying to get into the closed-offarea. The field was choked with a tide of humanitymilling about in wild confusion. Giant searchlights,both at the airport and in other parts ofPhoenix, directed spears of light on the toweringrocket that held the interest of all the world tonight.There was one light, far larger than the rest,with powerful condensing lenses and connected toa giant radar screen, which would guide Marshhome from his trip among the stars. A high wire fence surrounded the launchingramp and blockhouses. International scientists anddignitaries with priorities formed a ring aroundthe fence, but even they were not allowed insidethe small circle of important activity. The guardswaved the colonel and Marsh through the gate. 17 Marsh had spent many weeks in a mock-up of thetiny third stage in which he was to spend his timealoft, but he had never been close to the completelyassembled ship until this moment. The three stageshad been nicknamed, “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”Marsh swallowed as his eyes roved up the side ofthe great vessel, part of a project that had cost millionsto perfect and was as high as a four-storybuilding. The gigantic base, “Big Tom,” was the sectionthat would have the hardest job to do, that ofthrusting the rocket through the densest part of theatmosphere, and this was a great deal larger thanthe other sections. Marsh knew that most of theship’s bulk was made up of the propellant fuel ofhydrazine hydrate and its oxidizer, nitric acid. “We’re going into that blockhouse over there,”Colonel Tregasker said. “You’ll don your space gearin there.” First a multitude of gadgets with wires were fastenedto the cadet’s wrists, ankles, nose, and head.Marsh knew this to be one of the most importantphases of the flight—to find out a man’s reaction tospace flight under actual rocketing conditions. Eachwire would telemeter certain information by radioback to the airport. After a tight inner G suit hadbeen put on to prevent blackout, the plastic andrubber outer garment was zipped up around Marsh,and then he was ready except for his helmet, whichwould not be donned until later. 18 Marsh and the colonel went back outside. Theopen-cage elevator was lowered from the top of thebig latticed platform that surrounded the rocket.The two got into the cage, and it rose with them.Marsh had lost most of his anxiety and tensionduring the activities of the day, but his knees feltrubbery in these final moments as the elevator carriedhim high above the noisy confusion of the airport. This was it. As they stepped from the cage onto the platformof the third stage, Marsh heard the speaker belowcall out: “X minus twenty minutes.” There were eleven engineers and workmen onthe platform readying the compartment that Marshwould occupy. Marsh suddenly felt helpless andalone as he faced the small chamber that mightvery well be his death cell. Its intricate dials andwires were staggering in their complexity. Marsh turned and shook hands with Colonel Tregasker.“Good-by, sir,” he said in a quavering voice.“I hope I remember everything the Corps taughtme.” He tried to smile, but his facial musclestwitched uncontrollably. “Good luck, son—lots of it,” the officer saidhuskily. Suddenly he leaned forward and embracedthe youth with a firm, fatherly hug. “This is notregulations,” he mumbled gruffly, “but hang regulations!”He turned quickly and asked to be carrieddown to the ground. A man brought Marsh’s helmet and placed itover his head, then clamped it to the suit. Knobson the suit were twisted, and Marsh felt a warm,pressurized helium-oxygen mixture fill his suit andheadpiece. 19 Marsh stepped through the hatch into the smallcompartment. He reclined in the soft contourchair, and the straps were fastened by one of theengineers over his chest, waist, and legs. The wiresconnected to various parts of his body had beenbrought together into a single unit in the helmet.A wire cable leading from the panel was pluggedinto the outside of the helmet to complete the circuit. Final tests were run off to make sure everythingwas in proper working order, including the two-wayshort-wave radio that would have to penetrate theelectrical ocean of the ionosphere. Then the double-hatchair lock was closed. Through his helmet receiver,Marsh could hear the final minutes and secondsbeing called off from inside the blockhouse. “Everything O.K.?” Marsh was asked by someoneon the platform. “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “Then you’re on your own,” were the final ominouswords. “X minus five minutes,” called the speaker. 20 It was the longest five minutes that Marsh couldremember. He was painfully aware of his crampedquarters. He thought of the tons of explosive beneathhim that presently would literally blow himsky-high. And he thought of the millions of peoplethe world over who, at this moment, were hoveringat radios and TV’s anxiously awaiting the dawn ofthe space age. Finally he thought of Dad and Mom,lost in that multitude of night watchers, and amongthe few who were not primarily concerned with thescientific aspect of the experiment. He wondered ifhe would ever see them again. “X minus sixty seconds!” Marsh knew that a warning flare was being sentup, to be followed by a whistle and a cloud ofsmoke from one of the blockhouses. As he felt feartrying to master him, he began reviewing all thethings he must remember and, above all, what todo in an emergency. “X minus ten seconds—five—four—three—two—one—FIRE!” There was a mighty explosion at Skyharbor. The initial jolt which Marsh felt was much fiercerthan the gradually built up speed of the whirlingcentrifuge in training. He was crushed deeply intohis contour chair. It felt as though someone werepressing on his eyeballs; indeed, as if every organ inhis body were clinging to his backbone. But thesefirst moments would be the worst. A gauge showeda force of 7 G’s on him—equal to half a ton. He watched the Mach numbers rise on the dialin front of his eyes on an overhead panel. EachMach number represented that much times thespeed of sound, 1,090 feet per second, 740 miles anhour. Marsh knew “Big Tom” would blast for about aminute and a half under control of the automaticpilot, at which time it would drop free at an altitudeof twenty-five miles and sink Earthward in ametal mesh ’chute. 21 Marsh’s hurting eyes flicked to the outside temperaturegauge. It was on a steady 67 degrees belowzero Fahrenheit, and would be until he reachedtwenty miles. A reflecting prism gave him a squareof view of the sky outside. The clear deep blue ofthe cloud-free stratosphere met his eyes. Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 7 passed very quickly. Heheard a rumble and felt a jerk. “Big Tom” wasbreaking free. The first hurdle had been successfullyovercome, and the ship had already begun tiltinginto its trajectory. There was a new surge of agony on his body asthe second stage picked up the acceleration at aforce of 7 G’s again. Marsh clamped his jaws as theforce pulled his lips back from his teeth anddragged his cheek muscles down. The Mach numberscontinued to rise—11, 12, 13—to altitude 200miles, the outer fringe of the earth’s atmosphere.There was a slight lifting of the pressure on hisbody. The rocket was still in the stratosphere, butthe sky was getting purple. Mach 14—10,000 miles an hour. “Dick” would jettison any moment. Marsh hadbeen aloft only about four minutes, but it hadseemed an age, every tortured second of it. 22 There was another rumble as the second stagebroke free. Marsh felt a new surge directly beneathhim as his own occupied section, “Harry,” beganblasting. It was comforting to realize he had successfullyweathered those tons of exploding hydrazineand acid that could have reduced him to nothingif something had gone wrong. Although hisspeed was still building up, the weight on himbegan to ease steadily as his body’s inertia finallyyielded to the sickeningly swift acceleration. The speedometer needle climbed to Mach 21, thepeak velocity of the rocket, 16,000 miles per hour.His altitude was 350 miles—man’s highest ascent.Slowly then, the speedometer began to drop back.Marsh heard the turbo pumps and jets go silent asthe “lift” fuel was spent and rocket “Harry” beganits free-flight orbit around Earth. The ship had reached a speed which exactlycounterbalanced the pull of gravity, and it could,theoretically, travel this way forever, provided noother outside force acted upon it. The effect onMarsh now was as if he had stopped moving. Relievedof the viselike pressure, his stomach andchest for a few seconds felt like inflated balloons. “Cadet Farnsworth,” the voice of General Forsythespoke into his helmet receiver, “are you allright?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “That is, I think so.” It was good to hear a human voice again, somethingto hold onto in this crazy unreal world intowhich he had been hurtled. “We’re getting the electronic readings from yourgauges O.K.,” the voice went on. “The doctor saysyour pulse is satisfactory under the circumstances.” It was queer having your pulse read from 350miles up in the air. 23 Marsh realized, of course, that he was not trulyin the “air.” A glance at his air-pressure gauge confirmedthis. He was virtually in a vacuum. The temperatureand wind velocity outside might have astoundedhim if he were not prepared for the readings.The heat was over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit,and the wind velocity was of hurricane force! Butthese figures meant nothing because of the sparsenessof air molecules. Temperature and wind appliedonly to the individual particles, which werethousands of feet apart. “How is your cosmic-ray count?” asked the general. Marsh checked the C-ray counter on the panelfrom which clicking sounds were coming. “It’s low,sir. Nothing to worry about.” Cosmic rays, the most powerful emanationsknown, were the only radiation in space that couldnot be protected against. But in small doses theyhad been found not to be dangerous. “As soon as our recorders get more of the figuresyour telemeter is giving us,” the operations chiefsaid, “you can leave the rocket.” When Marsh got the O.K. a few minutes later,he eagerly unstrapped the belts around his body.He could hardly contain his excitement at beingthe first person to view the globe of Earth fromspace. As he struggled to his feet, the lightness ofzero gravity made him momentarily giddy, and ittook some minutes for him to adjust to the terriblystrange sensation. 24 He had disconnected the cable leading from hishelmet to the ship’s transmitter and switched onthe ship’s fast-lens movie camera that would photographthe area covered by “Harry.” Then he wasready to go outside. He pressed a button on thewall, and the first air-lock hatch opened. He floatedinto the narrow alcove and closed the door in thecramped chamber behind him. He watched agauge, and when it showed normal pressure andtemperature again, he opened the outside hatch,closing it behind him. Had Marsh permitted thevacuum of space to contact the interior of theship’s quarters, delicate instruments would havebeen ruined by the sudden decompression and lossof heat. Marsh fastened his safety line to the shipso that there was no chance of his becoming separatedfrom it. Then he looked “downward,” to experience thethrill of his life. Like a gigantic relief map, thepanorama of Earth stretched across his vision. Adowny blanket of gray atmosphere spread over thewhole of it, and patches of clouds were seen floatinglike phantom shapes beneath the clear vastnessof the stratosphere. It was a stunning sight forMarsh, seeing the pinpoint lights of the night citiesextending from horizon to horizon. It gave himan exhilarating feeling of being a king over it all. 25 Earth appeared to be rotating, but Marsh knewit was largely his own and the rocket’s fast speedthat was responsible for the illusion. As he hungin this region of the exosphere, he was thankful forhis cadet training in zero gravity. A special machine,developed only in recent years, simulatedthe weightlessness of space and trained the cadetsfor endurance in such artificial conditions. “Describe some of the things you see, Marshall,”General Forsythe said over Marsh’s helmet receiver.“I’ve just cut in a recorder.” “It’s a scene almost beyond description, sir,”Marsh said into the helmet mike. “The sky isthickly powdered with stars. The Milky Way is verydistinct, and I can make out lots of fuzzy spots thatmust be star clusters and nebulae and comets. Marsis like an extremely bright taillight, and the moonis so strong it hurts my eyes as much as the directsun does on earth.” Marsh saw a faintly luminous blur pass beyondthe ship. It had been almost too sudden to catch.He believed it to be a meteor diving Earthward ata speed around forty-five miles a second. He reportedthis to the general. As he brought his eyes down from the more distantfixtures of space to those closer by on Earth, astrange thing happened. He was suddenly seizedwith a fear of falling, although his zero-gravitytraining had been intended to prepare him againstthis very thing. A cold sweat come out over hisbody, and an uncontrollable panic threatened totake hold of him. 26 He made a sudden movement as though to catchhimself. Forgetting the magnification of motion infrictionless space and his own weightlessness, hewas shot quickly to the end of his safety line like acracked whip. His body jerked at the taut end andthen sped swiftly back in reaction toward the ship,head foremost. A collision could crack his helmet,exposing his body to decompression, causing himto swell like a balloon and finally explode. In the grip of numbing fear, only at the last momentdid he have the presence of mind to fliphis body in a half-cartwheel and bring his boots upin front of him for protection. His feet bumpedagainst the rocket’s side, and the motion sent himhurtling back out to the end of the safety lineagain. This back-and-forth action occurred severaltimes before he could stop completely. “I’ve got to be careful,” he panted to himself,as he thought of how close his space career hadcome to being ended scarcely before it had begun. General Forsythe cut in with great concern, wonderingwhat had happened. When Marsh had explainedand the general seemed satisfied that Marshhad recovered himself, he had Marsh go on with hisdescription. His senseless fear having gone now, Marsh lookeddown calmly, entranced as the features of theUnited States passed below his gaze. He named thecities he could identify, also the mountain ranges,lakes, and rivers, explaining just how they lookedfrom 350 miles up. In only a fraction of an hour’stime, the rocket had traversed the entire countryand was approaching the twinkling phosphorescenceof the Atlantic. 27 Marsh asked if “Tom” and “Dick” had landedsafely. “‘Tom’ landed near Roswell, New Mexico,” GeneralForsythe told him, “and the ’chute of the secondsection has been reported seen north of Dallas.I think you’d better start back now, Marshall. It’lltake us many months to analyze all the informationwe’ve gotten. We can’t contact you very well on theother side of the world either, and thirdly, I don’twant you exposed to the sun’s rays outside theatmosphere in the Eastern Hemisphere any longerthan can be helped.” Marsh tugged carefully on his safety line andfloated slowly back toward the ship. He enteredthe air lock. Then, inside, he raised the angle of hiscontour chair to upright position, facing the consoleof the ship’s manual controls for the glideEarthward. He plugged in his telemeter helmetcable and buckled one of the straps across his waist. Since he was still moving at many thousands ofmiles an hour, it would be suicide to plungestraight downward. He and the glider would beturned into a meteoric torch. Rather, he wouldhave to spend considerable time soaring in and outof the atmosphere in braking ellipses until hereached much lower speed. Then the Earth’s gravitationalpull would do the rest. 28 This was going to be the trickiest part of the operation,and the most dangerous. Where before,Marsh had depended on automatic controls toguide him, now much of the responsibility was onhis own judgment. He remembered the manyhours he had sweated through to log his flyingtime. Now he could look back on that period in histraining and thank his lucky stars for it. He took the manual controls and angled into theatmosphere. He carefully watched the AHF dial—theatmospheric heat friction gauge. When he hadneared the dangerous incendiary point, with theship having literally become red-hot, he soared intothe frictionless vacuum again. He had to keep thisup a long time in order to reduce his devastatingspeed. It was something of a shock to him to leave theblack midnight of Earth’s slumbering side for thebrilliant hemisphere where the people of Europeand Asia were going about their daytime tasks. Hewould have liked to study this other half of theworld which he had glimpsed only a few times beforein his supersonic test flights, but he knew thiswould have to wait for future flights. Finally, after a long time, his velocity was slowedenough so that the tug of gravity was stronger thanthe rocket’s ability to pull up out of the atmosphere.At this point, Marsh cut in “Harry’s” forwardbraking jets to check his falling speed. “There’s something else to worry about,” hethought to himself. “Will old Harry hold togetheror will he fly apart in the crushing atmosphere?” 29 The directional radio signals from the powerfulSkyharbor transmitter were growing stronger asMarsh neared the shores of California. He couldsee the winking lights of San Diego and LosAngeles, and farther inland the swinging threadthat was the beacon at Skyharbor. All planes in hispath of flight had been grounded for the past fewhours because of the space flight. The only groundlight scanning the skies was the gigantic space beaconin Phoenix. When Marsh reached Arizona, he began spiralingdownward over the state to kill the rest of hisaltitude and air speed. Even now the plane was ahurtling supersonic metal sliver streaking throughthe night skies like a comet. He topped the snow-cappedsummits of the towering San FranciscoPeaks on the drive southward, and he recognizedthe sprawling serpent of the Grand Canyon. Thenhe was in the lower desert regions of moon-splashedsand and cactus. Although the fire-hot temperatureof the outer skin had subsided, there had been damagedone to the walls and instruments, and possiblyto other parts, too. Marsh was worried lest his outsidecontrols might be too warped to give him agood touchdown, if indeed he could get down safelyat all. A few thousand feet up, Marsh lowered his landinggear. Now the only problem left was to landhimself and the valuable ship safely inside the narrowparallels of the airstrip. He circled the airportseveral times as his altitude continued to plummet. 30 The meter fell rapidly. His braking rocket fuelwas gone now. From here on in, he would be ongliding power alone. “Easy does it, Marshall,” the general said quietlyinto his ear. “You’re lining up fine. Level it out alittle and keep straight with the approach lights.That’s fine. You’re just about in.” The lights of the airport seeming to rush up athim, Marsh felt a jolt as the wheels touched groundon the west end of the runway. He kept the shipsteady as it scurried along the smooth asphalt, losingthe last of its once tremendous velocity. Theplane hit the restraining wire across the strip andcame to a sudden stop, shoving Marsh hard againstthe single safety belt he wore. Finally, incredibly,the ship was still and he was safe. He unfastened his strap and removed his spacehelmet. The heat of the compartment brought thesweat out on his face. He rose on wobbly legs andpressed the buttons to the hatches. The last doorflew open to admit the cool, bracing air of Earthwhich he had wondered if he would ever inhaleagain. His aloneness was over then, suddenly and boisterously,as men swarmed over him with congratulations,eager questions, and looks of respect. Reporters’flash bulbs popped, and he felt like a newLindbergh as he was pulled down to the groundand mobbed. Finally the police came to his rescueand pushed back the curiosity seekers and newspapermen.Then only three men were allowedthrough the cordon. <doc-sep></s>

Marsh, the only person who is to fly, is excited and scared at the same time. He can not believe he is to be the first to exit in space, but he thinks himself not brave and worthy enough, and is afraid to fail everyone. He feels the burden of responsibility for being chosen, which is increased by his duty before his parents to come back and the attention of the huge amount of spectators. Marsh's parents are extremely anxious. The mom struggles to understand why such a young boy is sent, the dad tries to joke and calm down the mom, but they are both afraid Marsh won't come back. The spectators and journalists are excited and interested. The whole team working on the project is also excited and anxious, they try to support Marsh. The Colonel is worried for Marsh, all of them take caution, check everything, and cheer Marsh up. They work on detecting every data, controlling every detail. The whole planet watches closely, while Marsh is the only one to really feel like the king of the universe.

<s> THE FIRST MAN INTO SPACE Cadet Marshall Farnsworth woke from anightmare of exploding novae and fouling rockets.After recovering from his fright, he laughed contemptuouslyat himself. “Here I was picked as themost stable of a group of two hundred cadets,” hethought, “and chosen to make man’s first trip intospace, yet I’m shaking like a leaf.” He got out of bed and went over to the window.From his father’s temporary apartment, he couldsee distant Skyharbor, the scene of the plunge intospace tomorrow night. He had been awarded thefrightening honor of making that trip. 10 As he watched teardrop cars whip along Phoenix,Arizona’s, double-decked streets, elevated over oneanother to avoid dangerous intersections and delayingstop lights, he thought back over the years; tothe 1950’s, when mice and monkeys were sent upin Vikings to launch mankind’s first probing of themysterious space beyond Earth, and the first satelliteswere launched; to the 1960’s, when huger,multiple-stage rockets finally conquered the problemof escape velocity; to 1975—today—when manwas finally ready to send one of his own kind intothe uninhabited deeps. Marsh climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldnot come. In the adjoining room, he could hear the footstepsof mother and father. By their sound he knewthey were the footsteps of worried people. Thishurt Marsh more than his own uneasiness. The anxiety had begun for them, he knew, whenhe had first signed up for space-cadet training. Theyhad known there was an extremely high percentageof washouts, and after each test he passed, they hadpretended to be glad. But Marsh knew that inwardlythey had hoped he would fail, for they wereaware of the ultimate goal that the space scientistswere working for—the goal that had just now beenreached. Marsh finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasteduntil morning. He woke early, before the alarm rang. He gotup, showered, pulled on his blue-corded cadet uniform,and tugged on the polished gray boots. Hetook one final look around his room as though infarewell, then went out to the kitchen. 11 His folks were up ahead of time too, trying toact as though it were just another day. Dad was pretendingto enjoy his morning paper, nodding onlycasually to Marsh as he came in. Mom was stirringscrambled eggs in the skillet, but she wasn’t a verygood actor, Marsh noticed, for she furtively wipedher eyes with her free hand. The eggs were cooked too hard and the toast hadto be scraped, but no one seemed to care. The threeof them sat down at the table, still speaking inmonosyllables and of unimportant things. Theymade a pretense of eating. “Well, Mom,” Dad suddenly said with a forcedjollity that was intended to break the tension, “theFarnsworth family has finally got a celebrity in it.” “I don’t see why they don’t send an older man!”Mom burst out, as though she had been holding itin as long as she could. “Sending a boy who isn’teven twenty-two—” “Things are different nowadays, Mom,” Dad explained,still with the assumed calmness thatmasked his real feelings. “These days, men growup faster and mature quicker. They’re stronger andmore alert than older men—” His voice trailed offas if he were unable to convince himself. “ Some body has to go,” Marsh said. “Why not ayounger man without family and responsibility?That’s why they’re giving younger men more opportunitiestoday than they used to.” “It’s not younger men I’m talking about!” Momblurted. “It’s you, Marsh!” 12 Dad leaned over and patted Mom on the shoulder.“Now, Ruth, we promised not to get excitedthis morning.” “I’m sorry,” Mom said weakly. “But Marsh is tooyoung to—” She caught herself and put her handover her mouth. “Stop talking like that!” Dad said. “Marsh iscoming back. There’ve been thousands of rocketssent aloft. The space engineers have made sure thatevery bug has been ironed out before risking aman’s life. Why, that rocket which Marsh is goingup in is as safe as our auto in the garage, isn’t it,Marsh?” “I hope so, Dad,” Marsh murmured. Later, as Dad drove Marsh to the field, eachbrooded silently. Every scene along the way seemedto take on a new look for Marsh. He saw thingsthat he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortablefeeling, almost as if he were seeing thesethings for the last as well as the first time. Finally the airport came into view. The guardsat the gate recognized Marsh and ushered theFarnsworth car through ahead of scores of othersthat crowded the entrance. Some eager news photographersslipped up close and shot off flash bulbsin Marsh’s eyes. Skyharbor, once a small commercial field, hadbeen taken over by the Air Force in recent yearsand converted into the largest rocket experimentalcenter in the United States. 13 Dad drove up to the building that would be thescene of Marsh’s first exhaustive tests and briefings.He stopped the car, and Marsh jumped out. Theirgood-by was brief. Marsh saw his father’s mouthquiver. There was a tightness in his own throat. Hehad gone through any number of grueling tests toprove that he could take the rigors of space, butnot one of them had prepared him for the hardestmoments of parting. When Dad had driven off, Marsh reported firstto the psychiatrist who checked his condition. “Pulse fast, a rise in blood pressure,” he said.“You’re excited, aren’t you, son?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh admitted. “Maybe they’ve gotthe wrong man, sir. I might fail them.” The doctor grinned. “They don’t have the wrongman,” he said. “They might have, with a so-callediron-nerved fellow. He could contain his tensionand fears until later, until maybe the moment ofblast-off. Then he’d let go, and when he needed hiscalmest judgment he wouldn’t have it. No, Marshall,there isn’t a man alive who could make thishistory-making flight without some anxiety. Forgetit. You’ll feel better as the day goes on. I’ll see youonce more before the blast-off.” Marsh felt more at ease already. He went on tothe space surgeon, was given a complete physicalexamination, and was pronounced in perfect condition.Then began his review briefing on everythinghe would encounter during the flight. 14 Blast-off time was for 2230, an hour and a halfbefore midnight. Since at night, in the WesternHemisphere, Earth was masking the sun, the complicationsof excessive temperatures in the outerreaches were avoided during the time Marsh wouldbe outside the ship. Marsh would occupy the smallupper third section of a three-stage rocket. The firsttwo parts would be jettisoned after reaching theirpeak velocities. Top speed of the third stage wouldcarry Marsh into a perpetual-flight orbit aroundEarth, along the route that a permanent space stationwas to be built after the results of the flightwere studied. After spending a little while in thisorbit, Marsh would begin the precarious journeyback to Earth, in gliding flight. He got a few hours of sleep after sunset. Whenan officer shook him, he rose from the cot he hadbeen lying on in a private room of General Forsythe,Chief of Space Operations. “It’s almost time, son,” the officer said. “YourCO wants to see you in the outside office.” Marsh went into the adjoining room and foundhis cadet chief awaiting him. The youth detected anunusual warmth about the severe gentleman whopreviously had shown only a firm, uncompromisingattitude. Colonel Tregasker was past middle age,and his white, sparse hair was smoothed down closeto his head in regulation neatness. 15 “Well, this is it, Marshall,” the colonel said.“How I envy you this honor of being the first humanto enter space. However, I do feel that a partof me is going along too, since I had a small sharein preparing you for the trip. If the training washarsh at times, I believe that shortly you willunderstand the reason for it.” “I didn’t feel that the Colonel was either too softor strict, sir,” Marsh said diplomatically. A speaker out on the brilliantly lit field blaredloudly in the cool desert night: “X minus fortyminutes.” “We can’t talk all night, Marshall,” the colonelsaid briskly. “You’ve got a job to do. But first, a fewof your friends want to wish you luck.” He calledinto the anteroom, “You may come in, gentlemen!” There filed smartly into the room ten youths whohad survived the hard prespace course with Marshand would be his successors in case he failed tonight.They formed a line and shook hands withMarsh. The first was Armen Norton who had gottensick in the rugged centrifuge at a force of 9 G’s,then had rallied to pass the test. “Good luck, Marsh,” he said. Next was lanky Lawrence Egan who had beencertain he would wash out during navigation phasein the planetarium. “All the luck in the world,Marsh,” he added. Each cadet brought back a special memory of histraining as they passed before him, wishing himsuccess. 16 When they had gone and the speaker outsidehad announced: “X minus thirty minutes,” thecolonel said that he and Marsh had better be leaving.Colonel Tregasker was to be Marsh’s escort tothe ship. Photographers and newspapermen swarmedabout them as they climbed into the jeep that wasto take them to the launching site farther out onthe field. Questions were flung at the two from allsides, but the colonel deftly maneuvered the jeepthrough the mob and sped off over the asphalt. At the blast-off site, Marsh could see that thepolice had their hands full keeping out thousandsof spectators who were trying to get into the closed-offarea. The field was choked with a tide of humanitymilling about in wild confusion. Giant searchlights,both at the airport and in other parts ofPhoenix, directed spears of light on the toweringrocket that held the interest of all the world tonight.There was one light, far larger than the rest,with powerful condensing lenses and connected toa giant radar screen, which would guide Marshhome from his trip among the stars. A high wire fence surrounded the launchingramp and blockhouses. International scientists anddignitaries with priorities formed a ring aroundthe fence, but even they were not allowed insidethe small circle of important activity. The guardswaved the colonel and Marsh through the gate. 17 Marsh had spent many weeks in a mock-up of thetiny third stage in which he was to spend his timealoft, but he had never been close to the completelyassembled ship until this moment. The three stageshad been nicknamed, “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”Marsh swallowed as his eyes roved up the side ofthe great vessel, part of a project that had cost millionsto perfect and was as high as a four-storybuilding. The gigantic base, “Big Tom,” was the sectionthat would have the hardest job to do, that ofthrusting the rocket through the densest part of theatmosphere, and this was a great deal larger thanthe other sections. Marsh knew that most of theship’s bulk was made up of the propellant fuel ofhydrazine hydrate and its oxidizer, nitric acid. “We’re going into that blockhouse over there,”Colonel Tregasker said. “You’ll don your space gearin there.” First a multitude of gadgets with wires were fastenedto the cadet’s wrists, ankles, nose, and head.Marsh knew this to be one of the most importantphases of the flight—to find out a man’s reaction tospace flight under actual rocketing conditions. Eachwire would telemeter certain information by radioback to the airport. After a tight inner G suit hadbeen put on to prevent blackout, the plastic andrubber outer garment was zipped up around Marsh,and then he was ready except for his helmet, whichwould not be donned until later. 18 Marsh and the colonel went back outside. Theopen-cage elevator was lowered from the top of thebig latticed platform that surrounded the rocket.The two got into the cage, and it rose with them.Marsh had lost most of his anxiety and tensionduring the activities of the day, but his knees feltrubbery in these final moments as the elevator carriedhim high above the noisy confusion of the airport. This was it. As they stepped from the cage onto the platformof the third stage, Marsh heard the speaker belowcall out: “X minus twenty minutes.” There were eleven engineers and workmen onthe platform readying the compartment that Marshwould occupy. Marsh suddenly felt helpless andalone as he faced the small chamber that mightvery well be his death cell. Its intricate dials andwires were staggering in their complexity. Marsh turned and shook hands with Colonel Tregasker.“Good-by, sir,” he said in a quavering voice.“I hope I remember everything the Corps taughtme.” He tried to smile, but his facial musclestwitched uncontrollably. “Good luck, son—lots of it,” the officer saidhuskily. Suddenly he leaned forward and embracedthe youth with a firm, fatherly hug. “This is notregulations,” he mumbled gruffly, “but hang regulations!”He turned quickly and asked to be carrieddown to the ground. A man brought Marsh’s helmet and placed itover his head, then clamped it to the suit. Knobson the suit were twisted, and Marsh felt a warm,pressurized helium-oxygen mixture fill his suit andheadpiece. 19 Marsh stepped through the hatch into the smallcompartment. He reclined in the soft contourchair, and the straps were fastened by one of theengineers over his chest, waist, and legs. The wiresconnected to various parts of his body had beenbrought together into a single unit in the helmet.A wire cable leading from the panel was pluggedinto the outside of the helmet to complete the circuit. Final tests were run off to make sure everythingwas in proper working order, including the two-wayshort-wave radio that would have to penetrate theelectrical ocean of the ionosphere. Then the double-hatchair lock was closed. Through his helmet receiver,Marsh could hear the final minutes and secondsbeing called off from inside the blockhouse. “Everything O.K.?” Marsh was asked by someoneon the platform. “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “Then you’re on your own,” were the final ominouswords. “X minus five minutes,” called the speaker. 20 It was the longest five minutes that Marsh couldremember. He was painfully aware of his crampedquarters. He thought of the tons of explosive beneathhim that presently would literally blow himsky-high. And he thought of the millions of peoplethe world over who, at this moment, were hoveringat radios and TV’s anxiously awaiting the dawn ofthe space age. Finally he thought of Dad and Mom,lost in that multitude of night watchers, and amongthe few who were not primarily concerned with thescientific aspect of the experiment. He wondered ifhe would ever see them again. “X minus sixty seconds!” Marsh knew that a warning flare was being sentup, to be followed by a whistle and a cloud ofsmoke from one of the blockhouses. As he felt feartrying to master him, he began reviewing all thethings he must remember and, above all, what todo in an emergency. “X minus ten seconds—five—four—three—two—one—FIRE!” There was a mighty explosion at Skyharbor. The initial jolt which Marsh felt was much fiercerthan the gradually built up speed of the whirlingcentrifuge in training. He was crushed deeply intohis contour chair. It felt as though someone werepressing on his eyeballs; indeed, as if every organ inhis body were clinging to his backbone. But thesefirst moments would be the worst. A gauge showeda force of 7 G’s on him—equal to half a ton. He watched the Mach numbers rise on the dialin front of his eyes on an overhead panel. EachMach number represented that much times thespeed of sound, 1,090 feet per second, 740 miles anhour. Marsh knew “Big Tom” would blast for about aminute and a half under control of the automaticpilot, at which time it would drop free at an altitudeof twenty-five miles and sink Earthward in ametal mesh ’chute. 21 Marsh’s hurting eyes flicked to the outside temperaturegauge. It was on a steady 67 degrees belowzero Fahrenheit, and would be until he reachedtwenty miles. A reflecting prism gave him a squareof view of the sky outside. The clear deep blue ofthe cloud-free stratosphere met his eyes. Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 7 passed very quickly. Heheard a rumble and felt a jerk. “Big Tom” wasbreaking free. The first hurdle had been successfullyovercome, and the ship had already begun tiltinginto its trajectory. There was a new surge of agony on his body asthe second stage picked up the acceleration at aforce of 7 G’s again. Marsh clamped his jaws as theforce pulled his lips back from his teeth anddragged his cheek muscles down. The Mach numberscontinued to rise—11, 12, 13—to altitude 200miles, the outer fringe of the earth’s atmosphere.There was a slight lifting of the pressure on hisbody. The rocket was still in the stratosphere, butthe sky was getting purple. Mach 14—10,000 miles an hour. “Dick” would jettison any moment. Marsh hadbeen aloft only about four minutes, but it hadseemed an age, every tortured second of it. 22 There was another rumble as the second stagebroke free. Marsh felt a new surge directly beneathhim as his own occupied section, “Harry,” beganblasting. It was comforting to realize he had successfullyweathered those tons of exploding hydrazineand acid that could have reduced him to nothingif something had gone wrong. Although hisspeed was still building up, the weight on himbegan to ease steadily as his body’s inertia finallyyielded to the sickeningly swift acceleration. The speedometer needle climbed to Mach 21, thepeak velocity of the rocket, 16,000 miles per hour.His altitude was 350 miles—man’s highest ascent.Slowly then, the speedometer began to drop back.Marsh heard the turbo pumps and jets go silent asthe “lift” fuel was spent and rocket “Harry” beganits free-flight orbit around Earth. The ship had reached a speed which exactlycounterbalanced the pull of gravity, and it could,theoretically, travel this way forever, provided noother outside force acted upon it. The effect onMarsh now was as if he had stopped moving. Relievedof the viselike pressure, his stomach andchest for a few seconds felt like inflated balloons. “Cadet Farnsworth,” the voice of General Forsythespoke into his helmet receiver, “are you allright?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “That is, I think so.” It was good to hear a human voice again, somethingto hold onto in this crazy unreal world intowhich he had been hurtled. “We’re getting the electronic readings from yourgauges O.K.,” the voice went on. “The doctor saysyour pulse is satisfactory under the circumstances.” It was queer having your pulse read from 350miles up in the air. 23 Marsh realized, of course, that he was not trulyin the “air.” A glance at his air-pressure gauge confirmedthis. He was virtually in a vacuum. The temperatureand wind velocity outside might have astoundedhim if he were not prepared for the readings.The heat was over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit,and the wind velocity was of hurricane force! Butthese figures meant nothing because of the sparsenessof air molecules. Temperature and wind appliedonly to the individual particles, which werethousands of feet apart. “How is your cosmic-ray count?” asked the general. Marsh checked the C-ray counter on the panelfrom which clicking sounds were coming. “It’s low,sir. Nothing to worry about.” Cosmic rays, the most powerful emanationsknown, were the only radiation in space that couldnot be protected against. But in small doses theyhad been found not to be dangerous. “As soon as our recorders get more of the figuresyour telemeter is giving us,” the operations chiefsaid, “you can leave the rocket.” When Marsh got the O.K. a few minutes later,he eagerly unstrapped the belts around his body.He could hardly contain his excitement at beingthe first person to view the globe of Earth fromspace. As he struggled to his feet, the lightness ofzero gravity made him momentarily giddy, and ittook some minutes for him to adjust to the terriblystrange sensation. 24 He had disconnected the cable leading from hishelmet to the ship’s transmitter and switched onthe ship’s fast-lens movie camera that would photographthe area covered by “Harry.” Then he wasready to go outside. He pressed a button on thewall, and the first air-lock hatch opened. He floatedinto the narrow alcove and closed the door in thecramped chamber behind him. He watched agauge, and when it showed normal pressure andtemperature again, he opened the outside hatch,closing it behind him. Had Marsh permitted thevacuum of space to contact the interior of theship’s quarters, delicate instruments would havebeen ruined by the sudden decompression and lossof heat. Marsh fastened his safety line to the shipso that there was no chance of his becoming separatedfrom it. Then he looked “downward,” to experience thethrill of his life. Like a gigantic relief map, thepanorama of Earth stretched across his vision. Adowny blanket of gray atmosphere spread over thewhole of it, and patches of clouds were seen floatinglike phantom shapes beneath the clear vastnessof the stratosphere. It was a stunning sight forMarsh, seeing the pinpoint lights of the night citiesextending from horizon to horizon. It gave himan exhilarating feeling of being a king over it all. 25 Earth appeared to be rotating, but Marsh knewit was largely his own and the rocket’s fast speedthat was responsible for the illusion. As he hungin this region of the exosphere, he was thankful forhis cadet training in zero gravity. A special machine,developed only in recent years, simulatedthe weightlessness of space and trained the cadetsfor endurance in such artificial conditions. “Describe some of the things you see, Marshall,”General Forsythe said over Marsh’s helmet receiver.“I’ve just cut in a recorder.” “It’s a scene almost beyond description, sir,”Marsh said into the helmet mike. “The sky isthickly powdered with stars. The Milky Way is verydistinct, and I can make out lots of fuzzy spots thatmust be star clusters and nebulae and comets. Marsis like an extremely bright taillight, and the moonis so strong it hurts my eyes as much as the directsun does on earth.” Marsh saw a faintly luminous blur pass beyondthe ship. It had been almost too sudden to catch.He believed it to be a meteor diving Earthward ata speed around forty-five miles a second. He reportedthis to the general. As he brought his eyes down from the more distantfixtures of space to those closer by on Earth, astrange thing happened. He was suddenly seizedwith a fear of falling, although his zero-gravitytraining had been intended to prepare him againstthis very thing. A cold sweat come out over hisbody, and an uncontrollable panic threatened totake hold of him. 26 He made a sudden movement as though to catchhimself. Forgetting the magnification of motion infrictionless space and his own weightlessness, hewas shot quickly to the end of his safety line like acracked whip. His body jerked at the taut end andthen sped swiftly back in reaction toward the ship,head foremost. A collision could crack his helmet,exposing his body to decompression, causing himto swell like a balloon and finally explode. In the grip of numbing fear, only at the last momentdid he have the presence of mind to fliphis body in a half-cartwheel and bring his boots upin front of him for protection. His feet bumpedagainst the rocket’s side, and the motion sent himhurtling back out to the end of the safety lineagain. This back-and-forth action occurred severaltimes before he could stop completely. “I’ve got to be careful,” he panted to himself,as he thought of how close his space career hadcome to being ended scarcely before it had begun. General Forsythe cut in with great concern, wonderingwhat had happened. When Marsh had explainedand the general seemed satisfied that Marshhad recovered himself, he had Marsh go on with hisdescription. His senseless fear having gone now, Marsh lookeddown calmly, entranced as the features of theUnited States passed below his gaze. He named thecities he could identify, also the mountain ranges,lakes, and rivers, explaining just how they lookedfrom 350 miles up. In only a fraction of an hour’stime, the rocket had traversed the entire countryand was approaching the twinkling phosphorescenceof the Atlantic. 27 Marsh asked if “Tom” and “Dick” had landedsafely. “‘Tom’ landed near Roswell, New Mexico,” GeneralForsythe told him, “and the ’chute of the secondsection has been reported seen north of Dallas.I think you’d better start back now, Marshall. It’lltake us many months to analyze all the informationwe’ve gotten. We can’t contact you very well on theother side of the world either, and thirdly, I don’twant you exposed to the sun’s rays outside theatmosphere in the Eastern Hemisphere any longerthan can be helped.” Marsh tugged carefully on his safety line andfloated slowly back toward the ship. He enteredthe air lock. Then, inside, he raised the angle of hiscontour chair to upright position, facing the consoleof the ship’s manual controls for the glideEarthward. He plugged in his telemeter helmetcable and buckled one of the straps across his waist. Since he was still moving at many thousands ofmiles an hour, it would be suicide to plungestraight downward. He and the glider would beturned into a meteoric torch. Rather, he wouldhave to spend considerable time soaring in and outof the atmosphere in braking ellipses until hereached much lower speed. Then the Earth’s gravitationalpull would do the rest. 28 This was going to be the trickiest part of the operation,and the most dangerous. Where before,Marsh had depended on automatic controls toguide him, now much of the responsibility was onhis own judgment. He remembered the manyhours he had sweated through to log his flyingtime. Now he could look back on that period in histraining and thank his lucky stars for it. He took the manual controls and angled into theatmosphere. He carefully watched the AHF dial—theatmospheric heat friction gauge. When he hadneared the dangerous incendiary point, with theship having literally become red-hot, he soared intothe frictionless vacuum again. He had to keep thisup a long time in order to reduce his devastatingspeed. It was something of a shock to him to leave theblack midnight of Earth’s slumbering side for thebrilliant hemisphere where the people of Europeand Asia were going about their daytime tasks. Hewould have liked to study this other half of theworld which he had glimpsed only a few times beforein his supersonic test flights, but he knew thiswould have to wait for future flights. Finally, after a long time, his velocity was slowedenough so that the tug of gravity was stronger thanthe rocket’s ability to pull up out of the atmosphere.At this point, Marsh cut in “Harry’s” forwardbraking jets to check his falling speed. “There’s something else to worry about,” hethought to himself. “Will old Harry hold togetheror will he fly apart in the crushing atmosphere?” 29 The directional radio signals from the powerfulSkyharbor transmitter were growing stronger asMarsh neared the shores of California. He couldsee the winking lights of San Diego and LosAngeles, and farther inland the swinging threadthat was the beacon at Skyharbor. All planes in hispath of flight had been grounded for the past fewhours because of the space flight. The only groundlight scanning the skies was the gigantic space beaconin Phoenix. When Marsh reached Arizona, he began spiralingdownward over the state to kill the rest of hisaltitude and air speed. Even now the plane was ahurtling supersonic metal sliver streaking throughthe night skies like a comet. He topped the snow-cappedsummits of the towering San FranciscoPeaks on the drive southward, and he recognizedthe sprawling serpent of the Grand Canyon. Thenhe was in the lower desert regions of moon-splashedsand and cactus. Although the fire-hot temperatureof the outer skin had subsided, there had been damagedone to the walls and instruments, and possiblyto other parts, too. Marsh was worried lest his outsidecontrols might be too warped to give him agood touchdown, if indeed he could get down safelyat all. A few thousand feet up, Marsh lowered his landinggear. Now the only problem left was to landhimself and the valuable ship safely inside the narrowparallels of the airstrip. He circled the airportseveral times as his altitude continued to plummet. 30 The meter fell rapidly. His braking rocket fuelwas gone now. From here on in, he would be ongliding power alone. “Easy does it, Marshall,” the general said quietlyinto his ear. “You’re lining up fine. Level it out alittle and keep straight with the approach lights.That’s fine. You’re just about in.” The lights of the airport seeming to rush up athim, Marsh felt a jolt as the wheels touched groundon the west end of the runway. He kept the shipsteady as it scurried along the smooth asphalt, losingthe last of its once tremendous velocity. Theplane hit the restraining wire across the strip andcame to a sudden stop, shoving Marsh hard againstthe single safety belt he wore. Finally, incredibly,the ship was still and he was safe. He unfastened his strap and removed his spacehelmet. The heat of the compartment brought thesweat out on his face. He rose on wobbly legs andpressed the buttons to the hatches. The last doorflew open to admit the cool, bracing air of Earthwhich he had wondered if he would ever inhaleagain. His aloneness was over then, suddenly and boisterously,as men swarmed over him with congratulations,eager questions, and looks of respect. Reporters’flash bulbs popped, and he felt like a newLindbergh as he was pulled down to the groundand mobbed. Finally the police came to his rescueand pushed back the curiosity seekers and newspapermen.Then only three men were allowedthrough the cordon. <doc-sep></s>

The night before the flight Marsh is in his father's temporary apartment with the view of distant Skyharbor. Next morning he leaves the house in his dad's car and gets to the airport. There he visits the doctors and goes to take a nap. Then he enters a room where he says goodbye to his friends. Then he goes to put on all the devices and takes an elevator to the platform. From there he enters the cabin of his spaceship and sets off to space. He moves through the Hemisphere to the Earth orbit. There he stops and exits, finding himself in space. He looks at the globe from there. Marsh heads back then, making circles around the United States and gets back to Sky Harbor. There he exits the ship and goes out.

<s> THE FIRST MAN INTO SPACE Cadet Marshall Farnsworth woke from anightmare of exploding novae and fouling rockets.After recovering from his fright, he laughed contemptuouslyat himself. “Here I was picked as themost stable of a group of two hundred cadets,” hethought, “and chosen to make man’s first trip intospace, yet I’m shaking like a leaf.” He got out of bed and went over to the window.From his father’s temporary apartment, he couldsee distant Skyharbor, the scene of the plunge intospace tomorrow night. He had been awarded thefrightening honor of making that trip. 10 As he watched teardrop cars whip along Phoenix,Arizona’s, double-decked streets, elevated over oneanother to avoid dangerous intersections and delayingstop lights, he thought back over the years; tothe 1950’s, when mice and monkeys were sent upin Vikings to launch mankind’s first probing of themysterious space beyond Earth, and the first satelliteswere launched; to the 1960’s, when huger,multiple-stage rockets finally conquered the problemof escape velocity; to 1975—today—when manwas finally ready to send one of his own kind intothe uninhabited deeps. Marsh climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldnot come. In the adjoining room, he could hear the footstepsof mother and father. By their sound he knewthey were the footsteps of worried people. Thishurt Marsh more than his own uneasiness. The anxiety had begun for them, he knew, whenhe had first signed up for space-cadet training. Theyhad known there was an extremely high percentageof washouts, and after each test he passed, they hadpretended to be glad. But Marsh knew that inwardlythey had hoped he would fail, for they wereaware of the ultimate goal that the space scientistswere working for—the goal that had just now beenreached. Marsh finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasteduntil morning. He woke early, before the alarm rang. He gotup, showered, pulled on his blue-corded cadet uniform,and tugged on the polished gray boots. Hetook one final look around his room as though infarewell, then went out to the kitchen. 11 His folks were up ahead of time too, trying toact as though it were just another day. Dad was pretendingto enjoy his morning paper, nodding onlycasually to Marsh as he came in. Mom was stirringscrambled eggs in the skillet, but she wasn’t a verygood actor, Marsh noticed, for she furtively wipedher eyes with her free hand. The eggs were cooked too hard and the toast hadto be scraped, but no one seemed to care. The threeof them sat down at the table, still speaking inmonosyllables and of unimportant things. Theymade a pretense of eating. “Well, Mom,” Dad suddenly said with a forcedjollity that was intended to break the tension, “theFarnsworth family has finally got a celebrity in it.” “I don’t see why they don’t send an older man!”Mom burst out, as though she had been holding itin as long as she could. “Sending a boy who isn’teven twenty-two—” “Things are different nowadays, Mom,” Dad explained,still with the assumed calmness thatmasked his real feelings. “These days, men growup faster and mature quicker. They’re stronger andmore alert than older men—” His voice trailed offas if he were unable to convince himself. “ Some body has to go,” Marsh said. “Why not ayounger man without family and responsibility?That’s why they’re giving younger men more opportunitiestoday than they used to.” “It’s not younger men I’m talking about!” Momblurted. “It’s you, Marsh!” 12 Dad leaned over and patted Mom on the shoulder.“Now, Ruth, we promised not to get excitedthis morning.” “I’m sorry,” Mom said weakly. “But Marsh is tooyoung to—” She caught herself and put her handover her mouth. “Stop talking like that!” Dad said. “Marsh iscoming back. There’ve been thousands of rocketssent aloft. The space engineers have made sure thatevery bug has been ironed out before risking aman’s life. Why, that rocket which Marsh is goingup in is as safe as our auto in the garage, isn’t it,Marsh?” “I hope so, Dad,” Marsh murmured. Later, as Dad drove Marsh to the field, eachbrooded silently. Every scene along the way seemedto take on a new look for Marsh. He saw thingsthat he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortablefeeling, almost as if he were seeing thesethings for the last as well as the first time. Finally the airport came into view. The guardsat the gate recognized Marsh and ushered theFarnsworth car through ahead of scores of othersthat crowded the entrance. Some eager news photographersslipped up close and shot off flash bulbsin Marsh’s eyes. Skyharbor, once a small commercial field, hadbeen taken over by the Air Force in recent yearsand converted into the largest rocket experimentalcenter in the United States. 13 Dad drove up to the building that would be thescene of Marsh’s first exhaustive tests and briefings.He stopped the car, and Marsh jumped out. Theirgood-by was brief. Marsh saw his father’s mouthquiver. There was a tightness in his own throat. Hehad gone through any number of grueling tests toprove that he could take the rigors of space, butnot one of them had prepared him for the hardestmoments of parting. When Dad had driven off, Marsh reported firstto the psychiatrist who checked his condition. “Pulse fast, a rise in blood pressure,” he said.“You’re excited, aren’t you, son?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh admitted. “Maybe they’ve gotthe wrong man, sir. I might fail them.” The doctor grinned. “They don’t have the wrongman,” he said. “They might have, with a so-callediron-nerved fellow. He could contain his tensionand fears until later, until maybe the moment ofblast-off. Then he’d let go, and when he needed hiscalmest judgment he wouldn’t have it. No, Marshall,there isn’t a man alive who could make thishistory-making flight without some anxiety. Forgetit. You’ll feel better as the day goes on. I’ll see youonce more before the blast-off.” Marsh felt more at ease already. He went on tothe space surgeon, was given a complete physicalexamination, and was pronounced in perfect condition.Then began his review briefing on everythinghe would encounter during the flight. 14 Blast-off time was for 2230, an hour and a halfbefore midnight. Since at night, in the WesternHemisphere, Earth was masking the sun, the complicationsof excessive temperatures in the outerreaches were avoided during the time Marsh wouldbe outside the ship. Marsh would occupy the smallupper third section of a three-stage rocket. The firsttwo parts would be jettisoned after reaching theirpeak velocities. Top speed of the third stage wouldcarry Marsh into a perpetual-flight orbit aroundEarth, along the route that a permanent space stationwas to be built after the results of the flightwere studied. After spending a little while in thisorbit, Marsh would begin the precarious journeyback to Earth, in gliding flight. He got a few hours of sleep after sunset. Whenan officer shook him, he rose from the cot he hadbeen lying on in a private room of General Forsythe,Chief of Space Operations. “It’s almost time, son,” the officer said. “YourCO wants to see you in the outside office.” Marsh went into the adjoining room and foundhis cadet chief awaiting him. The youth detected anunusual warmth about the severe gentleman whopreviously had shown only a firm, uncompromisingattitude. Colonel Tregasker was past middle age,and his white, sparse hair was smoothed down closeto his head in regulation neatness. 15 “Well, this is it, Marshall,” the colonel said.“How I envy you this honor of being the first humanto enter space. However, I do feel that a partof me is going along too, since I had a small sharein preparing you for the trip. If the training washarsh at times, I believe that shortly you willunderstand the reason for it.” “I didn’t feel that the Colonel was either too softor strict, sir,” Marsh said diplomatically. A speaker out on the brilliantly lit field blaredloudly in the cool desert night: “X minus fortyminutes.” “We can’t talk all night, Marshall,” the colonelsaid briskly. “You’ve got a job to do. But first, a fewof your friends want to wish you luck.” He calledinto the anteroom, “You may come in, gentlemen!” There filed smartly into the room ten youths whohad survived the hard prespace course with Marshand would be his successors in case he failed tonight.They formed a line and shook hands withMarsh. The first was Armen Norton who had gottensick in the rugged centrifuge at a force of 9 G’s,then had rallied to pass the test. “Good luck, Marsh,” he said. Next was lanky Lawrence Egan who had beencertain he would wash out during navigation phasein the planetarium. “All the luck in the world,Marsh,” he added. Each cadet brought back a special memory of histraining as they passed before him, wishing himsuccess. 16 When they had gone and the speaker outsidehad announced: “X minus thirty minutes,” thecolonel said that he and Marsh had better be leaving.Colonel Tregasker was to be Marsh’s escort tothe ship. Photographers and newspapermen swarmedabout them as they climbed into the jeep that wasto take them to the launching site farther out onthe field. Questions were flung at the two from allsides, but the colonel deftly maneuvered the jeepthrough the mob and sped off over the asphalt. At the blast-off site, Marsh could see that thepolice had their hands full keeping out thousandsof spectators who were trying to get into the closed-offarea. The field was choked with a tide of humanitymilling about in wild confusion. Giant searchlights,both at the airport and in other parts ofPhoenix, directed spears of light on the toweringrocket that held the interest of all the world tonight.There was one light, far larger than the rest,with powerful condensing lenses and connected toa giant radar screen, which would guide Marshhome from his trip among the stars. A high wire fence surrounded the launchingramp and blockhouses. International scientists anddignitaries with priorities formed a ring aroundthe fence, but even they were not allowed insidethe small circle of important activity. The guardswaved the colonel and Marsh through the gate. 17 Marsh had spent many weeks in a mock-up of thetiny third stage in which he was to spend his timealoft, but he had never been close to the completelyassembled ship until this moment. The three stageshad been nicknamed, “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”Marsh swallowed as his eyes roved up the side ofthe great vessel, part of a project that had cost millionsto perfect and was as high as a four-storybuilding. The gigantic base, “Big Tom,” was the sectionthat would have the hardest job to do, that ofthrusting the rocket through the densest part of theatmosphere, and this was a great deal larger thanthe other sections. Marsh knew that most of theship’s bulk was made up of the propellant fuel ofhydrazine hydrate and its oxidizer, nitric acid. “We’re going into that blockhouse over there,”Colonel Tregasker said. “You’ll don your space gearin there.” First a multitude of gadgets with wires were fastenedto the cadet’s wrists, ankles, nose, and head.Marsh knew this to be one of the most importantphases of the flight—to find out a man’s reaction tospace flight under actual rocketing conditions. Eachwire would telemeter certain information by radioback to the airport. After a tight inner G suit hadbeen put on to prevent blackout, the plastic andrubber outer garment was zipped up around Marsh,and then he was ready except for his helmet, whichwould not be donned until later. 18 Marsh and the colonel went back outside. Theopen-cage elevator was lowered from the top of thebig latticed platform that surrounded the rocket.The two got into the cage, and it rose with them.Marsh had lost most of his anxiety and tensionduring the activities of the day, but his knees feltrubbery in these final moments as the elevator carriedhim high above the noisy confusion of the airport. This was it. As they stepped from the cage onto the platformof the third stage, Marsh heard the speaker belowcall out: “X minus twenty minutes.” There were eleven engineers and workmen onthe platform readying the compartment that Marshwould occupy. Marsh suddenly felt helpless andalone as he faced the small chamber that mightvery well be his death cell. Its intricate dials andwires were staggering in their complexity. Marsh turned and shook hands with Colonel Tregasker.“Good-by, sir,” he said in a quavering voice.“I hope I remember everything the Corps taughtme.” He tried to smile, but his facial musclestwitched uncontrollably. “Good luck, son—lots of it,” the officer saidhuskily. Suddenly he leaned forward and embracedthe youth with a firm, fatherly hug. “This is notregulations,” he mumbled gruffly, “but hang regulations!”He turned quickly and asked to be carrieddown to the ground. A man brought Marsh’s helmet and placed itover his head, then clamped it to the suit. Knobson the suit were twisted, and Marsh felt a warm,pressurized helium-oxygen mixture fill his suit andheadpiece. 19 Marsh stepped through the hatch into the smallcompartment. He reclined in the soft contourchair, and the straps were fastened by one of theengineers over his chest, waist, and legs. The wiresconnected to various parts of his body had beenbrought together into a single unit in the helmet.A wire cable leading from the panel was pluggedinto the outside of the helmet to complete the circuit. Final tests were run off to make sure everythingwas in proper working order, including the two-wayshort-wave radio that would have to penetrate theelectrical ocean of the ionosphere. Then the double-hatchair lock was closed. Through his helmet receiver,Marsh could hear the final minutes and secondsbeing called off from inside the blockhouse. “Everything O.K.?” Marsh was asked by someoneon the platform. “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “Then you’re on your own,” were the final ominouswords. “X minus five minutes,” called the speaker. 20 It was the longest five minutes that Marsh couldremember. He was painfully aware of his crampedquarters. He thought of the tons of explosive beneathhim that presently would literally blow himsky-high. And he thought of the millions of peoplethe world over who, at this moment, were hoveringat radios and TV’s anxiously awaiting the dawn ofthe space age. Finally he thought of Dad and Mom,lost in that multitude of night watchers, and amongthe few who were not primarily concerned with thescientific aspect of the experiment. He wondered ifhe would ever see them again. “X minus sixty seconds!” Marsh knew that a warning flare was being sentup, to be followed by a whistle and a cloud ofsmoke from one of the blockhouses. As he felt feartrying to master him, he began reviewing all thethings he must remember and, above all, what todo in an emergency. “X minus ten seconds—five—four—three—two—one—FIRE!” There was a mighty explosion at Skyharbor. The initial jolt which Marsh felt was much fiercerthan the gradually built up speed of the whirlingcentrifuge in training. He was crushed deeply intohis contour chair. It felt as though someone werepressing on his eyeballs; indeed, as if every organ inhis body were clinging to his backbone. But thesefirst moments would be the worst. A gauge showeda force of 7 G’s on him—equal to half a ton. He watched the Mach numbers rise on the dialin front of his eyes on an overhead panel. EachMach number represented that much times thespeed of sound, 1,090 feet per second, 740 miles anhour. Marsh knew “Big Tom” would blast for about aminute and a half under control of the automaticpilot, at which time it would drop free at an altitudeof twenty-five miles and sink Earthward in ametal mesh ’chute. 21 Marsh’s hurting eyes flicked to the outside temperaturegauge. It was on a steady 67 degrees belowzero Fahrenheit, and would be until he reachedtwenty miles. A reflecting prism gave him a squareof view of the sky outside. The clear deep blue ofthe cloud-free stratosphere met his eyes. Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 7 passed very quickly. Heheard a rumble and felt a jerk. “Big Tom” wasbreaking free. The first hurdle had been successfullyovercome, and the ship had already begun tiltinginto its trajectory. There was a new surge of agony on his body asthe second stage picked up the acceleration at aforce of 7 G’s again. Marsh clamped his jaws as theforce pulled his lips back from his teeth anddragged his cheek muscles down. The Mach numberscontinued to rise—11, 12, 13—to altitude 200miles, the outer fringe of the earth’s atmosphere.There was a slight lifting of the pressure on hisbody. The rocket was still in the stratosphere, butthe sky was getting purple. Mach 14—10,000 miles an hour. “Dick” would jettison any moment. Marsh hadbeen aloft only about four minutes, but it hadseemed an age, every tortured second of it. 22 There was another rumble as the second stagebroke free. Marsh felt a new surge directly beneathhim as his own occupied section, “Harry,” beganblasting. It was comforting to realize he had successfullyweathered those tons of exploding hydrazineand acid that could have reduced him to nothingif something had gone wrong. Although hisspeed was still building up, the weight on himbegan to ease steadily as his body’s inertia finallyyielded to the sickeningly swift acceleration. The speedometer needle climbed to Mach 21, thepeak velocity of the rocket, 16,000 miles per hour.His altitude was 350 miles—man’s highest ascent.Slowly then, the speedometer began to drop back.Marsh heard the turbo pumps and jets go silent asthe “lift” fuel was spent and rocket “Harry” beganits free-flight orbit around Earth. The ship had reached a speed which exactlycounterbalanced the pull of gravity, and it could,theoretically, travel this way forever, provided noother outside force acted upon it. The effect onMarsh now was as if he had stopped moving. Relievedof the viselike pressure, his stomach andchest for a few seconds felt like inflated balloons. “Cadet Farnsworth,” the voice of General Forsythespoke into his helmet receiver, “are you allright?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “That is, I think so.” It was good to hear a human voice again, somethingto hold onto in this crazy unreal world intowhich he had been hurtled. “We’re getting the electronic readings from yourgauges O.K.,” the voice went on. “The doctor saysyour pulse is satisfactory under the circumstances.” It was queer having your pulse read from 350miles up in the air. 23 Marsh realized, of course, that he was not trulyin the “air.” A glance at his air-pressure gauge confirmedthis. He was virtually in a vacuum. The temperatureand wind velocity outside might have astoundedhim if he were not prepared for the readings.The heat was over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit,and the wind velocity was of hurricane force! Butthese figures meant nothing because of the sparsenessof air molecules. Temperature and wind appliedonly to the individual particles, which werethousands of feet apart. “How is your cosmic-ray count?” asked the general. Marsh checked the C-ray counter on the panelfrom which clicking sounds were coming. “It’s low,sir. Nothing to worry about.” Cosmic rays, the most powerful emanationsknown, were the only radiation in space that couldnot be protected against. But in small doses theyhad been found not to be dangerous. “As soon as our recorders get more of the figuresyour telemeter is giving us,” the operations chiefsaid, “you can leave the rocket.” When Marsh got the O.K. a few minutes later,he eagerly unstrapped the belts around his body.He could hardly contain his excitement at beingthe first person to view the globe of Earth fromspace. As he struggled to his feet, the lightness ofzero gravity made him momentarily giddy, and ittook some minutes for him to adjust to the terriblystrange sensation. 24 He had disconnected the cable leading from hishelmet to the ship’s transmitter and switched onthe ship’s fast-lens movie camera that would photographthe area covered by “Harry.” Then he wasready to go outside. He pressed a button on thewall, and the first air-lock hatch opened. He floatedinto the narrow alcove and closed the door in thecramped chamber behind him. He watched agauge, and when it showed normal pressure andtemperature again, he opened the outside hatch,closing it behind him. Had Marsh permitted thevacuum of space to contact the interior of theship’s quarters, delicate instruments would havebeen ruined by the sudden decompression and lossof heat. Marsh fastened his safety line to the shipso that there was no chance of his becoming separatedfrom it. Then he looked “downward,” to experience thethrill of his life. Like a gigantic relief map, thepanorama of Earth stretched across his vision. Adowny blanket of gray atmosphere spread over thewhole of it, and patches of clouds were seen floatinglike phantom shapes beneath the clear vastnessof the stratosphere. It was a stunning sight forMarsh, seeing the pinpoint lights of the night citiesextending from horizon to horizon. It gave himan exhilarating feeling of being a king over it all. 25 Earth appeared to be rotating, but Marsh knewit was largely his own and the rocket’s fast speedthat was responsible for the illusion. As he hungin this region of the exosphere, he was thankful forhis cadet training in zero gravity. A special machine,developed only in recent years, simulatedthe weightlessness of space and trained the cadetsfor endurance in such artificial conditions. “Describe some of the things you see, Marshall,”General Forsythe said over Marsh’s helmet receiver.“I’ve just cut in a recorder.” “It’s a scene almost beyond description, sir,”Marsh said into the helmet mike. “The sky isthickly powdered with stars. The Milky Way is verydistinct, and I can make out lots of fuzzy spots thatmust be star clusters and nebulae and comets. Marsis like an extremely bright taillight, and the moonis so strong it hurts my eyes as much as the directsun does on earth.” Marsh saw a faintly luminous blur pass beyondthe ship. It had been almost too sudden to catch.He believed it to be a meteor diving Earthward ata speed around forty-five miles a second. He reportedthis to the general. As he brought his eyes down from the more distantfixtures of space to those closer by on Earth, astrange thing happened. He was suddenly seizedwith a fear of falling, although his zero-gravitytraining had been intended to prepare him againstthis very thing. A cold sweat come out over hisbody, and an uncontrollable panic threatened totake hold of him. 26 He made a sudden movement as though to catchhimself. Forgetting the magnification of motion infrictionless space and his own weightlessness, hewas shot quickly to the end of his safety line like acracked whip. His body jerked at the taut end andthen sped swiftly back in reaction toward the ship,head foremost. A collision could crack his helmet,exposing his body to decompression, causing himto swell like a balloon and finally explode. In the grip of numbing fear, only at the last momentdid he have the presence of mind to fliphis body in a half-cartwheel and bring his boots upin front of him for protection. His feet bumpedagainst the rocket’s side, and the motion sent himhurtling back out to the end of the safety lineagain. This back-and-forth action occurred severaltimes before he could stop completely. “I’ve got to be careful,” he panted to himself,as he thought of how close his space career hadcome to being ended scarcely before it had begun. General Forsythe cut in with great concern, wonderingwhat had happened. When Marsh had explainedand the general seemed satisfied that Marshhad recovered himself, he had Marsh go on with hisdescription. His senseless fear having gone now, Marsh lookeddown calmly, entranced as the features of theUnited States passed below his gaze. He named thecities he could identify, also the mountain ranges,lakes, and rivers, explaining just how they lookedfrom 350 miles up. In only a fraction of an hour’stime, the rocket had traversed the entire countryand was approaching the twinkling phosphorescenceof the Atlantic. 27 Marsh asked if “Tom” and “Dick” had landedsafely. “‘Tom’ landed near Roswell, New Mexico,” GeneralForsythe told him, “and the ’chute of the secondsection has been reported seen north of Dallas.I think you’d better start back now, Marshall. It’lltake us many months to analyze all the informationwe’ve gotten. We can’t contact you very well on theother side of the world either, and thirdly, I don’twant you exposed to the sun’s rays outside theatmosphere in the Eastern Hemisphere any longerthan can be helped.” Marsh tugged carefully on his safety line andfloated slowly back toward the ship. He enteredthe air lock. Then, inside, he raised the angle of hiscontour chair to upright position, facing the consoleof the ship’s manual controls for the glideEarthward. He plugged in his telemeter helmetcable and buckled one of the straps across his waist. Since he was still moving at many thousands ofmiles an hour, it would be suicide to plungestraight downward. He and the glider would beturned into a meteoric torch. Rather, he wouldhave to spend considerable time soaring in and outof the atmosphere in braking ellipses until hereached much lower speed. Then the Earth’s gravitationalpull would do the rest. 28 This was going to be the trickiest part of the operation,and the most dangerous. Where before,Marsh had depended on automatic controls toguide him, now much of the responsibility was onhis own judgment. He remembered the manyhours he had sweated through to log his flyingtime. Now he could look back on that period in histraining and thank his lucky stars for it. He took the manual controls and angled into theatmosphere. He carefully watched the AHF dial—theatmospheric heat friction gauge. When he hadneared the dangerous incendiary point, with theship having literally become red-hot, he soared intothe frictionless vacuum again. He had to keep thisup a long time in order to reduce his devastatingspeed. It was something of a shock to him to leave theblack midnight of Earth’s slumbering side for thebrilliant hemisphere where the people of Europeand Asia were going about their daytime tasks. Hewould have liked to study this other half of theworld which he had glimpsed only a few times beforein his supersonic test flights, but he knew thiswould have to wait for future flights. Finally, after a long time, his velocity was slowedenough so that the tug of gravity was stronger thanthe rocket’s ability to pull up out of the atmosphere.At this point, Marsh cut in “Harry’s” forwardbraking jets to check his falling speed. “There’s something else to worry about,” hethought to himself. “Will old Harry hold togetheror will he fly apart in the crushing atmosphere?” 29 The directional radio signals from the powerfulSkyharbor transmitter were growing stronger asMarsh neared the shores of California. He couldsee the winking lights of San Diego and LosAngeles, and farther inland the swinging threadthat was the beacon at Skyharbor. All planes in hispath of flight had been grounded for the past fewhours because of the space flight. The only groundlight scanning the skies was the gigantic space beaconin Phoenix. When Marsh reached Arizona, he began spiralingdownward over the state to kill the rest of hisaltitude and air speed. Even now the plane was ahurtling supersonic metal sliver streaking throughthe night skies like a comet. He topped the snow-cappedsummits of the towering San FranciscoPeaks on the drive southward, and he recognizedthe sprawling serpent of the Grand Canyon. Thenhe was in the lower desert regions of moon-splashedsand and cactus. Although the fire-hot temperatureof the outer skin had subsided, there had been damagedone to the walls and instruments, and possiblyto other parts, too. Marsh was worried lest his outsidecontrols might be too warped to give him agood touchdown, if indeed he could get down safelyat all. A few thousand feet up, Marsh lowered his landinggear. Now the only problem left was to landhimself and the valuable ship safely inside the narrowparallels of the airstrip. He circled the airportseveral times as his altitude continued to plummet. 30 The meter fell rapidly. His braking rocket fuelwas gone now. From here on in, he would be ongliding power alone. “Easy does it, Marshall,” the general said quietlyinto his ear. “You’re lining up fine. Level it out alittle and keep straight with the approach lights.That’s fine. You’re just about in.” The lights of the airport seeming to rush up athim, Marsh felt a jolt as the wheels touched groundon the west end of the runway. He kept the shipsteady as it scurried along the smooth asphalt, losingthe last of its once tremendous velocity. Theplane hit the restraining wire across the strip andcame to a sudden stop, shoving Marsh hard againstthe single safety belt he wore. Finally, incredibly,the ship was still and he was safe. He unfastened his strap and removed his spacehelmet. The heat of the compartment brought thesweat out on his face. He rose on wobbly legs andpressed the buttons to the hatches. The last doorflew open to admit the cool, bracing air of Earthwhich he had wondered if he would ever inhaleagain. His aloneness was over then, suddenly and boisterously,as men swarmed over him with congratulations,eager questions, and looks of respect. Reporters’flash bulbs popped, and he felt like a newLindbergh as he was pulled down to the groundand mobbed. Finally the police came to his rescueand pushed back the curiosity seekers and newspapermen.Then only three men were allowedthrough the cordon. <doc-sep></s>

Being the first man to go to space is a task of extreme responsibility. For years, the flight was worked through to make it as safe and well-organized as possible. Due to the need to choose only one man, long training and checkouts took place, and Marsh was decided to be the best. His success is the reason his friends are not able to go and their years of training were in vain. The generals and other higher standing participants trained and chose Marsh, so he has to meet their expectations. The whole globe is watching him with interest and attention, which is an additional pressure. He has to complete the mission successfully, because he was chosen and he can’t fail, he needs to be brave, calm and concentrated. Moreover, he is responsible before his parents to come back, not to make them lose their only son. Detailed instructions were given to him and failing to follow them means proving not good enough. This flight was prepared for too long, and if he fails, he moves the exploration years back. Understanding all of that, Marsh tries to calm him down every time and reminds himself of what has to be done. He does everything with caution, and when he loses control in space, he rapidly recovers and reminds himself to be careful. Under the burden of this responsibility, Marsh doesn’t let himself to get nervous.

<s> Yesterday House By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Meeting someone who's been dead for twenty years is shocking enough for anyone with a belief in ghosts—worse for one with none! I The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expectant child, yet sonear the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the AnnieO. its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let thesail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gaitmade comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledgecame nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove's surface by thesloop's prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly hadto reach out his hand. He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw theline around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through thecove's high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islandsand the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughedin satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thingevery man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthestisland out. He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time hedropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the Annie O. hadalways been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rockhad faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about thequietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically,paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit ofEarth. The man's lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banalfancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop,without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out toexplore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, butafter a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and hecame out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn't quite gone to thefarthest one out. <doc-sep>Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands. Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough. To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm. He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery. Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside. Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another. A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove. Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees. The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm. She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn. <doc-sep>The man stepped through the wall of shrubbery, called, hello! andwalked toward her. She whirled around and stared at him as still as if her heart hadstopped beating. Then she darted behind the table and waited for himthere. Granting the surprise of his appearance, her alarm seemed notso much excessive as eerie. As if, the man thought, he were not anordinary stranger, but a visitor from another planet. Approaching closer, he saw that she was trembling and that her breathwas coming in rapid, irregular gasps. Yet the slim, sweet, patricianface that stared into his had an underlying expression of expectancythat reminded him of the cove. She couldn't have been more thaneighteen. He stopped short of the table. Before he could speak, she stammeredout, Are you he? What do you mean? he asked, smiling puzzledly. The one who sends me the little boxes. I was out sailing and I happened to land in the far cove. I didn'tdream that anyone lived on this island, or even came here. No one ever does come here, she replied. Her manner had changed,becoming at once more wary and less agitated, though still eerilycurious. It startled me tremendously to find this place, he blundered on.Especially the road and the car. Why, this island can't be more than aquarter of a mile wide. The road goes down to the wharf, she explained, and up to the top ofthe island, where my aunts have a tree-house. He tore his mind away from the picture of a woman dressed like QueenMary clambering up a tree. Was that your aunt I saw driving off? One of them. The other's taken the motorboat in for supplies. Shelooked at him doubtfully. I'm not sure they'll like it if they findsomeone here. There are just the three of you? he cut in quickly, looking down theempty road that vanished among the oaks. She nodded. I suppose you go in to the mainland with your aunts quite often? She shook her head. It must get pretty dull for you. Not very, she said, smiling. My aunts bring me the papers and otherthings. Even movies. We've got a projector. My favorite stars areAntonio Morino and Alice Terry. I like her better even than Clara Bow. He looked at her hard for a moment. I suppose you read a lot? She nodded. Fitzgerald's my favorite author. She started around thetable, hesitated, suddenly grew shy. Would you like some lemonade? <doc-sep>He'd noticed the dewed silver pitcher, but only now realized histhirst. Yet when she handed him a glass, he held it untasted and saidawkwardly, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jack Barry. She stared at his outstretched right hand, slowly extended her owntoward it, shook it up and down exactly once, then quickly dropped it. He chuckled and gulped some lemonade. I'm a biology student. Beenworking at Wood's Hole the first part of the summer. But now I'm hereto do research in marine ecology—that's sort of sea-life patterns—ofthe in-shore islands. Under the direction of Professor Kesserich. Youknow about him, of course? She shook her head. Probably the greatest living biologist, he was proud to informher. Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a classwith Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich—he lives over thereat town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him. Hegrinned. Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been forMrs. Kesserich. The girl looked puzzled. Jack explained, The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences,won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow.When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich—she's a drab sort ofperson—said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, ofcourse, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name. Mary Alice Pope, she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, asif she were saying it for the first time. You're pretty shy, aren't you? How would I know? The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to thisstrangely attractive girl dressed almost like a flapper. Will you sit down? she asked him gravely. The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort totalk. I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over. Why? So you'll be able to go back to the mainland. But I never go to the mainland. You mean you stay out here all winter? he asked incredulously, hismind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves. Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts arevery capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I helpthem. But that's impossible! he said with sudden sympathetic anger. Youcan't be shut off this way from people your own age! You're the first one I ever met. She hesitated. I never saw a boy ora man before, except in movies. You're joking! No, it's true. But why are they doing it to you? he demanded, leaning forward. Whyare they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary? <doc-sep>She seemed to have gained poise from his loss of it. I don't knowwhy. I'm to find out soon. But actually I'm not lonely. May I tellyou a secret? She touched his hand, this time with only the faintesttrembling. Every night the loneliness gathers in around me—you'reright about that. But then every morning new life comes to me in alittle box. What's that? he said sharply. Sometimes there's a poem in the box, sometimes a book, or pictures,or flowers, or a ring, but always a note. Next to the notes I like thepoems best. My favorite is the one by Matthew Arnold that ends, 'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude—' Wait a minute, he interrupted. Who sends you these boxes? I don't know. But how are the notes signed? They're wonderful notes, she said. So wise, so gay, so tender, you'dimagine them being written by John Barrymore or Lindbergh. Yes, but how are they signed? She hesitated. Never anything but 'Your Lover.' And so when you first saw me, you thought— He began, then stoppedbecause she was blushing. How long have you been getting them? Ever since I can remember. I have two closets of the boxes. The newones are either by my bed when I wake or at my place at breakfast. But how does this—person get these boxes to you out here? Does hegive them to your aunts and do they put them there? I'm not sure. But how can they get them in winter? I don't know. Look here, he said, pouring himself more lemonade, how long is itsince you've been to the mainland? Almost eighteen years. My aunts tell me I was born there in the middleof the war. What war? he asked startledly, spilling some lemonade. The World War, of course. What's the matter? Jack Barr was staring down at the spilled lemonade and feeling a kindof terror he'd never experienced in his waking life. Nothing around himhad changed. He could still feel the same hot sun on his shoulders,the same icy glass in his hand, scent the same lemon-acid odor in hisnostrils. He could still hear the faint chop-chop of the waves. And yet everything had changed, gone dark and dizzy as a landscapeglimpsed just before a faint. All the little false notes had come toa sudden focus. For the lemonade had spilled on the headline of thenewspaper the girl had tossed down, and the headline read: HITLER IN NEW DEFIANCE Under the big black banner of that head swam smaller ones: Foes of Machado Riot in Havana Big NRA Parade Planned Balbo Speaks in New York <doc-sep>Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged. Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked. I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933. You're trying to joke, Jack told her. No, I'm not. But it's 1953. Now it's you who are joking. But the paper's yellow. The paper's always yellow. He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or— Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying. But— No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here. I'm really not joking, he said after a moment. She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it! She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound. At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint chug of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons. Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues.... Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker. The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere. I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here. All right they won't like it. Her agitation grew. No, you must go. I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying. Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock. Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still. You must go before they see you. Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped.... <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>II The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior. In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature. Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard. He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope? The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise. It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier. That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933. The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness. Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it. Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa. You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem. Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe. Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred. Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred. <doc-sep>With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this. She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy— Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization? Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home. Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant. She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing. Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare. Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms. A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned. The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy. Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife. The great biologist had come home. <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>IV Morning sunlight brightened the colors of the wax flowers under glasson the high bureau that always seemed to emit the faint odor of oldhair combings. Jack pulled back the diamond-patterned quilt and blinkedthe sleep from his eyes. He expected his mind to be busy wonderingabout Kesserich and his wife—things said and half said last night—butfound instead that his thoughts swung instantly to Mary Alice Pope, asif to a farthest island in a world of people. Downstairs, the house was empty. After a long look at the cabinet—hefelt behind it, but the key was gone—he hurried down to thewaterfront. He stopped only for a bowl of chowder and, as anafterthought, to buy half a dozen newspapers. The sea was bright, the brisk wind just right for the Annie O. Therewas eagerness in the way it smacked the sail and in the creak of themast. And when he reached the cove, it was no longer still, but nervouswith faint ripples, as if time had finally begun to stir. After the same struggle with the underbrush, he came out on the rockyspine and passed the cove of the sea urchins. The spiny creaturesstruck an uncomfortable chord in his memory. This time he climbed the second island cautiously, scraping theinnocent-seeming ground ahead of him intently with a boathook he'dbrought along for the purpose. He was only a few yards from the fencewhen he saw Mary Alice Pope standing behind it. He hadn't realized that his heart would begin to pound or that, at thesame time, a shiver of almost supernatural dread would go through him. The girl eyed him with an uneasy hostility and immediately began tospeak in a hushed, hurried voice. You must go away at once and nevercome back. You're a wicked man, but I don't want you to be hurt. I'vebeen watching for you all morning. He tossed the newspapers over the fence. You don't have to readthem now, he told her. Just look at the datelines and a few of theheadlines. When she finally lifted her eyes to his again, she was trembling. Shetried unsuccessfully to speak. Listen to me, he said. You've been the victim of a scheme to makeyou believe you were born around 1916 instead of 1933, and that it's1933 now instead of 1951. I'm not sure why it's been done, though Ithink I know who you really are. But, the girl faltered, my aunts tell me it's 1933. They would. And there are the papers ... the magazines ... the radio. The papers are old ones. The radio's faked—some sort of recording. Icould show you if I could get at it. These papers might be faked, she said, pointing to where she'd letthem drop on the ground. They're new, he said. Only old papers get yellow. But why would they do it to me? Why? Come with me to the mainland, Mary. That'll set you straight quickerthan anything. I couldn't, she said, drawing back. He's coming tonight. He? The man who sends me the boxes ... and my life. Jack shivered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and quick. A lifethat's completely a lie, that's cut you off from the world. Come withme, Mary. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Jack Barry is a biology student, who sets sail on his boat "Annie O". He has sailed out to the furthest island off the coast of Maine. He gets to the shore and docks his boat. He sets out to explore the island. Once he reaches the summit, he finds that there is another island, connected by a thin line of rocks to the one he is on. He climbs down the slope, onto the rocks and crosses to the other side. He arrives at a gate, which he manages to overcome. Beyond the fence is a cottage, with a lawn. The whole scene is old fashioned and slightly eerie. An elderly woman comes out of the house, gets in an old car and drives away. A pretty girl, dressed like a flapper comes out. Jack walks over to her. She asks if he is the man who sends her little boxes. She tells him she lives here with her aunts. They talk for a while, Jack telling her about his professor " Martin Kesserich", whom he's staying with. The girl tells Jack her name is Mary Alice Pope. She says she's never been to the mainland, and that she's never met anyone her own age, let alone a man. She explains to him that every morning she receives a little box with a gift inside, and a note, signed by "Your Lover". She tells him she was born in the middle of the first world war, and that the year is 1933. Jack tries to convince her that it is in fact 1951. She doesn't believe him. They hear her aunt's car returning, so Jack leaves, telling her he'll be back tomorrow. He makes his way back to the Annie O. Once at sea, he sees the chug boat of one of Mary Alice's aunts, who points what looks like a rifle at him, before turning away to go back to the island. When Jack returns to his professor's home, he asks Mrs Kesserich about Mary Alice. She informs Jack that Mary Alice was the love of her husband's life, who died in 1933. Martin arrives home, and begins a hypothetical discussion with Jack about the possibility of recreating a human being. If you could take the same DNA as the original, and put the copy in the same circumstances as the one before, they would be the same. He tells Jack that he won't be here the following day. Jack wakes up the next morning and sets off for the little island. He brings with him newspapers from the present day to try and convince Mary Alice the truth, that it is in fact 1951, and not 1933. He tells her that she has been a victim of a conspiracy to make her believe it is a different year. He asks her to come back to the mainland with her. She then tells him that she can't, as the man who sends her the boxes is coming tonight.

<s> Yesterday House By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Meeting someone who's been dead for twenty years is shocking enough for anyone with a belief in ghosts—worse for one with none! I The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expectant child, yet sonear the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the AnnieO. its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let thesail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gaitmade comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledgecame nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove's surface by thesloop's prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly hadto reach out his hand. He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw theline around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through thecove's high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islandsand the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughedin satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thingevery man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthestisland out. He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time hedropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the Annie O. hadalways been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rockhad faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about thequietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically,paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit ofEarth. The man's lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banalfancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop,without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out toexplore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, butafter a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and hecame out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn't quite gone to thefarthest one out. <doc-sep>Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands. Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough. To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm. He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery. Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside. Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another. A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove. Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees. The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm. She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn. <doc-sep>The man stepped through the wall of shrubbery, called, hello! andwalked toward her. She whirled around and stared at him as still as if her heart hadstopped beating. Then she darted behind the table and waited for himthere. Granting the surprise of his appearance, her alarm seemed notso much excessive as eerie. As if, the man thought, he were not anordinary stranger, but a visitor from another planet. Approaching closer, he saw that she was trembling and that her breathwas coming in rapid, irregular gasps. Yet the slim, sweet, patricianface that stared into his had an underlying expression of expectancythat reminded him of the cove. She couldn't have been more thaneighteen. He stopped short of the table. Before he could speak, she stammeredout, Are you he? What do you mean? he asked, smiling puzzledly. The one who sends me the little boxes. I was out sailing and I happened to land in the far cove. I didn'tdream that anyone lived on this island, or even came here. No one ever does come here, she replied. Her manner had changed,becoming at once more wary and less agitated, though still eerilycurious. It startled me tremendously to find this place, he blundered on.Especially the road and the car. Why, this island can't be more than aquarter of a mile wide. The road goes down to the wharf, she explained, and up to the top ofthe island, where my aunts have a tree-house. He tore his mind away from the picture of a woman dressed like QueenMary clambering up a tree. Was that your aunt I saw driving off? One of them. The other's taken the motorboat in for supplies. Shelooked at him doubtfully. I'm not sure they'll like it if they findsomeone here. There are just the three of you? he cut in quickly, looking down theempty road that vanished among the oaks. She nodded. I suppose you go in to the mainland with your aunts quite often? She shook her head. It must get pretty dull for you. Not very, she said, smiling. My aunts bring me the papers and otherthings. Even movies. We've got a projector. My favorite stars areAntonio Morino and Alice Terry. I like her better even than Clara Bow. He looked at her hard for a moment. I suppose you read a lot? She nodded. Fitzgerald's my favorite author. She started around thetable, hesitated, suddenly grew shy. Would you like some lemonade? <doc-sep>He'd noticed the dewed silver pitcher, but only now realized histhirst. Yet when she handed him a glass, he held it untasted and saidawkwardly, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jack Barry. She stared at his outstretched right hand, slowly extended her owntoward it, shook it up and down exactly once, then quickly dropped it. He chuckled and gulped some lemonade. I'm a biology student. Beenworking at Wood's Hole the first part of the summer. But now I'm hereto do research in marine ecology—that's sort of sea-life patterns—ofthe in-shore islands. Under the direction of Professor Kesserich. Youknow about him, of course? She shook her head. Probably the greatest living biologist, he was proud to informher. Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a classwith Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich—he lives over thereat town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him. Hegrinned. Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been forMrs. Kesserich. The girl looked puzzled. Jack explained, The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences,won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow.When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich—she's a drab sort ofperson—said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, ofcourse, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name. Mary Alice Pope, she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, asif she were saying it for the first time. You're pretty shy, aren't you? How would I know? The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to thisstrangely attractive girl dressed almost like a flapper. Will you sit down? she asked him gravely. The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort totalk. I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over. Why? So you'll be able to go back to the mainland. But I never go to the mainland. You mean you stay out here all winter? he asked incredulously, hismind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves. Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts arevery capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I helpthem. But that's impossible! he said with sudden sympathetic anger. Youcan't be shut off this way from people your own age! You're the first one I ever met. She hesitated. I never saw a boy ora man before, except in movies. You're joking! No, it's true. But why are they doing it to you? he demanded, leaning forward. Whyare they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary? <doc-sep>She seemed to have gained poise from his loss of it. I don't knowwhy. I'm to find out soon. But actually I'm not lonely. May I tellyou a secret? She touched his hand, this time with only the faintesttrembling. Every night the loneliness gathers in around me—you'reright about that. But then every morning new life comes to me in alittle box. What's that? he said sharply. Sometimes there's a poem in the box, sometimes a book, or pictures,or flowers, or a ring, but always a note. Next to the notes I like thepoems best. My favorite is the one by Matthew Arnold that ends, 'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude—' Wait a minute, he interrupted. Who sends you these boxes? I don't know. But how are the notes signed? They're wonderful notes, she said. So wise, so gay, so tender, you'dimagine them being written by John Barrymore or Lindbergh. Yes, but how are they signed? She hesitated. Never anything but 'Your Lover.' And so when you first saw me, you thought— He began, then stoppedbecause she was blushing. How long have you been getting them? Ever since I can remember. I have two closets of the boxes. The newones are either by my bed when I wake or at my place at breakfast. But how does this—person get these boxes to you out here? Does hegive them to your aunts and do they put them there? I'm not sure. But how can they get them in winter? I don't know. Look here, he said, pouring himself more lemonade, how long is itsince you've been to the mainland? Almost eighteen years. My aunts tell me I was born there in the middleof the war. What war? he asked startledly, spilling some lemonade. The World War, of course. What's the matter? Jack Barr was staring down at the spilled lemonade and feeling a kindof terror he'd never experienced in his waking life. Nothing around himhad changed. He could still feel the same hot sun on his shoulders,the same icy glass in his hand, scent the same lemon-acid odor in hisnostrils. He could still hear the faint chop-chop of the waves. And yet everything had changed, gone dark and dizzy as a landscapeglimpsed just before a faint. All the little false notes had come toa sudden focus. For the lemonade had spilled on the headline of thenewspaper the girl had tossed down, and the headline read: HITLER IN NEW DEFIANCE Under the big black banner of that head swam smaller ones: Foes of Machado Riot in Havana Big NRA Parade Planned Balbo Speaks in New York <doc-sep>Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged. Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked. I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933. You're trying to joke, Jack told her. No, I'm not. But it's 1953. Now it's you who are joking. But the paper's yellow. The paper's always yellow. He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or— Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying. But— No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here. I'm really not joking, he said after a moment. She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it! She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound. At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint chug of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons. Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues.... Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker. The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere. I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here. All right they won't like it. Her agitation grew. No, you must go. I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying. Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock. Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still. You must go before they see you. Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped.... <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>II The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior. In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature. Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard. He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope? The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise. It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier. That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933. The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness. Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it. Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa. You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem. Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe. Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred. Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred. <doc-sep>With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this. She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy— Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization? Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home. Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant. She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing. Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare. Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms. A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned. The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy. Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife. The great biologist had come home. <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>IV Morning sunlight brightened the colors of the wax flowers under glasson the high bureau that always seemed to emit the faint odor of oldhair combings. Jack pulled back the diamond-patterned quilt and blinkedthe sleep from his eyes. He expected his mind to be busy wonderingabout Kesserich and his wife—things said and half said last night—butfound instead that his thoughts swung instantly to Mary Alice Pope, asif to a farthest island in a world of people. Downstairs, the house was empty. After a long look at the cabinet—hefelt behind it, but the key was gone—he hurried down to thewaterfront. He stopped only for a bowl of chowder and, as anafterthought, to buy half a dozen newspapers. The sea was bright, the brisk wind just right for the Annie O. Therewas eagerness in the way it smacked the sail and in the creak of themast. And when he reached the cove, it was no longer still, but nervouswith faint ripples, as if time had finally begun to stir. After the same struggle with the underbrush, he came out on the rockyspine and passed the cove of the sea urchins. The spiny creaturesstruck an uncomfortable chord in his memory. This time he climbed the second island cautiously, scraping theinnocent-seeming ground ahead of him intently with a boathook he'dbrought along for the purpose. He was only a few yards from the fencewhen he saw Mary Alice Pope standing behind it. He hadn't realized that his heart would begin to pound or that, at thesame time, a shiver of almost supernatural dread would go through him. The girl eyed him with an uneasy hostility and immediately began tospeak in a hushed, hurried voice. You must go away at once and nevercome back. You're a wicked man, but I don't want you to be hurt. I'vebeen watching for you all morning. He tossed the newspapers over the fence. You don't have to readthem now, he told her. Just look at the datelines and a few of theheadlines. When she finally lifted her eyes to his again, she was trembling. Shetried unsuccessfully to speak. Listen to me, he said. You've been the victim of a scheme to makeyou believe you were born around 1916 instead of 1933, and that it's1933 now instead of 1951. I'm not sure why it's been done, though Ithink I know who you really are. But, the girl faltered, my aunts tell me it's 1933. They would. And there are the papers ... the magazines ... the radio. The papers are old ones. The radio's faked—some sort of recording. Icould show you if I could get at it. These papers might be faked, she said, pointing to where she'd letthem drop on the ground. They're new, he said. Only old papers get yellow. But why would they do it to me? Why? Come with me to the mainland, Mary. That'll set you straight quickerthan anything. I couldn't, she said, drawing back. He's coming tonight. He? The man who sends me the boxes ... and my life. Jack shivered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and quick. A lifethat's completely a lie, that's cut you off from the world. Come withme, Mary. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

One day, Jack Barry goes to explore the little islands off the coast of Maine. He docks his boat on the first island inside the cove, looking back through its high walls at thousands of tiny islands, dotting the blue sea, and the thin line that is Maine in the distance. Another island is revealed. It is connected to the first by a spine of rocks. At the near side of the second island is a short slope, covered in grass and trees. Beyond the trees is a huge chicken wire fence, topped with barbed wire. Beside the fence is an oak tree, with a low hanging branch. Beyond the fence is a quaint little cottage. There is a neatly mowed lawn in front of it, with a gravel driveway reaching out into the distance. There is another house on the summit of the island, a treehouse, and a chug boat moored in the bay. Jack then returns to the stark, square home of the Kesseriches. There is a solemn, cold air to the place, one that is reflected in Mrs Kesserich. The story then flashes back to the setting in which Mary Alice and Martin Kesserich lived. It is a nondescript place, but one that is open enough to ride horses in, hills sloping down onto train tracks.

<s> Yesterday House By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Meeting someone who's been dead for twenty years is shocking enough for anyone with a belief in ghosts—worse for one with none! I The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expectant child, yet sonear the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the AnnieO. its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let thesail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gaitmade comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledgecame nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove's surface by thesloop's prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly hadto reach out his hand. He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw theline around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through thecove's high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islandsand the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughedin satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thingevery man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthestisland out. He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time hedropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the Annie O. hadalways been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rockhad faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about thequietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically,paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit ofEarth. The man's lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banalfancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop,without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out toexplore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, butafter a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and hecame out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn't quite gone to thefarthest one out. <doc-sep>Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands. Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough. To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm. He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery. Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside. Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another. A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove. Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees. The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm. She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn. <doc-sep>The man stepped through the wall of shrubbery, called, hello! andwalked toward her. She whirled around and stared at him as still as if her heart hadstopped beating. Then she darted behind the table and waited for himthere. Granting the surprise of his appearance, her alarm seemed notso much excessive as eerie. As if, the man thought, he were not anordinary stranger, but a visitor from another planet. Approaching closer, he saw that she was trembling and that her breathwas coming in rapid, irregular gasps. Yet the slim, sweet, patricianface that stared into his had an underlying expression of expectancythat reminded him of the cove. She couldn't have been more thaneighteen. He stopped short of the table. Before he could speak, she stammeredout, Are you he? What do you mean? he asked, smiling puzzledly. The one who sends me the little boxes. I was out sailing and I happened to land in the far cove. I didn'tdream that anyone lived on this island, or even came here. No one ever does come here, she replied. Her manner had changed,becoming at once more wary and less agitated, though still eerilycurious. It startled me tremendously to find this place, he blundered on.Especially the road and the car. Why, this island can't be more than aquarter of a mile wide. The road goes down to the wharf, she explained, and up to the top ofthe island, where my aunts have a tree-house. He tore his mind away from the picture of a woman dressed like QueenMary clambering up a tree. Was that your aunt I saw driving off? One of them. The other's taken the motorboat in for supplies. Shelooked at him doubtfully. I'm not sure they'll like it if they findsomeone here. There are just the three of you? he cut in quickly, looking down theempty road that vanished among the oaks. She nodded. I suppose you go in to the mainland with your aunts quite often? She shook her head. It must get pretty dull for you. Not very, she said, smiling. My aunts bring me the papers and otherthings. Even movies. We've got a projector. My favorite stars areAntonio Morino and Alice Terry. I like her better even than Clara Bow. He looked at her hard for a moment. I suppose you read a lot? She nodded. Fitzgerald's my favorite author. She started around thetable, hesitated, suddenly grew shy. Would you like some lemonade? <doc-sep>He'd noticed the dewed silver pitcher, but only now realized histhirst. Yet when she handed him a glass, he held it untasted and saidawkwardly, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jack Barry. She stared at his outstretched right hand, slowly extended her owntoward it, shook it up and down exactly once, then quickly dropped it. He chuckled and gulped some lemonade. I'm a biology student. Beenworking at Wood's Hole the first part of the summer. But now I'm hereto do research in marine ecology—that's sort of sea-life patterns—ofthe in-shore islands. Under the direction of Professor Kesserich. Youknow about him, of course? She shook her head. Probably the greatest living biologist, he was proud to informher. Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a classwith Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich—he lives over thereat town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him. Hegrinned. Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been forMrs. Kesserich. The girl looked puzzled. Jack explained, The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences,won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow.When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich—she's a drab sort ofperson—said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, ofcourse, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name. Mary Alice Pope, she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, asif she were saying it for the first time. You're pretty shy, aren't you? How would I know? The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to thisstrangely attractive girl dressed almost like a flapper. Will you sit down? she asked him gravely. The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort totalk. I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over. Why? So you'll be able to go back to the mainland. But I never go to the mainland. You mean you stay out here all winter? he asked incredulously, hismind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves. Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts arevery capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I helpthem. But that's impossible! he said with sudden sympathetic anger. Youcan't be shut off this way from people your own age! You're the first one I ever met. She hesitated. I never saw a boy ora man before, except in movies. You're joking! No, it's true. But why are they doing it to you? he demanded, leaning forward. Whyare they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary? <doc-sep>She seemed to have gained poise from his loss of it. I don't knowwhy. I'm to find out soon. But actually I'm not lonely. May I tellyou a secret? She touched his hand, this time with only the faintesttrembling. Every night the loneliness gathers in around me—you'reright about that. But then every morning new life comes to me in alittle box. What's that? he said sharply. Sometimes there's a poem in the box, sometimes a book, or pictures,or flowers, or a ring, but always a note. Next to the notes I like thepoems best. My favorite is the one by Matthew Arnold that ends, 'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude—' Wait a minute, he interrupted. Who sends you these boxes? I don't know. But how are the notes signed? They're wonderful notes, she said. So wise, so gay, so tender, you'dimagine them being written by John Barrymore or Lindbergh. Yes, but how are they signed? She hesitated. Never anything but 'Your Lover.' And so when you first saw me, you thought— He began, then stoppedbecause she was blushing. How long have you been getting them? Ever since I can remember. I have two closets of the boxes. The newones are either by my bed when I wake or at my place at breakfast. But how does this—person get these boxes to you out here? Does hegive them to your aunts and do they put them there? I'm not sure. But how can they get them in winter? I don't know. Look here, he said, pouring himself more lemonade, how long is itsince you've been to the mainland? Almost eighteen years. My aunts tell me I was born there in the middleof the war. What war? he asked startledly, spilling some lemonade. The World War, of course. What's the matter? Jack Barr was staring down at the spilled lemonade and feeling a kindof terror he'd never experienced in his waking life. Nothing around himhad changed. He could still feel the same hot sun on his shoulders,the same icy glass in his hand, scent the same lemon-acid odor in hisnostrils. He could still hear the faint chop-chop of the waves. And yet everything had changed, gone dark and dizzy as a landscapeglimpsed just before a faint. All the little false notes had come toa sudden focus. For the lemonade had spilled on the headline of thenewspaper the girl had tossed down, and the headline read: HITLER IN NEW DEFIANCE Under the big black banner of that head swam smaller ones: Foes of Machado Riot in Havana Big NRA Parade Planned Balbo Speaks in New York <doc-sep>Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged. Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked. I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933. You're trying to joke, Jack told her. No, I'm not. But it's 1953. Now it's you who are joking. But the paper's yellow. The paper's always yellow. He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or— Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying. But— No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here. I'm really not joking, he said after a moment. She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it! She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound. At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint chug of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons. Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues.... Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker. The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere. I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here. All right they won't like it. Her agitation grew. No, you must go. I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying. Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock. Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still. You must go before they see you. Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped.... <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>II The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior. In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature. Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard. He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope? The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise. It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier. That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933. The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness. Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it. Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa. You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem. Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe. Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred. Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred. <doc-sep>With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this. She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy— Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization? Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home. Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant. She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing. Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare. Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms. A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned. The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy. Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife. The great biologist had come home. <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>IV Morning sunlight brightened the colors of the wax flowers under glasson the high bureau that always seemed to emit the faint odor of oldhair combings. Jack pulled back the diamond-patterned quilt and blinkedthe sleep from his eyes. He expected his mind to be busy wonderingabout Kesserich and his wife—things said and half said last night—butfound instead that his thoughts swung instantly to Mary Alice Pope, asif to a farthest island in a world of people. Downstairs, the house was empty. After a long look at the cabinet—hefelt behind it, but the key was gone—he hurried down to thewaterfront. He stopped only for a bowl of chowder and, as anafterthought, to buy half a dozen newspapers. The sea was bright, the brisk wind just right for the Annie O. Therewas eagerness in the way it smacked the sail and in the creak of themast. And when he reached the cove, it was no longer still, but nervouswith faint ripples, as if time had finally begun to stir. After the same struggle with the underbrush, he came out on the rockyspine and passed the cove of the sea urchins. The spiny creaturesstruck an uncomfortable chord in his memory. This time he climbed the second island cautiously, scraping theinnocent-seeming ground ahead of him intently with a boathook he'dbrought along for the purpose. He was only a few yards from the fencewhen he saw Mary Alice Pope standing behind it. He hadn't realized that his heart would begin to pound or that, at thesame time, a shiver of almost supernatural dread would go through him. The girl eyed him with an uneasy hostility and immediately began tospeak in a hushed, hurried voice. You must go away at once and nevercome back. You're a wicked man, but I don't want you to be hurt. I'vebeen watching for you all morning. He tossed the newspapers over the fence. You don't have to readthem now, he told her. Just look at the datelines and a few of theheadlines. When she finally lifted her eyes to his again, she was trembling. Shetried unsuccessfully to speak. Listen to me, he said. You've been the victim of a scheme to makeyou believe you were born around 1916 instead of 1933, and that it's1933 now instead of 1951. I'm not sure why it's been done, though Ithink I know who you really are. But, the girl faltered, my aunts tell me it's 1933. They would. And there are the papers ... the magazines ... the radio. The papers are old ones. The radio's faked—some sort of recording. Icould show you if I could get at it. These papers might be faked, she said, pointing to where she'd letthem drop on the ground. They're new, he said. Only old papers get yellow. But why would they do it to me? Why? Come with me to the mainland, Mary. That'll set you straight quickerthan anything. I couldn't, she said, drawing back. He's coming tonight. He? The man who sends me the boxes ... and my life. Jack shivered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and quick. A lifethat's completely a lie, that's cut you off from the world. Come withme, Mary. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Martin Kesserich is a biologist and professor. He lives in a coastal town in Main with his wife. He has taken in Jack Barry, to live with and study under him. He moved to America long ago from Hungary with his two sisters, Hani and Hilda. In America, he meets Mary Alice Pope, a young beautiful, intelligent girl whom he falls in love with. They plan a life together. He will build a house for them to live in and raise a family in. They will travel the world together, he will teach her Hungarian. They will marry. Soon before the day they planned to be their wedding day, Martin is called away to business. He takes the train home after the journey. On his way back, Mary Alice rides on horseback with his two sisters to greet him at the station. But, as Mary Alice sits on her horse on top of a slope overlooking the train tracks, the horse becomes spooked, and gallops down to the rail. She is thrown onto the railway line. Martin sees this, and immediately throws himself out of the moving train to save her. But it's too late. Before he can reach her, she is crushed by the train. He sits, heartbroken, with her body in his hands. Years later, he marries Mrs Kesserich, whom he doesn't seem to have any affection towards, mainly ignoring each other. Treating each other with coldness and a lack of love.

<s> Yesterday House By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Meeting someone who's been dead for twenty years is shocking enough for anyone with a belief in ghosts—worse for one with none! I The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expectant child, yet sonear the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the AnnieO. its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let thesail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gaitmade comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledgecame nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove's surface by thesloop's prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly hadto reach out his hand. He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw theline around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through thecove's high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islandsand the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughedin satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thingevery man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthestisland out. He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time hedropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the Annie O. hadalways been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rockhad faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about thequietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically,paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit ofEarth. The man's lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banalfancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop,without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out toexplore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, butafter a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and hecame out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn't quite gone to thefarthest one out. <doc-sep>Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands. Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough. To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm. He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery. Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside. Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another. A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove. Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees. The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm. She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn. <doc-sep>The man stepped through the wall of shrubbery, called, hello! andwalked toward her. She whirled around and stared at him as still as if her heart hadstopped beating. Then she darted behind the table and waited for himthere. Granting the surprise of his appearance, her alarm seemed notso much excessive as eerie. As if, the man thought, he were not anordinary stranger, but a visitor from another planet. Approaching closer, he saw that she was trembling and that her breathwas coming in rapid, irregular gasps. Yet the slim, sweet, patricianface that stared into his had an underlying expression of expectancythat reminded him of the cove. She couldn't have been more thaneighteen. He stopped short of the table. Before he could speak, she stammeredout, Are you he? What do you mean? he asked, smiling puzzledly. The one who sends me the little boxes. I was out sailing and I happened to land in the far cove. I didn'tdream that anyone lived on this island, or even came here. No one ever does come here, she replied. Her manner had changed,becoming at once more wary and less agitated, though still eerilycurious. It startled me tremendously to find this place, he blundered on.Especially the road and the car. Why, this island can't be more than aquarter of a mile wide. The road goes down to the wharf, she explained, and up to the top ofthe island, where my aunts have a tree-house. He tore his mind away from the picture of a woman dressed like QueenMary clambering up a tree. Was that your aunt I saw driving off? One of them. The other's taken the motorboat in for supplies. Shelooked at him doubtfully. I'm not sure they'll like it if they findsomeone here. There are just the three of you? he cut in quickly, looking down theempty road that vanished among the oaks. She nodded. I suppose you go in to the mainland with your aunts quite often? She shook her head. It must get pretty dull for you. Not very, she said, smiling. My aunts bring me the papers and otherthings. Even movies. We've got a projector. My favorite stars areAntonio Morino and Alice Terry. I like her better even than Clara Bow. He looked at her hard for a moment. I suppose you read a lot? She nodded. Fitzgerald's my favorite author. She started around thetable, hesitated, suddenly grew shy. Would you like some lemonade? <doc-sep>He'd noticed the dewed silver pitcher, but only now realized histhirst. Yet when she handed him a glass, he held it untasted and saidawkwardly, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jack Barry. She stared at his outstretched right hand, slowly extended her owntoward it, shook it up and down exactly once, then quickly dropped it. He chuckled and gulped some lemonade. I'm a biology student. Beenworking at Wood's Hole the first part of the summer. But now I'm hereto do research in marine ecology—that's sort of sea-life patterns—ofthe in-shore islands. Under the direction of Professor Kesserich. Youknow about him, of course? She shook her head. Probably the greatest living biologist, he was proud to informher. Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a classwith Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich—he lives over thereat town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him. Hegrinned. Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been forMrs. Kesserich. The girl looked puzzled. Jack explained, The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences,won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow.When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich—she's a drab sort ofperson—said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, ofcourse, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name. Mary Alice Pope, she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, asif she were saying it for the first time. You're pretty shy, aren't you? How would I know? The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to thisstrangely attractive girl dressed almost like a flapper. Will you sit down? she asked him gravely. The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort totalk. I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over. Why? So you'll be able to go back to the mainland. But I never go to the mainland. You mean you stay out here all winter? he asked incredulously, hismind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves. Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts arevery capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I helpthem. But that's impossible! he said with sudden sympathetic anger. Youcan't be shut off this way from people your own age! You're the first one I ever met. She hesitated. I never saw a boy ora man before, except in movies. You're joking! No, it's true. But why are they doing it to you? he demanded, leaning forward. Whyare they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary? <doc-sep>She seemed to have gained poise from his loss of it. I don't knowwhy. I'm to find out soon. But actually I'm not lonely. May I tellyou a secret? She touched his hand, this time with only the faintesttrembling. Every night the loneliness gathers in around me—you'reright about that. But then every morning new life comes to me in alittle box. What's that? he said sharply. Sometimes there's a poem in the box, sometimes a book, or pictures,or flowers, or a ring, but always a note. Next to the notes I like thepoems best. My favorite is the one by Matthew Arnold that ends, 'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude—' Wait a minute, he interrupted. Who sends you these boxes? I don't know. But how are the notes signed? They're wonderful notes, she said. So wise, so gay, so tender, you'dimagine them being written by John Barrymore or Lindbergh. Yes, but how are they signed? She hesitated. Never anything but 'Your Lover.' And so when you first saw me, you thought— He began, then stoppedbecause she was blushing. How long have you been getting them? Ever since I can remember. I have two closets of the boxes. The newones are either by my bed when I wake or at my place at breakfast. But how does this—person get these boxes to you out here? Does hegive them to your aunts and do they put them there? I'm not sure. But how can they get them in winter? I don't know. Look here, he said, pouring himself more lemonade, how long is itsince you've been to the mainland? Almost eighteen years. My aunts tell me I was born there in the middleof the war. What war? he asked startledly, spilling some lemonade. The World War, of course. What's the matter? Jack Barr was staring down at the spilled lemonade and feeling a kindof terror he'd never experienced in his waking life. Nothing around himhad changed. He could still feel the same hot sun on his shoulders,the same icy glass in his hand, scent the same lemon-acid odor in hisnostrils. He could still hear the faint chop-chop of the waves. And yet everything had changed, gone dark and dizzy as a landscapeglimpsed just before a faint. All the little false notes had come toa sudden focus. For the lemonade had spilled on the headline of thenewspaper the girl had tossed down, and the headline read: HITLER IN NEW DEFIANCE Under the big black banner of that head swam smaller ones: Foes of Machado Riot in Havana Big NRA Parade Planned Balbo Speaks in New York <doc-sep>Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged. Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked. I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933. You're trying to joke, Jack told her. No, I'm not. But it's 1953. Now it's you who are joking. But the paper's yellow. The paper's always yellow. He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or— Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying. But— No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here. I'm really not joking, he said after a moment. She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it! She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound. At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint chug of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons. Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues.... Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker. The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere. I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here. All right they won't like it. Her agitation grew. No, you must go. I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying. Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock. Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still. You must go before they see you. Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped.... <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>II The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior. In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature. Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard. He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope? The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise. It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier. That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933. The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness. Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it. Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa. You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem. Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe. Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred. Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred. <doc-sep>With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this. She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy— Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization? Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home. Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant. She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing. Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare. Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms. A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned. The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy. Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife. The great biologist had come home. <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>IV Morning sunlight brightened the colors of the wax flowers under glasson the high bureau that always seemed to emit the faint odor of oldhair combings. Jack pulled back the diamond-patterned quilt and blinkedthe sleep from his eyes. He expected his mind to be busy wonderingabout Kesserich and his wife—things said and half said last night—butfound instead that his thoughts swung instantly to Mary Alice Pope, asif to a farthest island in a world of people. Downstairs, the house was empty. After a long look at the cabinet—hefelt behind it, but the key was gone—he hurried down to thewaterfront. He stopped only for a bowl of chowder and, as anafterthought, to buy half a dozen newspapers. The sea was bright, the brisk wind just right for the Annie O. Therewas eagerness in the way it smacked the sail and in the creak of themast. And when he reached the cove, it was no longer still, but nervouswith faint ripples, as if time had finally begun to stir. After the same struggle with the underbrush, he came out on the rockyspine and passed the cove of the sea urchins. The spiny creaturesstruck an uncomfortable chord in his memory. This time he climbed the second island cautiously, scraping theinnocent-seeming ground ahead of him intently with a boathook he'dbrought along for the purpose. He was only a few yards from the fencewhen he saw Mary Alice Pope standing behind it. He hadn't realized that his heart would begin to pound or that, at thesame time, a shiver of almost supernatural dread would go through him. The girl eyed him with an uneasy hostility and immediately began tospeak in a hushed, hurried voice. You must go away at once and nevercome back. You're a wicked man, but I don't want you to be hurt. I'vebeen watching for you all morning. He tossed the newspapers over the fence. You don't have to readthem now, he told her. Just look at the datelines and a few of theheadlines. When she finally lifted her eyes to his again, she was trembling. Shetried unsuccessfully to speak. Listen to me, he said. You've been the victim of a scheme to makeyou believe you were born around 1916 instead of 1933, and that it's1933 now instead of 1951. I'm not sure why it's been done, though Ithink I know who you really are. But, the girl faltered, my aunts tell me it's 1933. They would. And there are the papers ... the magazines ... the radio. The papers are old ones. The radio's faked—some sort of recording. Icould show you if I could get at it. These papers might be faked, she said, pointing to where she'd letthem drop on the ground. They're new, he said. Only old papers get yellow. But why would they do it to me? Why? Come with me to the mainland, Mary. That'll set you straight quickerthan anything. I couldn't, she said, drawing back. He's coming tonight. He? The man who sends me the boxes ... and my life. Jack shivered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and quick. A lifethat's completely a lie, that's cut you off from the world. Come withme, Mary. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Kesserich devises an elaborate, maniacal scheme to cope with the loss of his beloved fiance Mary Alice Pope. He takes his dead loves ova, and through some kind of unknown science, creates a clone of Mary Alice. He brings the baby to a hidden island, in a cove with high rock walls to keep any intruders out. He creates a setting on the island to seem as if it is 1916. He builds an english cottage with a neat lawn and a eight foot high fence surrounding it to keep unwanted visitors out, and his fiancee's copy in. He employs his two sisters, who are forever devoted to him to raise the child, as if it were this time period which he has fabricated. He sends the girl notes every day, since she was first born, along with gifts like flowers. The notes are always signed with "Your Lover". This is all in an attempt to create an exact replica of Mary Alice, in mind, body, and spirit at the very moment he lost her. He has put her in a place made to mimic england, which she grew up in, and the time period as well. By the end of the story, the new Mary Alice is the exact age when the original died. It is Kesserich's plan to finally meet this girl, who has been closed off completely from the outside world.

<s> Yesterday House By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Meeting someone who's been dead for twenty years is shocking enough for anyone with a belief in ghosts—worse for one with none! I The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expectant child, yet sonear the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the AnnieO. its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let thesail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gaitmade comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledgecame nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove's surface by thesloop's prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly hadto reach out his hand. He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw theline around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through thecove's high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islandsand the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughedin satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thingevery man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthestisland out. He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time hedropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the Annie O. hadalways been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rockhad faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about thequietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically,paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit ofEarth. The man's lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banalfancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop,without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out toexplore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, butafter a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and hecame out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn't quite gone to thefarthest one out. <doc-sep>Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands. Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough. To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm. He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery. Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside. Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another. A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove. Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees. The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm. She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn. <doc-sep>The man stepped through the wall of shrubbery, called, hello! andwalked toward her. She whirled around and stared at him as still as if her heart hadstopped beating. Then she darted behind the table and waited for himthere. Granting the surprise of his appearance, her alarm seemed notso much excessive as eerie. As if, the man thought, he were not anordinary stranger, but a visitor from another planet. Approaching closer, he saw that she was trembling and that her breathwas coming in rapid, irregular gasps. Yet the slim, sweet, patricianface that stared into his had an underlying expression of expectancythat reminded him of the cove. She couldn't have been more thaneighteen. He stopped short of the table. Before he could speak, she stammeredout, Are you he? What do you mean? he asked, smiling puzzledly. The one who sends me the little boxes. I was out sailing and I happened to land in the far cove. I didn'tdream that anyone lived on this island, or even came here. No one ever does come here, she replied. Her manner had changed,becoming at once more wary and less agitated, though still eerilycurious. It startled me tremendously to find this place, he blundered on.Especially the road and the car. Why, this island can't be more than aquarter of a mile wide. The road goes down to the wharf, she explained, and up to the top ofthe island, where my aunts have a tree-house. He tore his mind away from the picture of a woman dressed like QueenMary clambering up a tree. Was that your aunt I saw driving off? One of them. The other's taken the motorboat in for supplies. Shelooked at him doubtfully. I'm not sure they'll like it if they findsomeone here. There are just the three of you? he cut in quickly, looking down theempty road that vanished among the oaks. She nodded. I suppose you go in to the mainland with your aunts quite often? She shook her head. It must get pretty dull for you. Not very, she said, smiling. My aunts bring me the papers and otherthings. Even movies. We've got a projector. My favorite stars areAntonio Morino and Alice Terry. I like her better even than Clara Bow. He looked at her hard for a moment. I suppose you read a lot? She nodded. Fitzgerald's my favorite author. She started around thetable, hesitated, suddenly grew shy. Would you like some lemonade? <doc-sep>He'd noticed the dewed silver pitcher, but only now realized histhirst. Yet when she handed him a glass, he held it untasted and saidawkwardly, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jack Barry. She stared at his outstretched right hand, slowly extended her owntoward it, shook it up and down exactly once, then quickly dropped it. He chuckled and gulped some lemonade. I'm a biology student. Beenworking at Wood's Hole the first part of the summer. But now I'm hereto do research in marine ecology—that's sort of sea-life patterns—ofthe in-shore islands. Under the direction of Professor Kesserich. Youknow about him, of course? She shook her head. Probably the greatest living biologist, he was proud to informher. Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a classwith Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich—he lives over thereat town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him. Hegrinned. Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been forMrs. Kesserich. The girl looked puzzled. Jack explained, The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences,won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow.When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich—she's a drab sort ofperson—said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, ofcourse, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name. Mary Alice Pope, she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, asif she were saying it for the first time. You're pretty shy, aren't you? How would I know? The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to thisstrangely attractive girl dressed almost like a flapper. Will you sit down? she asked him gravely. The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort totalk. I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over. Why? So you'll be able to go back to the mainland. But I never go to the mainland. You mean you stay out here all winter? he asked incredulously, hismind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves. Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts arevery capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I helpthem. But that's impossible! he said with sudden sympathetic anger. Youcan't be shut off this way from people your own age! You're the first one I ever met. She hesitated. I never saw a boy ora man before, except in movies. You're joking! No, it's true. But why are they doing it to you? he demanded, leaning forward. Whyare they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary? <doc-sep>She seemed to have gained poise from his loss of it. I don't knowwhy. I'm to find out soon. But actually I'm not lonely. May I tellyou a secret? She touched his hand, this time with only the faintesttrembling. Every night the loneliness gathers in around me—you'reright about that. But then every morning new life comes to me in alittle box. What's that? he said sharply. Sometimes there's a poem in the box, sometimes a book, or pictures,or flowers, or a ring, but always a note. Next to the notes I like thepoems best. My favorite is the one by Matthew Arnold that ends, 'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude—' Wait a minute, he interrupted. Who sends you these boxes? I don't know. But how are the notes signed? They're wonderful notes, she said. So wise, so gay, so tender, you'dimagine them being written by John Barrymore or Lindbergh. Yes, but how are they signed? She hesitated. Never anything but 'Your Lover.' And so when you first saw me, you thought— He began, then stoppedbecause she was blushing. How long have you been getting them? Ever since I can remember. I have two closets of the boxes. The newones are either by my bed when I wake or at my place at breakfast. But how does this—person get these boxes to you out here? Does hegive them to your aunts and do they put them there? I'm not sure. But how can they get them in winter? I don't know. Look here, he said, pouring himself more lemonade, how long is itsince you've been to the mainland? Almost eighteen years. My aunts tell me I was born there in the middleof the war. What war? he asked startledly, spilling some lemonade. The World War, of course. What's the matter? Jack Barr was staring down at the spilled lemonade and feeling a kindof terror he'd never experienced in his waking life. Nothing around himhad changed. He could still feel the same hot sun on his shoulders,the same icy glass in his hand, scent the same lemon-acid odor in hisnostrils. He could still hear the faint chop-chop of the waves. And yet everything had changed, gone dark and dizzy as a landscapeglimpsed just before a faint. All the little false notes had come toa sudden focus. For the lemonade had spilled on the headline of thenewspaper the girl had tossed down, and the headline read: HITLER IN NEW DEFIANCE Under the big black banner of that head swam smaller ones: Foes of Machado Riot in Havana Big NRA Parade Planned Balbo Speaks in New York <doc-sep>Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged. Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked. I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933. You're trying to joke, Jack told her. No, I'm not. But it's 1953. Now it's you who are joking. But the paper's yellow. The paper's always yellow. He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or— Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying. But— No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here. I'm really not joking, he said after a moment. She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it! She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound. At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint chug of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons. Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues.... Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker. The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere. I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here. All right they won't like it. Her agitation grew. No, you must go. I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying. Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock. Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still. You must go before they see you. Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped.... <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>II The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior. In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature. Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard. He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope? The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise. It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier. That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933. The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness. Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it. Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa. You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem. Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe. Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred. Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred. <doc-sep>With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this. She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy— Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization? Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home. Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant. She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing. Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare. Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms. A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned. The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy. Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife. The great biologist had come home. <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>IV Morning sunlight brightened the colors of the wax flowers under glasson the high bureau that always seemed to emit the faint odor of oldhair combings. Jack pulled back the diamond-patterned quilt and blinkedthe sleep from his eyes. He expected his mind to be busy wonderingabout Kesserich and his wife—things said and half said last night—butfound instead that his thoughts swung instantly to Mary Alice Pope, asif to a farthest island in a world of people. Downstairs, the house was empty. After a long look at the cabinet—hefelt behind it, but the key was gone—he hurried down to thewaterfront. He stopped only for a bowl of chowder and, as anafterthought, to buy half a dozen newspapers. The sea was bright, the brisk wind just right for the Annie O. Therewas eagerness in the way it smacked the sail and in the creak of themast. And when he reached the cove, it was no longer still, but nervouswith faint ripples, as if time had finally begun to stir. After the same struggle with the underbrush, he came out on the rockyspine and passed the cove of the sea urchins. The spiny creaturesstruck an uncomfortable chord in his memory. This time he climbed the second island cautiously, scraping theinnocent-seeming ground ahead of him intently with a boathook he'dbrought along for the purpose. He was only a few yards from the fencewhen he saw Mary Alice Pope standing behind it. He hadn't realized that his heart would begin to pound or that, at thesame time, a shiver of almost supernatural dread would go through him. The girl eyed him with an uneasy hostility and immediately began tospeak in a hushed, hurried voice. You must go away at once and nevercome back. You're a wicked man, but I don't want you to be hurt. I'vebeen watching for you all morning. He tossed the newspapers over the fence. You don't have to readthem now, he told her. Just look at the datelines and a few of theheadlines. When she finally lifted her eyes to his again, she was trembling. Shetried unsuccessfully to speak. Listen to me, he said. You've been the victim of a scheme to makeyou believe you were born around 1916 instead of 1933, and that it's1933 now instead of 1951. I'm not sure why it's been done, though Ithink I know who you really are. But, the girl faltered, my aunts tell me it's 1933. They would. And there are the papers ... the magazines ... the radio. The papers are old ones. The radio's faked—some sort of recording. Icould show you if I could get at it. These papers might be faked, she said, pointing to where she'd letthem drop on the ground. They're new, he said. Only old papers get yellow. But why would they do it to me? Why? Come with me to the mainland, Mary. That'll set you straight quickerthan anything. I couldn't, she said, drawing back. He's coming tonight. He? The man who sends me the boxes ... and my life. Jack shivered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and quick. A lifethat's completely a lie, that's cut you off from the world. Come withme, Mary. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The newspapers are such an important part of the story because they are an indicator as to the different characters' understanding of the time period. On the island, Mary Alice is surrounded by many items and artefacts to gaslight her into thinking that the year is 1933. These include the old fashioned car and radio, which plays news from the past. The one main item used to convince her are the newspapers. Hani and Hilda, who refer to themselves as her "aunts", give her a new newspaper every day with the date on it. It is a way for her to keep track of the passing time, albeit incorrect. When Jack Barry sees these newspapers and exclaims that they are wrong, Mary Alice is understandably shocked, and doesn't believe him. She doesn't know that newspapers aren't supposed to be yellow, because to her, newspapers have always been yellow. They are also very important to her because even though they are false, they are her only connection to what the outside world is like, apart from the radio, film and books. They are the real time news of what is happening in the world. At the end of the story, Jack Barry takes some current newspapers, in the hopes that he can convince her that the ones she possesses are decades old, and that she is, in fact, living in 1951. She doesn't believe him at first, pointing out that the papers he has could be fake, but when he states that only old papers are yellow, it seems that she begins to believe him.

<s> Tea Tray in the Sky By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Visiting a society is tougher than being born into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute! The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair. Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé. A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog. I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs. Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy. Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother. Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale? Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered. The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother. Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki. No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life. Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover. An Earth tabu? Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that. <doc-sep>Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars. Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add thought to the statute). Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days? The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it? Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence. <doc-sep>A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. Theface on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: Our pencils are finestfrom point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comesfrom Dschubba. Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know. The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybodywould watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit offree enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we? Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not. And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury. How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured,abashed. Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name isPierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card. Hehanded Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpentersuspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, hisaddress, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a characterof the utmost respectability. My name's Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.I'm afraid I don't have any cards. Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you'vejust come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be throughignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn'tunderstand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of TheLaw is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. Forinstance, your hands.... Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly goodhands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them? Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn't you know that on Electra itis forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare? Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what's that gotto do with me? The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, itbecomes automatically prohibited here. But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested,with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales. Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so whilelying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal? Of course not, but— Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails? Certainly not, but— Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before thedreaded word— intolerance ? No, no, no ! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for himto be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lotsof gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I'll put some onright away. <doc-sep>With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack downfrom the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device hadbeen invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows,hoop-shaped. Michael pushed the button marked Gloves A , and a pair of yellowgauntlets slid out. Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. Yellow is the color of deathon Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passingaway! No one ever wears yellow! Sorry, Michael said humbly. The button marked Gloves B yielded apair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunicand turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects. The quality's high, sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,but the price is meager. You know when you buy Plummy Fruitcake fromVega. The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. You staying a while inPortyork? Michael nodded. Then you'd better stick close to me for awhile until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourselfuntil you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get intotrouble. Thank you, sir, Michael said gratefully. It's very kind of you. He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet busand his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck hishead against the bottom of the shelf above. Awfully inconvenientarrangement here, he commented. Wonder why they don't have seats. Because this arrangement, Carpenter said stiffly, is the one thathas proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms. Oh, I see, Michael murmured. I didn't get a look at the otherpassengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus? Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing? A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thoughtit arose from defective jets. Oh, yes! he agreed. And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad. Sirians are always sad, the salesman told him. Listen. <doc-sep>Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough,he could make out words: Our wings were unfurled in a far distantworld, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, willwe see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.... Carpenter brushed away a tear. Poignant, isn't it? Very, very touching, Michael agreed. Are they sick or something? Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were.They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why theyleave Sirius in such great numbers. Fasten your suction disks, please, the stewardess, a prettytwo-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to allpassengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted intothe Union early this morning. All the passengers cheered. Since it is considered immodest on Zosma, she continued, ever toappear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen inpublic without some sort of head-covering. Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searchingtheir packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap. The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat inpiercingly bright green. Always got to keep on your toes, he whispered to the younger man.The Universe is expanding every minute. The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew,floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around himcuriously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such ofthose as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets. Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids fromVega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing tocompare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbedtentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians ploddedalongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless otherswhom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality. The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings renderedkaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights andbanners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-greencloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-greenbreeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhatless pudgy man. <doc-sep>Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediatebusiness, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would youlike to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid? Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I'd like to do is getmyself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished.Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously andscuttled off on six legs apiece. Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew theyouth to a secluded corner. Don't you know that on Theemim it'sfrightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public? But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What's wrong witheating in public here on Earth? Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. Hush, hecautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or evenmention in public, aren't there? Well, yes. But those are different. Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have acceptedthe Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violatedone of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of theTheemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do untoextraterrestrials as you would be done by.' But I'm still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice,however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starveto death, or can I get something to eat somewhere? Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for allbodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently locatedthroughout the port, and there must be some on the field. After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females werewatching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field andpressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant. That's the nearest one, Carpenter explained. <doc-sep>Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusivelymarked Feeding Station, Carpenter showed Michael where to insert atwo-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael intoa tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a foodcompartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid syntheticsand was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures wastetime and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all amatter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried tochew food that was meant to be gulped. A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. Do you suffer fromgastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horridcondition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair. Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartmentto find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing atthe luminous time dial embedded in his wrist. Let's go to the Old Town, he suggested to Michael. It will be ofgreat interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself. A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were linedup in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages ofthe tour he offered: Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor. If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica. Movid stars go to Mars. Carpenter smiled politely at them. No space trips for us today,gentlemen. We're staying on Terra. He guided the bewildered young manthrough the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number ofsurface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing forbusiness. Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady,lined with luxury hukka fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rarescents from Algedi. Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my finecab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—seea passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuingEliza. All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your raceor your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who ridesin the taxi from Earth. Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way? Michaelfaltered. Carpenter stared. Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk morethan two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk. But they have no feet. That has nothing whatsoever to do with it. <doc-sep>Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... whichreeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. No, no!Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would breakthe driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't wantto be had up for ego injury, would you? Of course not, Michael whispered weakly. Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer, the advideo informedhim, when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara. After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five andwas able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork,the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, themost cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well asits inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tallhelical edifices of the Venusians. You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reachedarchitecture, Carpenter pointed out. See those period houses in theFrank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner? Very quaint, Michael commented. Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it wasstill daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped outfrom the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquireabout this, We now interrupt the commercials, the advideo said, tobring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that arebecoming so popular.... I shall scream, stated Carpenter, if they play Beautiful BlueDeneb just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heardthis before. Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking, sang a buxom Betelgeusian, whata Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace thewasteful sea. I guess the first thing for me to do, Michael began in a businesslikemanner, is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now? The word hotel , Carpenter explained through pursed lips, isnot used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasantconnotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think.... Certainly not, Michael agreed austerely. I merely want a lodging. That word is also—well, you see, Carpenter told him, on Zaniah itis unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family. They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean. More like bees. So those creatures who travel— Carpenter lowered hisvoice modestly — alone hire a family for the duration of their stay.There are a number of families available, but the better types comerather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned pricecontrols, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise asmuch as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would. <doc-sep>The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices. This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand. The pictures in my history books— Michael began. Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word history ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir. Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part. Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble. He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air. I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it. Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too. Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away. <doc-sep>A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly overTimes Square. Izarians, Carpenter explained They're much in demand for Christmasdisplays. The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: Itcame upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angelsbending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth,good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universeas well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash thecymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's. This beautiful walk you see before you, Carpenter said, waving anexpository arm, shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is calledBroadway. To your left you will be delighted to see— Listen, could we— Michael began. —Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second— By the way— It is extremely rude and hence illegal, Carpenter glared, tointerrupt anyone who is speaking. But I would like, Michael whispered very earnestly, to get washed.If I might. The other man frowned. Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarkswas converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions.Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have totake a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know. A taxi? Isn't there one closer? Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. Theinstallations are extremely expensive. They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the varietyequipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief. Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in aremarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures inhis history—in his books, except that none of them showed the hugegolden sign Public-Washport riding on its spire. Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. A group Vegans, fourteenth floorright. B group, fourteenth floor left. C group, fifteenth floorright. D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor.Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left.Uranians, basement.... Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed,translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanyingthemselves on wemps , a cross between a harp and a flute. Foreignplanets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheresprove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the skyto the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; onecredit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too: Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive,for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some useoil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rubwith grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lickthemselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook itaway in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there arethan I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one thatworks for all is Omniclene from Kiffa. <doc-sep>And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, wemust see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourselfbeneath your station. Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhingOnly 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky. They won't be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean? Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time youchoose. But why are you so anxious? The young man blushed. Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my ownsome day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact. Carpenter beamed. That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it'san Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted byextraterrestrials. Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl,you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind inPortyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and.... Married! Carpenter was now completely shocked. You mustn't usethat word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusivepossession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wantedher also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not havingher, would you? Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would. Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, Iwould report you. Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You meanif I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her? Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, thatis. Then I'm not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admiteven to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don'tthink I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood. There was a short cold silence. You know, son, Carpenter finally said, I think you might be right.I don't want to hurt your feelings—you promise I won't hurt yourfeelings? he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he mightcall a policeman for ego injury. You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter. Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannotadapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better forthem to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in oneof the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious thoughthey are. Much better, Michael agreed. By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgarcuriosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer withoutfear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girlwhen you belong to a Brotherhood? Michael laughed. Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Bothsexes are represented in our society. On Talitha— Carpenter began. I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was andalways would be. But our females don't mind being generic. <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></s>

From his shelf Michael watches a juice advertisement. Then a nearby passenger starts a conversation regarding Michael's belonging to a Brotherhood. Michael remembers how the Father Superior proposed the idea for him to live in the outside world to answer the question about reasons for the Brotherhood's resignation from it. The young man makes one mistake after another, violating the laws of the Universe during the short conversation with his respectable companion. The least warns the youth against those mistakes and lets him stick close for a while, then the two listen to the Sirians singing. Suddenly, it turns out that Zosma has joined the United Universe and its rule to always cover the head becomes Universal starting that second. Upon the arrival to Portyork, Michael and his companion cautiously head to eat, and the man keeps enlightening the newcomer. Then they take a ride through the city with Carpenter constantly explaining Michael his new mistakes. During a short following walk, Michael says "history" and unintentionally deeply offends a man, who is urged by Carpenter not to report. Then Michael asks for a shower, and they take a taxi to a public lavatory. Advideos keep appearing and annoying the two everywhere. Then Carpenter wants to find a temporary family for Michael to make his stay legal, but the least mentions the desire to create his own permanent family and marry the girl he likes. This statement is the turning point, Carpenter is shocked with the youth's ignorance about marriage being outlawed. Michael in turn is frustrated with the idea of having to share his girl and decides to return to the Brotherhood. Carpenter is even more shocked by the news of both sexes living there together and belonging to one another, so he considers Michael simply unfit for the civilized and comfortable life. Michael, on the contrary, already dreams of coming back home. He takes the same bus and then the same taxi to his Brotherhood.

<s> Tea Tray in the Sky By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Visiting a society is tougher than being born into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute! The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair. Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé. A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog. I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs. Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy. Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother. Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale? Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered. The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother. Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki. No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life. Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover. An Earth tabu? Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that. <doc-sep>Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars. Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add thought to the statute). Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days? The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it? Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence. <doc-sep>A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. Theface on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: Our pencils are finestfrom point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comesfrom Dschubba. Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know. The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybodywould watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit offree enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we? Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not. And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury. How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured,abashed. Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name isPierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card. Hehanded Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpentersuspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, hisaddress, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a characterof the utmost respectability. My name's Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.I'm afraid I don't have any cards. Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you'vejust come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be throughignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn'tunderstand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of TheLaw is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. Forinstance, your hands.... Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly goodhands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them? Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn't you know that on Electra itis forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare? Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what's that gotto do with me? The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, itbecomes automatically prohibited here. But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested,with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales. Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so whilelying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal? Of course not, but— Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails? Certainly not, but— Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before thedreaded word— intolerance ? No, no, no ! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for himto be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lotsof gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I'll put some onright away. <doc-sep>With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack downfrom the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device hadbeen invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows,hoop-shaped. Michael pushed the button marked Gloves A , and a pair of yellowgauntlets slid out. Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. Yellow is the color of deathon Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passingaway! No one ever wears yellow! Sorry, Michael said humbly. The button marked Gloves B yielded apair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunicand turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects. The quality's high, sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,but the price is meager. You know when you buy Plummy Fruitcake fromVega. The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. You staying a while inPortyork? Michael nodded. Then you'd better stick close to me for awhile until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourselfuntil you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get intotrouble. Thank you, sir, Michael said gratefully. It's very kind of you. He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet busand his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck hishead against the bottom of the shelf above. Awfully inconvenientarrangement here, he commented. Wonder why they don't have seats. Because this arrangement, Carpenter said stiffly, is the one thathas proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms. Oh, I see, Michael murmured. I didn't get a look at the otherpassengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus? Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing? A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thoughtit arose from defective jets. Oh, yes! he agreed. And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad. Sirians are always sad, the salesman told him. Listen. <doc-sep>Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough,he could make out words: Our wings were unfurled in a far distantworld, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, willwe see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.... Carpenter brushed away a tear. Poignant, isn't it? Very, very touching, Michael agreed. Are they sick or something? Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were.They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why theyleave Sirius in such great numbers. Fasten your suction disks, please, the stewardess, a prettytwo-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to allpassengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted intothe Union early this morning. All the passengers cheered. Since it is considered immodest on Zosma, she continued, ever toappear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen inpublic without some sort of head-covering. Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searchingtheir packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap. The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat inpiercingly bright green. Always got to keep on your toes, he whispered to the younger man.The Universe is expanding every minute. The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew,floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around himcuriously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such ofthose as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets. Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids fromVega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing tocompare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbedtentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians ploddedalongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless otherswhom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality. The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings renderedkaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights andbanners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-greencloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-greenbreeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhatless pudgy man. <doc-sep>Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediatebusiness, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would youlike to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid? Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I'd like to do is getmyself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished.Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously andscuttled off on six legs apiece. Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew theyouth to a secluded corner. Don't you know that on Theemim it'sfrightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public? But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What's wrong witheating in public here on Earth? Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. Hush, hecautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or evenmention in public, aren't there? Well, yes. But those are different. Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have acceptedthe Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violatedone of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of theTheemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do untoextraterrestrials as you would be done by.' But I'm still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice,however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starveto death, or can I get something to eat somewhere? Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for allbodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently locatedthroughout the port, and there must be some on the field. After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females werewatching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field andpressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant. That's the nearest one, Carpenter explained. <doc-sep>Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusivelymarked Feeding Station, Carpenter showed Michael where to insert atwo-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael intoa tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a foodcompartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid syntheticsand was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures wastetime and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all amatter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried tochew food that was meant to be gulped. A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. Do you suffer fromgastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horridcondition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair. Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartmentto find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing atthe luminous time dial embedded in his wrist. Let's go to the Old Town, he suggested to Michael. It will be ofgreat interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself. A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were linedup in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages ofthe tour he offered: Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor. If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica. Movid stars go to Mars. Carpenter smiled politely at them. No space trips for us today,gentlemen. We're staying on Terra. He guided the bewildered young manthrough the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number ofsurface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing forbusiness. Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady,lined with luxury hukka fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rarescents from Algedi. Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my finecab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—seea passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuingEliza. All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your raceor your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who ridesin the taxi from Earth. Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way? Michaelfaltered. Carpenter stared. Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk morethan two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk. But they have no feet. That has nothing whatsoever to do with it. <doc-sep>Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... whichreeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. No, no!Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would breakthe driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't wantto be had up for ego injury, would you? Of course not, Michael whispered weakly. Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer, the advideo informedhim, when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara. After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five andwas able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork,the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, themost cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well asits inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tallhelical edifices of the Venusians. You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reachedarchitecture, Carpenter pointed out. See those period houses in theFrank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner? Very quaint, Michael commented. Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it wasstill daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped outfrom the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquireabout this, We now interrupt the commercials, the advideo said, tobring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that arebecoming so popular.... I shall scream, stated Carpenter, if they play Beautiful BlueDeneb just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heardthis before. Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking, sang a buxom Betelgeusian, whata Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace thewasteful sea. I guess the first thing for me to do, Michael began in a businesslikemanner, is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now? The word hotel , Carpenter explained through pursed lips, isnot used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasantconnotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think.... Certainly not, Michael agreed austerely. I merely want a lodging. That word is also—well, you see, Carpenter told him, on Zaniah itis unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family. They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean. More like bees. So those creatures who travel— Carpenter lowered hisvoice modestly — alone hire a family for the duration of their stay.There are a number of families available, but the better types comerather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned pricecontrols, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise asmuch as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would. <doc-sep>The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices. This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand. The pictures in my history books— Michael began. Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word history ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir. Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part. Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble. He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air. I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it. Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too. Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away. <doc-sep>A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly overTimes Square. Izarians, Carpenter explained They're much in demand for Christmasdisplays. The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: Itcame upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angelsbending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth,good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universeas well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash thecymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's. This beautiful walk you see before you, Carpenter said, waving anexpository arm, shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is calledBroadway. To your left you will be delighted to see— Listen, could we— Michael began. —Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second— By the way— It is extremely rude and hence illegal, Carpenter glared, tointerrupt anyone who is speaking. But I would like, Michael whispered very earnestly, to get washed.If I might. The other man frowned. Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarkswas converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions.Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have totake a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know. A taxi? Isn't there one closer? Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. Theinstallations are extremely expensive. They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the varietyequipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief. Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in aremarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures inhis history—in his books, except that none of them showed the hugegolden sign Public-Washport riding on its spire. Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. A group Vegans, fourteenth floorright. B group, fourteenth floor left. C group, fifteenth floorright. D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor.Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left.Uranians, basement.... Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed,translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanyingthemselves on wemps , a cross between a harp and a flute. Foreignplanets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheresprove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the skyto the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; onecredit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too: Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive,for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some useoil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rubwith grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lickthemselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook itaway in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there arethan I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one thatworks for all is Omniclene from Kiffa. <doc-sep>And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, wemust see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourselfbeneath your station. Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhingOnly 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky. They won't be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean? Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time youchoose. But why are you so anxious? The young man blushed. Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my ownsome day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact. Carpenter beamed. That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it'san Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted byextraterrestrials. Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl,you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind inPortyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and.... Married! Carpenter was now completely shocked. You mustn't usethat word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusivepossession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wantedher also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not havingher, would you? Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would. Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, Iwould report you. Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You meanif I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her? Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, thatis. Then I'm not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admiteven to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don'tthink I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood. There was a short cold silence. You know, son, Carpenter finally said, I think you might be right.I don't want to hurt your feelings—you promise I won't hurt yourfeelings? he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he mightcall a policeman for ego injury. You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter. Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannotadapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better forthem to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in oneof the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious thoughthey are. Much better, Michael agreed. By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgarcuriosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer withoutfear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girlwhen you belong to a Brotherhood? Michael laughed. Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Bothsexes are represented in our society. On Talitha— Carpenter began. I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was andalways would be. But our females don't mind being generic. <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></s>

The United Universe's laws are a combination of laws of every planet involved. Earth has introduced the tabu regarding offending motherhood as it is sacred. Electra has prohibited appearing in public bare handed, because its people have eight fingers on each hand and feel different from others. Yellow is forbidden to wear as it represents death on Saturn. Zosma has just joined the United Universe and introduced the necessity to cover the heads in public, which is immodest on that planet. Theemimians do not eat in public, and so do all other beings in the United Universe. Fomalhautians do not have feet and, therefore, do not walk. So, it's prohibited to walk more than two hundred yards. Zaniahansn are like bees and go everywhere with their families, therefore, one can not travel alone in the universe. Nekkarians say and imply only what is true. Meropians do not have history and this word is offending for them, and forbidden, therefore. On Talitha marriage is slavery, and so is it on other planets.

<s> Tea Tray in the Sky By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Visiting a society is tougher than being born into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute! The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair. Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé. A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog. I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs. Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy. Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother. Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale? Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered. The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother. Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki. No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life. Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover. An Earth tabu? Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that. <doc-sep>Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars. Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add thought to the statute). Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days? The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it? Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence. <doc-sep>A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. Theface on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: Our pencils are finestfrom point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comesfrom Dschubba. Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know. The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybodywould watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit offree enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we? Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not. And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury. How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured,abashed. Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name isPierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card. Hehanded Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpentersuspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, hisaddress, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a characterof the utmost respectability. My name's Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.I'm afraid I don't have any cards. Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you'vejust come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be throughignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn'tunderstand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of TheLaw is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. Forinstance, your hands.... Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly goodhands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them? Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn't you know that on Electra itis forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare? Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what's that gotto do with me? The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, itbecomes automatically prohibited here. But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested,with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales. Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so whilelying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal? Of course not, but— Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails? Certainly not, but— Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before thedreaded word— intolerance ? No, no, no ! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for himto be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lotsof gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I'll put some onright away. <doc-sep>With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack downfrom the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device hadbeen invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows,hoop-shaped. Michael pushed the button marked Gloves A , and a pair of yellowgauntlets slid out. Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. Yellow is the color of deathon Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passingaway! No one ever wears yellow! Sorry, Michael said humbly. The button marked Gloves B yielded apair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunicand turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects. The quality's high, sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,but the price is meager. You know when you buy Plummy Fruitcake fromVega. The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. You staying a while inPortyork? Michael nodded. Then you'd better stick close to me for awhile until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourselfuntil you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get intotrouble. Thank you, sir, Michael said gratefully. It's very kind of you. He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet busand his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck hishead against the bottom of the shelf above. Awfully inconvenientarrangement here, he commented. Wonder why they don't have seats. Because this arrangement, Carpenter said stiffly, is the one thathas proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms. Oh, I see, Michael murmured. I didn't get a look at the otherpassengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus? Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing? A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thoughtit arose from defective jets. Oh, yes! he agreed. And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad. Sirians are always sad, the salesman told him. Listen. <doc-sep>Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough,he could make out words: Our wings were unfurled in a far distantworld, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, willwe see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.... Carpenter brushed away a tear. Poignant, isn't it? Very, very touching, Michael agreed. Are they sick or something? Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were.They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why theyleave Sirius in such great numbers. Fasten your suction disks, please, the stewardess, a prettytwo-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to allpassengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted intothe Union early this morning. All the passengers cheered. Since it is considered immodest on Zosma, she continued, ever toappear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen inpublic without some sort of head-covering. Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searchingtheir packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap. The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat inpiercingly bright green. Always got to keep on your toes, he whispered to the younger man.The Universe is expanding every minute. The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew,floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around himcuriously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such ofthose as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets. Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids fromVega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing tocompare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbedtentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians ploddedalongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless otherswhom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality. The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings renderedkaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights andbanners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-greencloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-greenbreeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhatless pudgy man. <doc-sep>Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediatebusiness, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would youlike to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid? Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I'd like to do is getmyself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished.Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously andscuttled off on six legs apiece. Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew theyouth to a secluded corner. Don't you know that on Theemim it'sfrightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public? But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What's wrong witheating in public here on Earth? Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. Hush, hecautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or evenmention in public, aren't there? Well, yes. But those are different. Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have acceptedthe Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violatedone of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of theTheemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do untoextraterrestrials as you would be done by.' But I'm still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice,however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starveto death, or can I get something to eat somewhere? Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for allbodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently locatedthroughout the port, and there must be some on the field. After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females werewatching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field andpressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant. That's the nearest one, Carpenter explained. <doc-sep>Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusivelymarked Feeding Station, Carpenter showed Michael where to insert atwo-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael intoa tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a foodcompartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid syntheticsand was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures wastetime and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all amatter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried tochew food that was meant to be gulped. A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. Do you suffer fromgastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horridcondition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair. Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartmentto find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing atthe luminous time dial embedded in his wrist. Let's go to the Old Town, he suggested to Michael. It will be ofgreat interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself. A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were linedup in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages ofthe tour he offered: Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor. If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica. Movid stars go to Mars. Carpenter smiled politely at them. No space trips for us today,gentlemen. We're staying on Terra. He guided the bewildered young manthrough the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number ofsurface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing forbusiness. Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady,lined with luxury hukka fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rarescents from Algedi. Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my finecab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—seea passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuingEliza. All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your raceor your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who ridesin the taxi from Earth. Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way? Michaelfaltered. Carpenter stared. Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk morethan two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk. But they have no feet. That has nothing whatsoever to do with it. <doc-sep>Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... whichreeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. No, no!Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would breakthe driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't wantto be had up for ego injury, would you? Of course not, Michael whispered weakly. Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer, the advideo informedhim, when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara. After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five andwas able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork,the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, themost cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well asits inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tallhelical edifices of the Venusians. You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reachedarchitecture, Carpenter pointed out. See those period houses in theFrank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner? Very quaint, Michael commented. Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it wasstill daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped outfrom the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquireabout this, We now interrupt the commercials, the advideo said, tobring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that arebecoming so popular.... I shall scream, stated Carpenter, if they play Beautiful BlueDeneb just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heardthis before. Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking, sang a buxom Betelgeusian, whata Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace thewasteful sea. I guess the first thing for me to do, Michael began in a businesslikemanner, is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now? The word hotel , Carpenter explained through pursed lips, isnot used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasantconnotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think.... Certainly not, Michael agreed austerely. I merely want a lodging. That word is also—well, you see, Carpenter told him, on Zaniah itis unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family. They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean. More like bees. So those creatures who travel— Carpenter lowered hisvoice modestly — alone hire a family for the duration of their stay.There are a number of families available, but the better types comerather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned pricecontrols, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise asmuch as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would. <doc-sep>The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices. This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand. The pictures in my history books— Michael began. Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word history ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir. Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part. Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble. He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air. I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it. Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too. Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away. <doc-sep>A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly overTimes Square. Izarians, Carpenter explained They're much in demand for Christmasdisplays. The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: Itcame upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angelsbending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth,good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universeas well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash thecymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's. This beautiful walk you see before you, Carpenter said, waving anexpository arm, shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is calledBroadway. To your left you will be delighted to see— Listen, could we— Michael began. —Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second— By the way— It is extremely rude and hence illegal, Carpenter glared, tointerrupt anyone who is speaking. But I would like, Michael whispered very earnestly, to get washed.If I might. The other man frowned. Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarkswas converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions.Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have totake a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know. A taxi? Isn't there one closer? Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. Theinstallations are extremely expensive. They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the varietyequipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief. Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in aremarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures inhis history—in his books, except that none of them showed the hugegolden sign Public-Washport riding on its spire. Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. A group Vegans, fourteenth floorright. B group, fourteenth floor left. C group, fifteenth floorright. D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor.Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left.Uranians, basement.... Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed,translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanyingthemselves on wemps , a cross between a harp and a flute. Foreignplanets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheresprove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the skyto the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; onecredit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too: Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive,for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some useoil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rubwith grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lickthemselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook itaway in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there arethan I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one thatworks for all is Omniclene from Kiffa. <doc-sep>And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, wemust see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourselfbeneath your station. Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhingOnly 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky. They won't be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean? Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time youchoose. But why are you so anxious? The young man blushed. Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my ownsome day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact. Carpenter beamed. That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it'san Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted byextraterrestrials. Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl,you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind inPortyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and.... Married! Carpenter was now completely shocked. You mustn't usethat word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusivepossession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wantedher also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not havingher, would you? Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would. Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, Iwould report you. Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You meanif I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her? Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, thatis. Then I'm not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admiteven to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don'tthink I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood. There was a short cold silence. You know, son, Carpenter finally said, I think you might be right.I don't want to hurt your feelings—you promise I won't hurt yourfeelings? he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he mightcall a policeman for ego injury. You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter. Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannotadapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better forthem to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in oneof the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious thoughthey are. Much better, Michael agreed. By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgarcuriosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer withoutfear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girlwhen you belong to a Brotherhood? Michael laughed. Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Bothsexes are represented in our society. On Talitha— Carpenter began. I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was andalways would be. But our females don't mind being generic. <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></s>

The narration begins on a bus shelf where the main character lies. Then he arrives at Portyork, a huge spaceport on Earth, where Michael and Mr. Carpenter head to the nearest feeding station following the map. There Michael alone is admitted into a tiny room to eat. When he finishes, the two take a trip to the Old Town by taxi. In the cab they crossed Portyork, looking at the cosmopolitan architecture and people. They exit the taxi at Times Square which is indeed in the shape of a square and is decorated for the New Year in green and red though it's July. The two walk a little to Broadway and then. take another can to a public lavatory. There, in the elevator, Michael sees many foreigners again. When they leave the lavatory, the two have an argument and go different ways. In the next scene Michaels appears on a shelf on his way back to Angeles, to the Lodge and the Brotherhood. Upon arrival, he takes the same taxi back home.

<s> Tea Tray in the Sky By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Visiting a society is tougher than being born into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute! The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair. Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé. A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog. I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs. Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy. Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother. Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale? Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered. The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother. Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki. No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life. Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover. An Earth tabu? Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that. <doc-sep>Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars. Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add thought to the statute). Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days? The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it? Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence. <doc-sep>A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. Theface on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: Our pencils are finestfrom point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comesfrom Dschubba. Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know. The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybodywould watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit offree enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we? Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not. And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury. How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured,abashed. Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name isPierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card. Hehanded Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpentersuspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, hisaddress, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a characterof the utmost respectability. My name's Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.I'm afraid I don't have any cards. Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you'vejust come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be throughignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn'tunderstand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of TheLaw is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. Forinstance, your hands.... Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly goodhands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them? Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn't you know that on Electra itis forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare? Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what's that gotto do with me? The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, itbecomes automatically prohibited here. But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested,with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales. Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so whilelying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal? Of course not, but— Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails? Certainly not, but— Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before thedreaded word— intolerance ? No, no, no ! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for himto be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lotsof gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I'll put some onright away. <doc-sep>With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack downfrom the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device hadbeen invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows,hoop-shaped. Michael pushed the button marked Gloves A , and a pair of yellowgauntlets slid out. Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. Yellow is the color of deathon Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passingaway! No one ever wears yellow! Sorry, Michael said humbly. The button marked Gloves B yielded apair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunicand turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects. The quality's high, sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,but the price is meager. You know when you buy Plummy Fruitcake fromVega. The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. You staying a while inPortyork? Michael nodded. Then you'd better stick close to me for awhile until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourselfuntil you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get intotrouble. Thank you, sir, Michael said gratefully. It's very kind of you. He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet busand his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck hishead against the bottom of the shelf above. Awfully inconvenientarrangement here, he commented. Wonder why they don't have seats. Because this arrangement, Carpenter said stiffly, is the one thathas proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms. Oh, I see, Michael murmured. I didn't get a look at the otherpassengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus? Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing? A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thoughtit arose from defective jets. Oh, yes! he agreed. And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad. Sirians are always sad, the salesman told him. Listen. <doc-sep>Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough,he could make out words: Our wings were unfurled in a far distantworld, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, willwe see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.... Carpenter brushed away a tear. Poignant, isn't it? Very, very touching, Michael agreed. Are they sick or something? Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were.They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why theyleave Sirius in such great numbers. Fasten your suction disks, please, the stewardess, a prettytwo-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to allpassengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted intothe Union early this morning. All the passengers cheered. Since it is considered immodest on Zosma, she continued, ever toappear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen inpublic without some sort of head-covering. Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searchingtheir packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap. The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat inpiercingly bright green. Always got to keep on your toes, he whispered to the younger man.The Universe is expanding every minute. The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew,floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around himcuriously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such ofthose as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets. Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids fromVega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing tocompare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbedtentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians ploddedalongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless otherswhom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality. The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings renderedkaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights andbanners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-greencloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-greenbreeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhatless pudgy man. <doc-sep>Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediatebusiness, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would youlike to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid? Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I'd like to do is getmyself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished.Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously andscuttled off on six legs apiece. Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew theyouth to a secluded corner. Don't you know that on Theemim it'sfrightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public? But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What's wrong witheating in public here on Earth? Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. Hush, hecautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or evenmention in public, aren't there? Well, yes. But those are different. Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have acceptedthe Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violatedone of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of theTheemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do untoextraterrestrials as you would be done by.' But I'm still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice,however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starveto death, or can I get something to eat somewhere? Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for allbodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently locatedthroughout the port, and there must be some on the field. After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females werewatching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field andpressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant. That's the nearest one, Carpenter explained. <doc-sep>Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusivelymarked Feeding Station, Carpenter showed Michael where to insert atwo-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael intoa tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a foodcompartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid syntheticsand was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures wastetime and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all amatter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried tochew food that was meant to be gulped. A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. Do you suffer fromgastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horridcondition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair. Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartmentto find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing atthe luminous time dial embedded in his wrist. Let's go to the Old Town, he suggested to Michael. It will be ofgreat interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself. A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were linedup in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages ofthe tour he offered: Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor. If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica. Movid stars go to Mars. Carpenter smiled politely at them. No space trips for us today,gentlemen. We're staying on Terra. He guided the bewildered young manthrough the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number ofsurface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing forbusiness. Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady,lined with luxury hukka fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rarescents from Algedi. Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my finecab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—seea passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuingEliza. All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your raceor your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who ridesin the taxi from Earth. Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way? Michaelfaltered. Carpenter stared. Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk morethan two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk. But they have no feet. That has nothing whatsoever to do with it. <doc-sep>Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... whichreeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. No, no!Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would breakthe driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't wantto be had up for ego injury, would you? Of course not, Michael whispered weakly. Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer, the advideo informedhim, when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara. After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five andwas able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork,the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, themost cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well asits inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tallhelical edifices of the Venusians. You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reachedarchitecture, Carpenter pointed out. See those period houses in theFrank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner? Very quaint, Michael commented. Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it wasstill daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped outfrom the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquireabout this, We now interrupt the commercials, the advideo said, tobring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that arebecoming so popular.... I shall scream, stated Carpenter, if they play Beautiful BlueDeneb just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heardthis before. Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking, sang a buxom Betelgeusian, whata Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace thewasteful sea. I guess the first thing for me to do, Michael began in a businesslikemanner, is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now? The word hotel , Carpenter explained through pursed lips, isnot used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasantconnotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think.... Certainly not, Michael agreed austerely. I merely want a lodging. That word is also—well, you see, Carpenter told him, on Zaniah itis unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family. They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean. More like bees. So those creatures who travel— Carpenter lowered hisvoice modestly — alone hire a family for the duration of their stay.There are a number of families available, but the better types comerather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned pricecontrols, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise asmuch as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would. <doc-sep>The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices. This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand. The pictures in my history books— Michael began. Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word history ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir. Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part. Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble. He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air. I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it. Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too. Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away. <doc-sep>A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly overTimes Square. Izarians, Carpenter explained They're much in demand for Christmasdisplays. The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: Itcame upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angelsbending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth,good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universeas well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash thecymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's. This beautiful walk you see before you, Carpenter said, waving anexpository arm, shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is calledBroadway. To your left you will be delighted to see— Listen, could we— Michael began. —Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second— By the way— It is extremely rude and hence illegal, Carpenter glared, tointerrupt anyone who is speaking. But I would like, Michael whispered very earnestly, to get washed.If I might. The other man frowned. Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarkswas converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions.Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have totake a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know. A taxi? Isn't there one closer? Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. Theinstallations are extremely expensive. They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the varietyequipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief. Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in aremarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures inhis history—in his books, except that none of them showed the hugegolden sign Public-Washport riding on its spire. Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. A group Vegans, fourteenth floorright. B group, fourteenth floor left. C group, fifteenth floorright. D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor.Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left.Uranians, basement.... Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed,translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanyingthemselves on wemps , a cross between a harp and a flute. Foreignplanets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheresprove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the skyto the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; onecredit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too: Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive,for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some useoil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rubwith grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lickthemselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook itaway in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there arethan I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one thatworks for all is Omniclene from Kiffa. <doc-sep>And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, wemust see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourselfbeneath your station. Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhingOnly 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky. They won't be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean? Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time youchoose. But why are you so anxious? The young man blushed. Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my ownsome day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact. Carpenter beamed. That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it'san Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted byextraterrestrials. Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl,you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind inPortyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and.... Married! Carpenter was now completely shocked. You mustn't usethat word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusivepossession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wantedher also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not havingher, would you? Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would. Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, Iwould report you. Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You meanif I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her? Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, thatis. Then I'm not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admiteven to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don'tthink I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood. There was a short cold silence. You know, son, Carpenter finally said, I think you might be right.I don't want to hurt your feelings—you promise I won't hurt yourfeelings? he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he mightcall a policeman for ego injury. You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter. Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannotadapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better forthem to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in oneof the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious thoughthey are. Much better, Michael agreed. By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgarcuriosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer withoutfear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girlwhen you belong to a Brotherhood? Michael laughed. Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Bothsexes are represented in our society. On Talitha— Carpenter began. I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was andalways would be. But our females don't mind being generic. <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></s>

The final passages reflect how Michael's attitude towards the outside world has changed. The Sirians' song, which sparked curiosity in him in the beginning of the story, annoys him now and makes him miss home even more. The advideo is annoying as well, as those are all over the universe and can't be turned off. Those are the annoying features of the world about which nothing can be done, and for Michael one day was enough to get tired of them. Michael has fulfilled the purpose of his visit to Earth, he understands now why the Brotherhood is so isolated from the world and he likes it. He starts missing home and his girl in one day on Earth and gladly decides to return. The Earth experience makes him sure in how he wants to live in the future - in the Brotherhood, without the constant fear of mistakes and restrictions on every step, married to his girl. The civilization seems awful to the youth, but it is spreading, as the taxi driver says. Nevertheless, Michael doesn't care about it, he feels safe in Brotherhood, and it is definitely the right place for him.

<s> Tea Tray in the Sky By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Visiting a society is tougher than being born into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute! The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair. Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé. A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog. I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs. Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy. Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother. Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale? Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered. The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother. Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki. No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life. Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover. An Earth tabu? Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that. <doc-sep>Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars. Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add thought to the statute). Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days? The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it? Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence. <doc-sep>A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. Theface on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: Our pencils are finestfrom point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comesfrom Dschubba. Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know. The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybodywould watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit offree enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we? Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not. And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury. How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured,abashed. Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name isPierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card. Hehanded Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpentersuspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, hisaddress, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a characterof the utmost respectability. My name's Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.I'm afraid I don't have any cards. Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you'vejust come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be throughignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn'tunderstand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of TheLaw is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. Forinstance, your hands.... Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly goodhands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them? Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn't you know that on Electra itis forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare? Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what's that gotto do with me? The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, itbecomes automatically prohibited here. But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested,with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales. Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so whilelying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal? Of course not, but— Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails? Certainly not, but— Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before thedreaded word— intolerance ? No, no, no ! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for himto be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lotsof gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I'll put some onright away. <doc-sep>With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack downfrom the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device hadbeen invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows,hoop-shaped. Michael pushed the button marked Gloves A , and a pair of yellowgauntlets slid out. Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. Yellow is the color of deathon Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passingaway! No one ever wears yellow! Sorry, Michael said humbly. The button marked Gloves B yielded apair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunicand turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects. The quality's high, sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,but the price is meager. You know when you buy Plummy Fruitcake fromVega. The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. You staying a while inPortyork? Michael nodded. Then you'd better stick close to me for awhile until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourselfuntil you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get intotrouble. Thank you, sir, Michael said gratefully. It's very kind of you. He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet busand his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck hishead against the bottom of the shelf above. Awfully inconvenientarrangement here, he commented. Wonder why they don't have seats. Because this arrangement, Carpenter said stiffly, is the one thathas proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms. Oh, I see, Michael murmured. I didn't get a look at the otherpassengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus? Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing? A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thoughtit arose from defective jets. Oh, yes! he agreed. And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad. Sirians are always sad, the salesman told him. Listen. <doc-sep>Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough,he could make out words: Our wings were unfurled in a far distantworld, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, willwe see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.... Carpenter brushed away a tear. Poignant, isn't it? Very, very touching, Michael agreed. Are they sick or something? Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were.They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why theyleave Sirius in such great numbers. Fasten your suction disks, please, the stewardess, a prettytwo-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to allpassengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted intothe Union early this morning. All the passengers cheered. Since it is considered immodest on Zosma, she continued, ever toappear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen inpublic without some sort of head-covering. Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searchingtheir packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap. The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat inpiercingly bright green. Always got to keep on your toes, he whispered to the younger man.The Universe is expanding every minute. The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew,floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around himcuriously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such ofthose as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets. Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids fromVega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing tocompare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbedtentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians ploddedalongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless otherswhom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality. The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings renderedkaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights andbanners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-greencloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-greenbreeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhatless pudgy man. <doc-sep>Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediatebusiness, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would youlike to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid? Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I'd like to do is getmyself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished.Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously andscuttled off on six legs apiece. Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew theyouth to a secluded corner. Don't you know that on Theemim it'sfrightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public? But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What's wrong witheating in public here on Earth? Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. Hush, hecautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or evenmention in public, aren't there? Well, yes. But those are different. Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have acceptedthe Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violatedone of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of theTheemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do untoextraterrestrials as you would be done by.' But I'm still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice,however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starveto death, or can I get something to eat somewhere? Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for allbodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently locatedthroughout the port, and there must be some on the field. After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females werewatching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field andpressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant. That's the nearest one, Carpenter explained. <doc-sep>Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusivelymarked Feeding Station, Carpenter showed Michael where to insert atwo-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael intoa tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a foodcompartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid syntheticsand was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures wastetime and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all amatter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried tochew food that was meant to be gulped. A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. Do you suffer fromgastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horridcondition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair. Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartmentto find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing atthe luminous time dial embedded in his wrist. Let's go to the Old Town, he suggested to Michael. It will be ofgreat interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself. A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were linedup in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages ofthe tour he offered: Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor. If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica. Movid stars go to Mars. Carpenter smiled politely at them. No space trips for us today,gentlemen. We're staying on Terra. He guided the bewildered young manthrough the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number ofsurface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing forbusiness. Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady,lined with luxury hukka fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rarescents from Algedi. Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my finecab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—seea passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuingEliza. All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your raceor your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who ridesin the taxi from Earth. Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way? Michaelfaltered. Carpenter stared. Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk morethan two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk. But they have no feet. That has nothing whatsoever to do with it. <doc-sep>Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... whichreeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. No, no!Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would breakthe driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't wantto be had up for ego injury, would you? Of course not, Michael whispered weakly. Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer, the advideo informedhim, when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara. After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five andwas able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork,the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, themost cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well asits inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tallhelical edifices of the Venusians. You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reachedarchitecture, Carpenter pointed out. See those period houses in theFrank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner? Very quaint, Michael commented. Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it wasstill daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped outfrom the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquireabout this, We now interrupt the commercials, the advideo said, tobring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that arebecoming so popular.... I shall scream, stated Carpenter, if they play Beautiful BlueDeneb just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heardthis before. Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking, sang a buxom Betelgeusian, whata Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace thewasteful sea. I guess the first thing for me to do, Michael began in a businesslikemanner, is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now? The word hotel , Carpenter explained through pursed lips, isnot used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasantconnotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think.... Certainly not, Michael agreed austerely. I merely want a lodging. That word is also—well, you see, Carpenter told him, on Zaniah itis unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family. They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean. More like bees. So those creatures who travel— Carpenter lowered hisvoice modestly — alone hire a family for the duration of their stay.There are a number of families available, but the better types comerather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned pricecontrols, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise asmuch as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would. <doc-sep>The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices. This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand. The pictures in my history books— Michael began. Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word history ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir. Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part. Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble. He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air. I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it. Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too. Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away. <doc-sep>A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly overTimes Square. Izarians, Carpenter explained They're much in demand for Christmasdisplays. The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: Itcame upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angelsbending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth,good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universeas well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash thecymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's. This beautiful walk you see before you, Carpenter said, waving anexpository arm, shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is calledBroadway. To your left you will be delighted to see— Listen, could we— Michael began. —Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second— By the way— It is extremely rude and hence illegal, Carpenter glared, tointerrupt anyone who is speaking. But I would like, Michael whispered very earnestly, to get washed.If I might. The other man frowned. Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarkswas converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions.Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have totake a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know. A taxi? Isn't there one closer? Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. Theinstallations are extremely expensive. They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the varietyequipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief. Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in aremarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures inhis history—in his books, except that none of them showed the hugegolden sign Public-Washport riding on its spire. Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. A group Vegans, fourteenth floorright. B group, fourteenth floor left. C group, fifteenth floorright. D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor.Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left.Uranians, basement.... Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed,translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanyingthemselves on wemps , a cross between a harp and a flute. Foreignplanets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheresprove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the skyto the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; onecredit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too: Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive,for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some useoil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rubwith grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lickthemselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook itaway in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there arethan I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one thatworks for all is Omniclene from Kiffa. <doc-sep>And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, wemust see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourselfbeneath your station. Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhingOnly 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky. They won't be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean? Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time youchoose. But why are you so anxious? The young man blushed. Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my ownsome day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact. Carpenter beamed. That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it'san Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted byextraterrestrials. Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl,you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind inPortyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and.... Married! Carpenter was now completely shocked. You mustn't usethat word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusivepossession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wantedher also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not havingher, would you? Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would. Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, Iwould report you. Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You meanif I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her? Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, thatis. Then I'm not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admiteven to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don'tthink I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood. There was a short cold silence. You know, son, Carpenter finally said, I think you might be right.I don't want to hurt your feelings—you promise I won't hurt yourfeelings? he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he mightcall a policeman for ego injury. You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter. Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannotadapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better forthem to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in oneof the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious thoughthey are. Much better, Michael agreed. By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgarcuriosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer withoutfear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girlwhen you belong to a Brotherhood? Michael laughed. Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Bothsexes are represented in our society. On Talitha— Carpenter began. I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was andalways would be. But our females don't mind being generic. <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></s>

Mr. Carpenter is the first acquaintance Michael makes on his trip into the world. They are companions on the bus to Portyork. At first, Michael is unwilling to talk and Carpenter is curious to know about the reasons for the former to join a Brotherhood. Soon, Carpenter realizes that Michael is unfamiliar with the ways of this world and decides to take charge and show the youth around. Carpenter forgives Michael's every mistake and explains it, warning the youth to become silent in case of danger. Carpenter is more forgiving and kind than many other citizens, which is the reason for him taking charge of Michael. The man shows the newcomer around the city and prevents him from getting in trouble. Carpenter even defends Michael before an offended Meropian, who wants to report to the police. Things change when Michael begins an argument with Carpenter regarding marriage, which has been outlawed. Michael's desire to possess his girl alone contradicts the norms of the world and the youth's obstinance in this desire shock Carpenter completely. When he learns that in the Brotherhood both sexes are represented and marriage, which equals slavery to him, exists, Carpenter becomes sure that Michael can't adapt to the civilized world. After that, each goes his way.

<s> The Beast-Jewel of Mars By V. E. THIESSEN The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal. One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you. He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city . He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human. His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin. He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back. He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real. He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again. The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them. He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks. When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city. When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound. A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers. The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth! The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes. <doc-sep>When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city. The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe. The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city. He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back. And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame. He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity. And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate. He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again. He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all. He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions. And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted. The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again. He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been. Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left. The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again. He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you? The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled: Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal. Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest. Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal. <doc-sep>The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city. He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city. The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist. Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city. Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you? Yes. The Legend said you'd be back. Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy? Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze. Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders? We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back. After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run! They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight. Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them. Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street. For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one. Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun. There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it. There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious. He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy? There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout. <doc-sep>Then one of the men cried, Fools! It is true. We must take no chancewith the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,then we may forget the prophesy. The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, Get the sword, get theguards, and kill him at once! Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors werealert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamedwith the pain. The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothinggleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped beforeEric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cutdownward across Eric's neck. A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, Hold! And amurmur of respect rippled through the crowd. Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes. Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. Shewas mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young andher hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly acrossthe fur street that no one had been aware of her presence. She said, Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart sothat I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give meyour hand, stranger. She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shookhis arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield. He tensed hismuscles and began to pull. She cried, No! You fool. Come up on the horse, and pulled back withan energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, andthe animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo offreedom. Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the youngsuppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirlingback into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scentthat made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,oddly happy as they rode. After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of thecity. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and itcontrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouchedamong enemies. The girl halted before the structure and said, Dismount here, Eric. Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he hadheld her. She said, Knock three times on the door. I will see youagain inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here. Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, madeof a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,but a more timeless, more functional beauty. The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. Come in. The Councilawaits you. Follow me, please. Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room wasobviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in theroom, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in achair at the base of the T-shaped table. There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Ericwatched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her placethere. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it hadlacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviouslypresiding here looked at Eric and spoke. I am Kroon, the eldest ofthe elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of youridentity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to somesort of explanation. He glanced around the room and asked, What isthe judgment of the elders? <doc-sep>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City? Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt. Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city? Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things. Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette. Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars. This whole city is a machine! Eric asked. Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality. Eric stared. The idea was staggering. This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it. Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely. Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City? Yes. The time has come. But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building. Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here. Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city. We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come. Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric? For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return. Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now? Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire. My brother, Garve. What about him? He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Eric North, a man from Earth, is lying on his stomach and thinking whether he should go down to the bottom of the canal before him, where the beauty of the fabled city of Mars calls the youth. After a short resistance, Eric surrenders to the call of the city, rushes towards it and starts beating the gate to get in. Upon hearing Eric's name, the sentinel screams it out loud and strikes the man with hatred, mentioning some kind of a legend. A crowd full of hatred gathers, but Eric manages to escape from the city. Nevertheless, it calls again and he starts pleading at the gates to be let back, even though he knows it's insane. Shortly after, Eric realizes, with the help of taking off his hat, that the beauty is an illusion and walks away on a safe distance. He figures out putting the hat on and off confuses the machine and the illusion disappears. He decides to destroy the city without exploring further not to put himself and his brother in danger. Nevertheless, turns out that Garve, the brother, followed his curiosity and went to the city. When the two meet, Garve takes off Eric's head and mentions the legend about Eric which everyone in the city believes. While heading to the city center, the two are followed and Garve asks his brother not to use the gun, which results in Eric's capture. Eric bluffs, threatening people with the prophecy, but they decide to kill him. A respected young woman, Nolette, suddenly saves him and brings before the council. There Eric learns the story of the city, which is a small colony of those who chose to remain on Mars during the drought and a machine was created there to translate thought into reality. Now people become lustful, lose their will to learn and many of those banished have lost their minds. That's why the city has to be destroyed and Eric is the instrument. Then Eric is led to his quarters in the building of the Elders, and his brother stays in the city as well, though in another place.

<s> The Beast-Jewel of Mars By V. E. THIESSEN The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal. One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you. He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city . He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human. His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin. He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back. He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real. He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again. The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them. He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks. When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city. When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound. A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers. The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth! The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes. <doc-sep>When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city. The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe. The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city. He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back. And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame. He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity. And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate. He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again. He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all. He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions. And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted. The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again. He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been. Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left. The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again. He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you? The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled: Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal. Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest. Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal. <doc-sep>The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city. He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city. The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist. Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city. Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you? Yes. The Legend said you'd be back. Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy? Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze. Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders? We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back. After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run! They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight. Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them. Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street. For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one. Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun. There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it. There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious. He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy? There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout. <doc-sep>Then one of the men cried, Fools! It is true. We must take no chancewith the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,then we may forget the prophesy. The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, Get the sword, get theguards, and kill him at once! Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors werealert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamedwith the pain. The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothinggleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped beforeEric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cutdownward across Eric's neck. A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, Hold! And amurmur of respect rippled through the crowd. Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes. Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. Shewas mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young andher hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly acrossthe fur street that no one had been aware of her presence. She said, Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart sothat I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give meyour hand, stranger. She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shookhis arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield. He tensed hismuscles and began to pull. She cried, No! You fool. Come up on the horse, and pulled back withan energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, andthe animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo offreedom. Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the youngsuppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirlingback into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scentthat made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,oddly happy as they rode. After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of thecity. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and itcontrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouchedamong enemies. The girl halted before the structure and said, Dismount here, Eric. Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he hadheld her. She said, Knock three times on the door. I will see youagain inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here. Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, madeof a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,but a more timeless, more functional beauty. The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. Come in. The Councilawaits you. Follow me, please. Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room wasobviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in theroom, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in achair at the base of the T-shaped table. There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Ericwatched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her placethere. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it hadlacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviouslypresiding here looked at Eric and spoke. I am Kroon, the eldest ofthe elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of youridentity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to somesort of explanation. He glanced around the room and asked, What isthe judgment of the elders? <doc-sep>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City? Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt. Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city? Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things. Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette. Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars. This whole city is a machine! Eric asked. Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality. Eric stared. The idea was staggering. This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it. Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely. Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City? Yes. The time has come. But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building. Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here. Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city. We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come. Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric? For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return. Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now? Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire. My brother, Garve. What about him? He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Eric sees the citizens in the most beautiful way and is willing to join them. They, on the contrary, meet him with hatred as they hear his name. The citizens surround and try to attack Eric, they are superstitious and believe him to be the destroyer of the city from the legends. The Elders from the Council send one of them to save Eric. They also believe him to be part of the legend, but they know more about the city and the machine. They think that it's time for the city to be destroyed as it has changed, the machine doesn't do good anymore. Nolette, the daughter of the city, also believes Eric to be the legend and stops the crowd with the use of her authority from killing him. Eric is overwhelmed and he obeys the council, listening with curiosity. He also feels happiness near the girl.

<s> The Beast-Jewel of Mars By V. E. THIESSEN The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal. One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you. He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city . He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human. His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin. He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back. He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real. He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again. The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them. He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks. When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city. When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound. A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers. The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth! The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes. <doc-sep>When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city. The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe. The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city. He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back. And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame. He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity. And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate. He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again. He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all. He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions. And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted. The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again. He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been. Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left. The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again. He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you? The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled: Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal. Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest. Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal. <doc-sep>The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city. He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city. The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist. Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city. Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you? Yes. The Legend said you'd be back. Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy? Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze. Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders? We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back. After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run! They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight. Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them. Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street. For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one. Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun. There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it. There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious. He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy? There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout. <doc-sep>Then one of the men cried, Fools! It is true. We must take no chancewith the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,then we may forget the prophesy. The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, Get the sword, get theguards, and kill him at once! Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors werealert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamedwith the pain. The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothinggleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped beforeEric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cutdownward across Eric's neck. A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, Hold! And amurmur of respect rippled through the crowd. Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes. Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. Shewas mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young andher hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly acrossthe fur street that no one had been aware of her presence. She said, Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart sothat I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give meyour hand, stranger. She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shookhis arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield. He tensed hismuscles and began to pull. She cried, No! You fool. Come up on the horse, and pulled back withan energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, andthe animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo offreedom. Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the youngsuppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirlingback into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scentthat made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,oddly happy as they rode. After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of thecity. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and itcontrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouchedamong enemies. The girl halted before the structure and said, Dismount here, Eric. Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he hadheld her. She said, Knock three times on the door. I will see youagain inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here. Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, madeof a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,but a more timeless, more functional beauty. The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. Come in. The Councilawaits you. Follow me, please. Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room wasobviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in theroom, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in achair at the base of the T-shaped table. There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Ericwatched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her placethere. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it hadlacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviouslypresiding here looked at Eric and spoke. I am Kroon, the eldest ofthe elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of youridentity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to somesort of explanation. He glanced around the room and asked, What isthe judgment of the elders? <doc-sep>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City? Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt. Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city? Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things. Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette. Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars. This whole city is a machine! Eric asked. Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality. Eric stared. The idea was staggering. This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it. Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely. Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City? Yes. The time has come. But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building. Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here. Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city. We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come. Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric? For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return. Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now? Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire. My brother, Garve. What about him? He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The city is located on Mars. It was created a long time ago when Mars was flourishing. When most Martians left the planet because of the drought, a small colony remained in this place. Back then a machine, which is the whole city, was created to protect this small group. The machine translates thought into reality. It was used for the people in the city to receive all the necessary for life. At first, Eric considered it an illusion. The city captures thoughts with the use of a device and Eric's hat was an obstacle. Putting it on and off confused the machine and Eric was able to see the real ugliness of the city. When one gets into the radius of the machine, he is also called by it and can not refuse the city's beauty. When one doesn't look at the beautiful city, a voice still calls him. Many try to make their lustful desires real, they are banished for that and go mad. That's why the machine is not doing only good things anymore and should be destroyed in accordance with the prophecy. There is the council in the center of the city, whose Eldest know all about the origin of the machine. The members of the council, such as the daughter of the city, are respected by all the citizens.

<s> The Beast-Jewel of Mars By V. E. THIESSEN The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal. One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you. He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city . He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human. His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin. He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back. He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real. He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again. The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them. He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks. When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city. When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound. A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers. The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth! The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes. <doc-sep>When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city. The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe. The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city. He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back. And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame. He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity. And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate. He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again. He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all. He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions. And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted. The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again. He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been. Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left. The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again. He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you? The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled: Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal. Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest. Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal. <doc-sep>The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city. He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city. The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist. Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city. Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you? Yes. The Legend said you'd be back. Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy? Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze. Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders? We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back. After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run! They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight. Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them. Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street. For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one. Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun. There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it. There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious. He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy? There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout. <doc-sep>Then one of the men cried, Fools! It is true. We must take no chancewith the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,then we may forget the prophesy. The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, Get the sword, get theguards, and kill him at once! Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors werealert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamedwith the pain. The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothinggleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped beforeEric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cutdownward across Eric's neck. A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, Hold! And amurmur of respect rippled through the crowd. Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes. Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. Shewas mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young andher hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly acrossthe fur street that no one had been aware of her presence. She said, Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart sothat I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give meyour hand, stranger. She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shookhis arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield. He tensed hismuscles and began to pull. She cried, No! You fool. Come up on the horse, and pulled back withan energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, andthe animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo offreedom. Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the youngsuppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirlingback into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scentthat made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,oddly happy as they rode. After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of thecity. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and itcontrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouchedamong enemies. The girl halted before the structure and said, Dismount here, Eric. Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he hadheld her. She said, Knock three times on the door. I will see youagain inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here. Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, madeof a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,but a more timeless, more functional beauty. The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. Come in. The Councilawaits you. Follow me, please. Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room wasobviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in theroom, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in achair at the base of the T-shaped table. There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Ericwatched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her placethere. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it hadlacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviouslypresiding here looked at Eric and spoke. I am Kroon, the eldest ofthe elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of youridentity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to somesort of explanation. He glanced around the room and asked, What isthe judgment of the elders? <doc-sep>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City? Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt. Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city? Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things. Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette. Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars. This whole city is a machine! Eric asked. Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality. Eric stared. The idea was staggering. This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it. Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely. Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City? Yes. The time has come. But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building. Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here. Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city. We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come. Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric? For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return. Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now? Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire. My brother, Garve. What about him? He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The story begins in in the desert on Mars, on the edge of a canal. In the bottom of the canal there is a fabulous city with the spires and minarets. Following the main character, the setting moves closer to the city, all the way through red dust everywhere around. The city is surrounded with a high wall and a heavy gate carved with lotus blossoms. Inside the gate there is a sentinel with a sword and a crowd surrounds the character soon. He then escapes to the desert with its dust again and suddenly sees the city in an ugly way, the whole setting becomes disgusting and sordid. It keeps changing from beautiful to ugliness then while Eric goes away up the rocky sides of the canal to the desert. From there he moves to the ship. The ship is familiar to the character, though it's unlocked and empty. Eric returns to the city and starts going around the wall. Together with his brother he enters the city and heads to its center, the city seems beautiful and ugly at the same time while the helmet is still on Eric. Without it the city is more beautiful than ever. He follows his brother down a street of blue fur, then they ran from persecutors and Eric hid in a crevice between two buildings. from there some people captured Eric and moved to the center of the street.Then, Eric is saved by a girl and escapes on a horse. The setting moves to the door of the house of the Council and Eric enters. He goes into a large conference room through the hallway. There is a great T-table with six people sitting.

<s> The Beast-Jewel of Mars By V. E. THIESSEN The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal. One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you. He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city . He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human. His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin. He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back. He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real. He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again. The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them. He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks. When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city. When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound. A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers. The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth! The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes. <doc-sep>When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city. The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe. The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city. He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back. And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame. He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity. And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate. He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again. He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all. He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions. And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted. The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again. He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been. Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left. The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again. He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you? The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled: Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal. Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest. Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal. <doc-sep>The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city. He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city. The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist. Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city. Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you? Yes. The Legend said you'd be back. Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy? Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze. Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders? We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back. After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run! They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight. Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them. Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street. For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one. Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun. There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it. There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious. He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy? There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout. <doc-sep>Then one of the men cried, Fools! It is true. We must take no chancewith the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,then we may forget the prophesy. The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, Get the sword, get theguards, and kill him at once! Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors werealert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamedwith the pain. The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothinggleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped beforeEric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cutdownward across Eric's neck. A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, Hold! And amurmur of respect rippled through the crowd. Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes. Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. Shewas mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young andher hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly acrossthe fur street that no one had been aware of her presence. She said, Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart sothat I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give meyour hand, stranger. She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shookhis arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield. He tensed hismuscles and began to pull. She cried, No! You fool. Come up on the horse, and pulled back withan energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, andthe animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo offreedom. Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the youngsuppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirlingback into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scentthat made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,oddly happy as they rode. After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of thecity. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and itcontrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouchedamong enemies. The girl halted before the structure and said, Dismount here, Eric. Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he hadheld her. She said, Knock three times on the door. I will see youagain inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here. Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, madeof a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,but a more timeless, more functional beauty. The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. Come in. The Councilawaits you. Follow me, please. Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room wasobviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in theroom, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in achair at the base of the T-shaped table. There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Ericwatched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her placethere. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it hadlacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviouslypresiding here looked at Eric and spoke. I am Kroon, the eldest ofthe elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of youridentity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to somesort of explanation. He glanced around the room and asked, What isthe judgment of the elders? <doc-sep>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City? Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt. Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city? Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things. Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette. Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars. This whole city is a machine! Eric asked. Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality. Eric stared. The idea was staggering. This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it. Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely. Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City? Yes. The time has come. But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building. Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here. Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city. We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come. Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric? For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return. Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now? Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire. My brother, Garve. What about him? He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Eric is determined to destroy the city without exploring it, no matter how tempting it is. But Garve's note forces the eldest brother to follow and help his brother out. The whole course of events changes and Eric has to return to the city, which he left with such an effort. This leads to Eric being endangered, captured and almost killed. From another point, it leads to Eric learning more about the city and they legend. If he destroyed the city as he wanted to, he would fulfill the prophecy without knowing. He would have considered the whole city an illusion without knowing it was a machine initially created for a good purpose. His return to the city also leads to his encounter with the beautiful girl, whose presence makes Eric happy.

<s> PRISON PLANET By BOB TUCKER To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay days of flight away. And there was only a surface rocket in which to escape—with a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Listen, Rat! Roberds said, what I say goes around here. It doesn'thappen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits,and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney willbe in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat,get this: I'm going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate orno Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth becausethis is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than myposition, to me at any rate. His tone dropped to a deadly softness.Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office? Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered thewoman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look,wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met thestare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Grayalmost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it. Won't go! The Centaurian resumed his fight. You not go, lose job,black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know. He retreateda precious step to escape a rolled up fist. Little ship carry fournice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in watertanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards,allright. I pilot ship. Yes? No! Roberds screamed. Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in theoffice froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared throughthe narrow door. Peterson, the field manager ordered, come over here and help methrow this rat out.... He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of hischair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly. No need, no need, no need! he said quickly. I go. Still backing, heblindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night. <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>Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel,checked the concentrated rations and grunted. Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. The boss said stripher, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside. He followed theCentaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock.The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building.On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. All set. Roberds nodded at him. Stick with it! and jerked a thumb at Ratoutside. Grease nodded understanding. Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now. He dropped the ladder against thewall and sat on it. Good night. He watched Rat walk slowly away. Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught asibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again. Here ... can you see me? A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Ratregarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and hestepped to the sill. Yes?—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droningconversation drifted in. What you want? Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: Can you pilotthat ship? Her voice was shaky. He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearlyas he detected it in her words. Well, can you? she demanded. Damn yes! he stated simply. It now necessary? Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight.And ... well, we want you to pilot it! She refuses to riskMr. Roberds' job. She favors you. Rat stepped back, astonished. She? Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in theroom, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. My patient, Nurse Grayexplained. She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please,can you? Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from thewindow. Almost immediately, he was back again. When? he whispered. As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...? but he had gone again.Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning,she saw him back again. Blankets, he instructed. Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrapgood! And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion hedisappeared upwards. She ran over to the girl. Judith, if you want to back down, now is thetime. He'll be back in a moment. No! Judith moaned. No! Gray smiled in the darkness and beganwrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the windowannounced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, sawhim out there with arms upstretched. Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go. She picked up the blanketedgirl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily asshe was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared againinstantly. Better lock window, he cautioned. Stall, if Boss call. Backsoon.... and he was gone. To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatientagonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety. <doc-sep>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>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>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>They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented bythe knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by adried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangelybitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright inthe hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervoushand, wiped damp hair from about her face. I have to have a drink. Rat stared at her without answer. I said, I have to have a drink! Heard you. Well...? Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer. She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and madehis way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. Dolike this, he called over his shoulder. Gravity punk too. Back andunder, gravity. He waited until she joined him at the water tap. They stood there glaring idiotically at each other. She burst out laughing. They even threw the drinking cups out! Ratinched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet. Faugh! Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, satdown on the deck and spat out the water. It's hot! It tastes like helland it's hot! It must be fuel! Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthfulhe swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly hecontrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and letsome of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed andit cost him something. No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in.Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank! But what makes it so hot? She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the tasteof the fuel. Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m. H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what? Flip-flop. He could talk with his hands as well. Hot side over likepancake. Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimentalflick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed bya quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening hisbelt. H-m-m-m-m-m-m, the lower lip protruded. Gray protested. Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa— theword was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filledthe vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that hadsuddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and anothernew, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place wasempty. Bare. No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight inthe corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded upward , beadsglistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention againand she looked up. Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down ather, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat.He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse. Flip-flop, he laconically explained. For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat! Gladney groaned. Turn me over on myback! Do something! Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot thehammocks on their rope-axis. And now, please, just how do I get into mine? she bit at Rat. <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>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><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> PRISON PLANET By BOB TUCKER To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay days of flight away. And there was only a surface rocket in which to escape—with a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Listen, Rat! Roberds said, what I say goes around here. It doesn'thappen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits,and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney willbe in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat,get this: I'm going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate orno Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth becausethis is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than myposition, to me at any rate. His tone dropped to a deadly softness.Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office? Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered thewoman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look,wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met thestare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Grayalmost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it. Won't go! The Centaurian resumed his fight. You not go, lose job,black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know. He retreateda precious step to escape a rolled up fist. Little ship carry fournice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in watertanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards,allright. I pilot ship. Yes? No! Roberds screamed. Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in theoffice froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared throughthe narrow door. Peterson, the field manager ordered, come over here and help methrow this rat out.... He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of hischair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly. No need, no need, no need! he said quickly. I go. Still backing, heblindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night. <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>Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel,checked the concentrated rations and grunted. Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. The boss said stripher, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside. He followed theCentaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock.The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building.On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. All set. Roberds nodded at him. Stick with it! and jerked a thumb at Ratoutside. Grease nodded understanding. Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now. He dropped the ladder against thewall and sat on it. Good night. He watched Rat walk slowly away. Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught asibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again. Here ... can you see me? A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Ratregarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and hestepped to the sill. Yes?—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droningconversation drifted in. What you want? Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: Can you pilotthat ship? Her voice was shaky. He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearlyas he detected it in her words. Well, can you? she demanded. Damn yes! he stated simply. It now necessary? Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight.And ... well, we want you to pilot it! She refuses to riskMr. Roberds' job. She favors you. Rat stepped back, astonished. She? Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in theroom, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. My patient, Nurse Grayexplained. She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please,can you? Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from thewindow. Almost immediately, he was back again. When? he whispered. As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...? but he had gone again.Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning,she saw him back again. Blankets, he instructed. Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrapgood! And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion hedisappeared upwards. She ran over to the girl. Judith, if you want to back down, now is thetime. He'll be back in a moment. No! Judith moaned. No! Gray smiled in the darkness and beganwrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the windowannounced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, sawhim out there with arms upstretched. Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go. She picked up the blanketedgirl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily asshe was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared againinstantly. Better lock window, he cautioned. Stall, if Boss call. Backsoon.... and he was gone. To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatientagonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety. <doc-sep>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>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>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>They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented bythe knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by adried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangelybitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright inthe hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervoushand, wiped damp hair from about her face. I have to have a drink. Rat stared at her without answer. I said, I have to have a drink! Heard you. Well...? Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer. She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and madehis way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. Dolike this, he called over his shoulder. Gravity punk too. Back andunder, gravity. He waited until she joined him at the water tap. They stood there glaring idiotically at each other. She burst out laughing. They even threw the drinking cups out! Ratinched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet. Faugh! Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, satdown on the deck and spat out the water. It's hot! It tastes like helland it's hot! It must be fuel! Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthfulhe swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly hecontrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and letsome of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed andit cost him something. No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in.Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank! But what makes it so hot? She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the tasteof the fuel. Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m. H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what? Flip-flop. He could talk with his hands as well. Hot side over likepancake. Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimentalflick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed bya quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening hisbelt. H-m-m-m-m-m-m, the lower lip protruded. Gray protested. Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa— theword was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filledthe vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that hadsuddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and anothernew, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place wasempty. Bare. No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight inthe corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded upward , beadsglistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention againand she looked up. Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down ather, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat.He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse. Flip-flop, he laconically explained. For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat! Gladney groaned. Turn me over on myback! Do something! Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot thehammocks on their rope-axis. And now, please, just how do I get into mine? she bit at Rat. <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>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><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> PRISON PLANET By BOB TUCKER To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay days of flight away. And there was only a surface rocket in which to escape—with a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Listen, Rat! Roberds said, what I say goes around here. It doesn'thappen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits,and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney willbe in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat,get this: I'm going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate orno Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth becausethis is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than myposition, to me at any rate. His tone dropped to a deadly softness.Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office? Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered thewoman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look,wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met thestare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Grayalmost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it. Won't go! The Centaurian resumed his fight. You not go, lose job,black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know. He retreateda precious step to escape a rolled up fist. Little ship carry fournice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in watertanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards,allright. I pilot ship. Yes? No! Roberds screamed. Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in theoffice froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared throughthe narrow door. Peterson, the field manager ordered, come over here and help methrow this rat out.... He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of hischair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly. No need, no need, no need! he said quickly. I go. Still backing, heblindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night. <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>Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel,checked the concentrated rations and grunted. Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. The boss said stripher, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside. He followed theCentaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock.The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building.On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. All set. Roberds nodded at him. Stick with it! and jerked a thumb at Ratoutside. Grease nodded understanding. Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now. He dropped the ladder against thewall and sat on it. Good night. He watched Rat walk slowly away. Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught asibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again. Here ... can you see me? A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Ratregarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and hestepped to the sill. Yes?—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droningconversation drifted in. What you want? Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: Can you pilotthat ship? Her voice was shaky. He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearlyas he detected it in her words. Well, can you? she demanded. Damn yes! he stated simply. It now necessary? Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight.And ... well, we want you to pilot it! She refuses to riskMr. Roberds' job. She favors you. Rat stepped back, astonished. She? Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in theroom, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. My patient, Nurse Grayexplained. She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please,can you? Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from thewindow. Almost immediately, he was back again. When? he whispered. As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...? but he had gone again.Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning,she saw him back again. Blankets, he instructed. Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrapgood! And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion hedisappeared upwards. She ran over to the girl. Judith, if you want to back down, now is thetime. He'll be back in a moment. No! Judith moaned. No! Gray smiled in the darkness and beganwrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the windowannounced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, sawhim out there with arms upstretched. Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go. She picked up the blanketedgirl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily asshe was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared againinstantly. Better lock window, he cautioned. Stall, if Boss call. Backsoon.... and he was gone. To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatientagonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety. <doc-sep>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>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>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>They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented bythe knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by adried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangelybitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright inthe hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervoushand, wiped damp hair from about her face. I have to have a drink. Rat stared at her without answer. I said, I have to have a drink! Heard you. Well...? Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer. She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and madehis way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. Dolike this, he called over his shoulder. Gravity punk too. Back andunder, gravity. He waited until she joined him at the water tap. They stood there glaring idiotically at each other. She burst out laughing. They even threw the drinking cups out! Ratinched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet. Faugh! Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, satdown on the deck and spat out the water. It's hot! It tastes like helland it's hot! It must be fuel! Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthfulhe swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly hecontrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and letsome of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed andit cost him something. No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in.Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank! But what makes it so hot? She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the tasteof the fuel. Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m. H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what? Flip-flop. He could talk with his hands as well. Hot side over likepancake. Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimentalflick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed bya quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening hisbelt. H-m-m-m-m-m-m, the lower lip protruded. Gray protested. Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa— theword was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filledthe vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that hadsuddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and anothernew, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place wasempty. Bare. No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight inthe corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded upward , beadsglistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention againand she looked up. Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down ather, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat.He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse. Flip-flop, he laconically explained. For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat! Gladney groaned. Turn me over on myback! Do something! Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot thehammocks on their rope-axis. And now, please, just how do I get into mine? she bit at Rat. <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>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><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> PRISON PLANET By BOB TUCKER To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay days of flight away. And there was only a surface rocket in which to escape—with a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Listen, Rat! Roberds said, what I say goes around here. It doesn'thappen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits,and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney willbe in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat,get this: I'm going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate orno Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth becausethis is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than myposition, to me at any rate. His tone dropped to a deadly softness.Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office? Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered thewoman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look,wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met thestare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Grayalmost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it. Won't go! The Centaurian resumed his fight. You not go, lose job,black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know. He retreateda precious step to escape a rolled up fist. Little ship carry fournice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in watertanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards,allright. I pilot ship. Yes? No! Roberds screamed. Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in theoffice froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared throughthe narrow door. Peterson, the field manager ordered, come over here and help methrow this rat out.... He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of hischair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly. No need, no need, no need! he said quickly. I go. Still backing, heblindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night. <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>Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel,checked the concentrated rations and grunted. Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. The boss said stripher, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside. He followed theCentaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock.The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building.On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. All set. Roberds nodded at him. Stick with it! and jerked a thumb at Ratoutside. Grease nodded understanding. Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now. He dropped the ladder against thewall and sat on it. Good night. He watched Rat walk slowly away. Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught asibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again. Here ... can you see me? A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Ratregarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and hestepped to the sill. Yes?—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droningconversation drifted in. What you want? Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: Can you pilotthat ship? Her voice was shaky. He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearlyas he detected it in her words. Well, can you? she demanded. Damn yes! he stated simply. It now necessary? Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight.And ... well, we want you to pilot it! She refuses to riskMr. Roberds' job. She favors you. Rat stepped back, astonished. She? Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in theroom, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. My patient, Nurse Grayexplained. She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please,can you? Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from thewindow. Almost immediately, he was back again. When? he whispered. As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...? but he had gone again.Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning,she saw him back again. Blankets, he instructed. Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrapgood! And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion hedisappeared upwards. She ran over to the girl. Judith, if you want to back down, now is thetime. He'll be back in a moment. No! Judith moaned. No! Gray smiled in the darkness and beganwrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the windowannounced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, sawhim out there with arms upstretched. Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go. She picked up the blanketedgirl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily asshe was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared againinstantly. Better lock window, he cautioned. Stall, if Boss call. Backsoon.... and he was gone. To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatientagonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety. <doc-sep>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>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>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>They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented bythe knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by adried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangelybitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright inthe hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervoushand, wiped damp hair from about her face. I have to have a drink. Rat stared at her without answer. I said, I have to have a drink! Heard you. Well...? Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer. She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and madehis way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. Dolike this, he called over his shoulder. Gravity punk too. Back andunder, gravity. He waited until she joined him at the water tap. They stood there glaring idiotically at each other. She burst out laughing. They even threw the drinking cups out! Ratinched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet. Faugh! Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, satdown on the deck and spat out the water. It's hot! It tastes like helland it's hot! It must be fuel! Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthfulhe swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly hecontrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and letsome of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed andit cost him something. No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in.Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank! But what makes it so hot? She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the tasteof the fuel. Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m. H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what? Flip-flop. He could talk with his hands as well. Hot side over likepancake. Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimentalflick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed bya quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening hisbelt. H-m-m-m-m-m-m, the lower lip protruded. Gray protested. Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa— theword was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filledthe vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that hadsuddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and anothernew, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place wasempty. Bare. No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight inthe corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded upward , beadsglistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention againand she looked up. Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down ather, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat.He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse. Flip-flop, he laconically explained. For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat! Gladney groaned. Turn me over on myback! Do something! Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot thehammocks on their rope-axis. And now, please, just how do I get into mine? she bit at Rat. <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>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><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> PRISON PLANET By BOB TUCKER To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay days of flight away. And there was only a surface rocket in which to escape—with a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Listen, Rat! Roberds said, what I say goes around here. It doesn'thappen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits,and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney willbe in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat,get this: I'm going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate orno Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth becausethis is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than myposition, to me at any rate. His tone dropped to a deadly softness.Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office? Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered thewoman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look,wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met thestare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Grayalmost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it. Won't go! The Centaurian resumed his fight. You not go, lose job,black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know. He retreateda precious step to escape a rolled up fist. Little ship carry fournice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in watertanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards,allright. I pilot ship. Yes? No! Roberds screamed. Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in theoffice froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared throughthe narrow door. Peterson, the field manager ordered, come over here and help methrow this rat out.... He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of hischair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly. No need, no need, no need! he said quickly. I go. Still backing, heblindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night. <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>Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel,checked the concentrated rations and grunted. Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. The boss said stripher, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside. He followed theCentaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock.The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building.On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. All set. Roberds nodded at him. Stick with it! and jerked a thumb at Ratoutside. Grease nodded understanding. Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now. He dropped the ladder against thewall and sat on it. Good night. He watched Rat walk slowly away. Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught asibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again. Here ... can you see me? A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Ratregarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and hestepped to the sill. Yes?—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droningconversation drifted in. What you want? Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: Can you pilotthat ship? Her voice was shaky. He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearlyas he detected it in her words. Well, can you? she demanded. Damn yes! he stated simply. It now necessary? Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight.And ... well, we want you to pilot it! She refuses to riskMr. Roberds' job. She favors you. Rat stepped back, astonished. She? Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in theroom, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. My patient, Nurse Grayexplained. She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please,can you? Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from thewindow. Almost immediately, he was back again. When? he whispered. As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...? but he had gone again.Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning,she saw him back again. Blankets, he instructed. Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrapgood! And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion hedisappeared upwards. She ran over to the girl. Judith, if you want to back down, now is thetime. He'll be back in a moment. No! Judith moaned. No! Gray smiled in the darkness and beganwrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the windowannounced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, sawhim out there with arms upstretched. Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go. She picked up the blanketedgirl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily asshe was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared againinstantly. Better lock window, he cautioned. Stall, if Boss call. Backsoon.... and he was gone. To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatientagonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety. <doc-sep>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>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>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>They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented bythe knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by adried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangelybitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright inthe hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervoushand, wiped damp hair from about her face. I have to have a drink. Rat stared at her without answer. I said, I have to have a drink! Heard you. Well...? Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer. She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and madehis way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. Dolike this, he called over his shoulder. Gravity punk too. Back andunder, gravity. He waited until she joined him at the water tap. They stood there glaring idiotically at each other. She burst out laughing. They even threw the drinking cups out! Ratinched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet. Faugh! Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, satdown on the deck and spat out the water. It's hot! It tastes like helland it's hot! It must be fuel! Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthfulhe swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly hecontrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and letsome of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed andit cost him something. No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in.Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank! But what makes it so hot? She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the tasteof the fuel. Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m. H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what? Flip-flop. He could talk with his hands as well. Hot side over likepancake. Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimentalflick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed bya quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening hisbelt. H-m-m-m-m-m-m, the lower lip protruded. Gray protested. Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa— theword was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filledthe vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that hadsuddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and anothernew, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place wasempty. Bare. No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight inthe corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded upward , beadsglistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention againand she looked up. Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down ather, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat.He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse. Flip-flop, he laconically explained. For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat! Gladney groaned. Turn me over on myback! Do something! Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot thehammocks on their rope-axis. And now, please, just how do I get into mine? she bit at Rat. <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>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><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> THE GIRLS FROM EARTH By FRANK M. ROBINSON Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Problem: How can you arrange marriages with men in one solar system, women in another—and neither willing to leave his own world? I The beasts aren't much help, are they? Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the linetied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river. No, he grunted, they're not. They always balk at a time like this,when they can see it'll be hard work. Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slackaround his thick waist. Together now, Karl. One! Two! They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on therope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees,their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but madeno effort to come closer. If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list. Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope. That's what I've been thinking about, he said, worried. They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raftbobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatenedto tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of itsolidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling,rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours orso, long before the heavy raft could be washed free. How much time have we got, Karl? The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye atthem. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to helpbeach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket putdown at Landing City. Two hours, maybe a little more, he stated hastily when Hill lookedmore worried. Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for ournumbers on the list. He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, andthrew them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched hissaddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it. Hill watched him curiously. What are you taking the furs for? Thisisn't the trading rocket. I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold andmaybe she'll appreciate the coverings then. You never would have thought of it yourself, Hill grunted. Grundymust have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the lessyou give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them,they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and thefamily-raising yourself. You didn't have to sign up, Karl pointed out. You could have appliedfor a wife from some different planet. One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work thefarms and raise families. Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddlingup and headed into the thick forest. <doc-sep>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>She took another look at the poster. The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressedit to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plainwrapper that the poster had come in. IV The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off theedge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylonthread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore itlook beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. Sheknew she would never be able to buy it. But she didn't intend to buy it. She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her.There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviouslyembarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It wasa perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that shehad purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes. Time enough, at any rate. The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off anyhangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled itup and dropped it in her shopping bag. She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when shefelt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and sheknew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it outto the end, to grasp any straw. Let go of me! she ordered in a frostily offended voice. Sorry, miss, the man said politely, but I think we have a short tripto take. She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up.She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, aprobing into her background for the psychological reasons that promptedher to steal, and then she'd be out again. They couldn't do anything to her that mattered. She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppershad looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facinga man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddieswho served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in thepresence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floatedin from the corridor. Why did you steal it? the judge asked. He held up the dress, which,she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under thedepartment store lights. I don't have anything to say, she said. I want to see a lawyer. She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, anotherplain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill. And she probably was. You had to do something nowadays. You couldn'tjust sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to theendless boring lectures on art and culture. Name? he asked in a tired voice. She knew the statistics he wanted. Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brownhair and green eyes. Prints on file. The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who leftand presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran hisfingers down one of the pages. The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and afine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record forshoplifting. A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the governmentsuddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She couldhear a little of what he said: ... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ...probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration. In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you achoice, the judge finally said. You can either go to the penitentiaryfor ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colonyplanets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus. She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousanddollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested inneither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. Shecould recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothingshe could do about it. I wouldn't call that a choice, she said sourly. I'll ship out. V Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences,like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-insoft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and theelectrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion ofsecurity in an ever-changing world. She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady,thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of thedowntown stores. Well, maybe some day she would. But not today. And not tonight. The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for aminute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. Theconversation wasn't long. She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom toget a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that samenight. It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away,she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares fromother pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heelson the sidewalk. The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office buildingthan anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed thebuzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth onthe inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young manappeared in the doorway. Miss Carstens? She smiled pertly. We've been expecting you. She wondered a little at the we, but dutifully smiled and followedhim in. The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment.When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry atthe edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was abattery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most ofthe girls sitting in them. She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh. I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never.... The young man coughed politely. I'm afraid there's been no mistake.Full name, please. Suzanne Carstens, she said grimly, and gave the other statistics hewanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers. Suzanne Carstens, the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn'tmatter, though. Take a seat over there. She did as he asked and he faced the entire group. I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We'veinterceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice.We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we willpay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. Thecolonists need wives; they offer you—security. He stressed the word slightly. Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can staybehind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of tenthousand dollars. Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollarsand ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she hadworked so hard for, her symbol of security. Well, what do you say? There was a dead silence. The young manfrom the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. How about you, MissCarstens? She smiled sickly and nodded her head. I love to travel! she said. It didn't sound at all witty even to herself. <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> THE GIRLS FROM EARTH By FRANK M. ROBINSON Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Problem: How can you arrange marriages with men in one solar system, women in another—and neither willing to leave his own world? I The beasts aren't much help, are they? Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the linetied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river. No, he grunted, they're not. They always balk at a time like this,when they can see it'll be hard work. Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slackaround his thick waist. Together now, Karl. One! Two! They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on therope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees,their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but madeno effort to come closer. If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list. Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope. That's what I've been thinking about, he said, worried. They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raftbobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatenedto tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of itsolidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling,rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours orso, long before the heavy raft could be washed free. How much time have we got, Karl? The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye atthem. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to helpbeach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket putdown at Landing City. Two hours, maybe a little more, he stated hastily when Hill lookedmore worried. Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for ournumbers on the list. He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, andthrew them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched hissaddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it. Hill watched him curiously. What are you taking the furs for? Thisisn't the trading rocket. I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold andmaybe she'll appreciate the coverings then. You never would have thought of it yourself, Hill grunted. Grundymust have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the lessyou give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them,they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and thefamily-raising yourself. You didn't have to sign up, Karl pointed out. You could have appliedfor a wife from some different planet. One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work thefarms and raise families. Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddlingup and headed into the thick forest. <doc-sep>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>She took another look at the poster. The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressedit to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plainwrapper that the poster had come in. IV The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off theedge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylonthread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore itlook beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. Sheknew she would never be able to buy it. But she didn't intend to buy it. She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her.There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviouslyembarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It wasa perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that shehad purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes. Time enough, at any rate. The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off anyhangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled itup and dropped it in her shopping bag. She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when shefelt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and sheknew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it outto the end, to grasp any straw. Let go of me! she ordered in a frostily offended voice. Sorry, miss, the man said politely, but I think we have a short tripto take. She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up.She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, aprobing into her background for the psychological reasons that promptedher to steal, and then she'd be out again. They couldn't do anything to her that mattered. She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppershad looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facinga man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddieswho served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in thepresence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floatedin from the corridor. Why did you steal it? the judge asked. He held up the dress, which,she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under thedepartment store lights. I don't have anything to say, she said. I want to see a lawyer. She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, anotherplain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill. And she probably was. You had to do something nowadays. You couldn'tjust sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to theendless boring lectures on art and culture. Name? he asked in a tired voice. She knew the statistics he wanted. Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brownhair and green eyes. Prints on file. The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who leftand presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran hisfingers down one of the pages. The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and afine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record forshoplifting. A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the governmentsuddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She couldhear a little of what he said: ... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ...probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration. In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you achoice, the judge finally said. You can either go to the penitentiaryfor ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colonyplanets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus. She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousanddollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested inneither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. Shecould recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothingshe could do about it. I wouldn't call that a choice, she said sourly. I'll ship out. V Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences,like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-insoft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and theelectrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion ofsecurity in an ever-changing world. She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady,thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of thedowntown stores. Well, maybe some day she would. But not today. And not tonight. The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for aminute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. Theconversation wasn't long. She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom toget a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that samenight. It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away,she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares fromother pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heelson the sidewalk. The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office buildingthan anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed thebuzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth onthe inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young manappeared in the doorway. Miss Carstens? She smiled pertly. We've been expecting you. She wondered a little at the we, but dutifully smiled and followedhim in. The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment.When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry atthe edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was abattery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most ofthe girls sitting in them. She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh. I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never.... The young man coughed politely. I'm afraid there's been no mistake.Full name, please. Suzanne Carstens, she said grimly, and gave the other statistics hewanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers. Suzanne Carstens, the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn'tmatter, though. Take a seat over there. She did as he asked and he faced the entire group. I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We'veinterceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice.We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we willpay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. Thecolonists need wives; they offer you—security. He stressed the word slightly. Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can staybehind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of tenthousand dollars. Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollarsand ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she hadworked so hard for, her symbol of security. Well, what do you say? There was a dead silence. The young manfrom the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. How about you, MissCarstens? She smiled sickly and nodded her head. I love to travel! she said. It didn't sound at all witty even to herself. <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> THE GIRLS FROM EARTH By FRANK M. ROBINSON Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Problem: How can you arrange marriages with men in one solar system, women in another—and neither willing to leave his own world? I The beasts aren't much help, are they? Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the linetied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river. No, he grunted, they're not. They always balk at a time like this,when they can see it'll be hard work. Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slackaround his thick waist. Together now, Karl. One! Two! They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on therope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees,their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but madeno effort to come closer. If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list. Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope. That's what I've been thinking about, he said, worried. They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raftbobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatenedto tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of itsolidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling,rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours orso, long before the heavy raft could be washed free. How much time have we got, Karl? The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye atthem. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to helpbeach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket putdown at Landing City. Two hours, maybe a little more, he stated hastily when Hill lookedmore worried. Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for ournumbers on the list. He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, andthrew them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched hissaddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it. Hill watched him curiously. What are you taking the furs for? Thisisn't the trading rocket. I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold andmaybe she'll appreciate the coverings then. You never would have thought of it yourself, Hill grunted. Grundymust have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the lessyou give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them,they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and thefamily-raising yourself. You didn't have to sign up, Karl pointed out. You could have appliedfor a wife from some different planet. One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work thefarms and raise families. Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddlingup and headed into the thick forest. <doc-sep>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>She took another look at the poster. The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressedit to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plainwrapper that the poster had come in. IV The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off theedge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylonthread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore itlook beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. Sheknew she would never be able to buy it. But she didn't intend to buy it. She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her.There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviouslyembarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It wasa perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that shehad purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes. Time enough, at any rate. The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off anyhangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled itup and dropped it in her shopping bag. She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when shefelt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and sheknew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it outto the end, to grasp any straw. Let go of me! she ordered in a frostily offended voice. Sorry, miss, the man said politely, but I think we have a short tripto take. She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up.She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, aprobing into her background for the psychological reasons that promptedher to steal, and then she'd be out again. They couldn't do anything to her that mattered. She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppershad looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facinga man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddieswho served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in thepresence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floatedin from the corridor. Why did you steal it? the judge asked. He held up the dress, which,she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under thedepartment store lights. I don't have anything to say, she said. I want to see a lawyer. She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, anotherplain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill. And she probably was. You had to do something nowadays. You couldn'tjust sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to theendless boring lectures on art and culture. Name? he asked in a tired voice. She knew the statistics he wanted. Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brownhair and green eyes. Prints on file. The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who leftand presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran hisfingers down one of the pages. The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and afine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record forshoplifting. A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the governmentsuddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She couldhear a little of what he said: ... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ...probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration. In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you achoice, the judge finally said. You can either go to the penitentiaryfor ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colonyplanets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus. She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousanddollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested inneither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. Shecould recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothingshe could do about it. I wouldn't call that a choice, she said sourly. I'll ship out. V Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences,like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-insoft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and theelectrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion ofsecurity in an ever-changing world. She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady,thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of thedowntown stores. Well, maybe some day she would. But not today. And not tonight. The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for aminute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. Theconversation wasn't long. She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom toget a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that samenight. It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away,she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares fromother pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heelson the sidewalk. The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office buildingthan anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed thebuzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth onthe inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young manappeared in the doorway. Miss Carstens? She smiled pertly. We've been expecting you. She wondered a little at the we, but dutifully smiled and followedhim in. The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment.When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry atthe edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was abattery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most ofthe girls sitting in them. She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh. I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never.... The young man coughed politely. I'm afraid there's been no mistake.Full name, please. Suzanne Carstens, she said grimly, and gave the other statistics hewanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers. Suzanne Carstens, the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn'tmatter, though. Take a seat over there. She did as he asked and he faced the entire group. I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We'veinterceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice.We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we willpay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. Thecolonists need wives; they offer you—security. He stressed the word slightly. Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can staybehind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of tenthousand dollars. Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollarsand ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she hadworked so hard for, her symbol of security. Well, what do you say? There was a dead silence. The young manfrom the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. How about you, MissCarstens? She smiled sickly and nodded her head. I love to travel! she said. It didn't sound at all witty even to herself. <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> THE GIRLS FROM EARTH By FRANK M. ROBINSON Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Problem: How can you arrange marriages with men in one solar system, women in another—and neither willing to leave his own world? I The beasts aren't much help, are they? Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the linetied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river. No, he grunted, they're not. They always balk at a time like this,when they can see it'll be hard work. Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slackaround his thick waist. Together now, Karl. One! Two! They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on therope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees,their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but madeno effort to come closer. If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list. Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope. That's what I've been thinking about, he said, worried. They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raftbobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatenedto tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of itsolidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling,rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours orso, long before the heavy raft could be washed free. How much time have we got, Karl? The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye atthem. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to helpbeach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket putdown at Landing City. Two hours, maybe a little more, he stated hastily when Hill lookedmore worried. Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for ournumbers on the list. He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, andthrew them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched hissaddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it. Hill watched him curiously. What are you taking the furs for? Thisisn't the trading rocket. I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold andmaybe she'll appreciate the coverings then. You never would have thought of it yourself, Hill grunted. Grundymust have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the lessyou give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them,they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and thefamily-raising yourself. You didn't have to sign up, Karl pointed out. You could have appliedfor a wife from some different planet. One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work thefarms and raise families. Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddlingup and headed into the thick forest. <doc-sep>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>She took another look at the poster. The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressedit to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plainwrapper that the poster had come in. IV The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off theedge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylonthread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore itlook beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. Sheknew she would never be able to buy it. But she didn't intend to buy it. She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her.There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviouslyembarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It wasa perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that shehad purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes. Time enough, at any rate. The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off anyhangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled itup and dropped it in her shopping bag. She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when shefelt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and sheknew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it outto the end, to grasp any straw. Let go of me! she ordered in a frostily offended voice. Sorry, miss, the man said politely, but I think we have a short tripto take. She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up.She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, aprobing into her background for the psychological reasons that promptedher to steal, and then she'd be out again. They couldn't do anything to her that mattered. She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppershad looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facinga man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddieswho served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in thepresence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floatedin from the corridor. Why did you steal it? the judge asked. He held up the dress, which,she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under thedepartment store lights. I don't have anything to say, she said. I want to see a lawyer. She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, anotherplain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill. And she probably was. You had to do something nowadays. You couldn'tjust sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to theendless boring lectures on art and culture. Name? he asked in a tired voice. She knew the statistics he wanted. Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brownhair and green eyes. Prints on file. The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who leftand presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran hisfingers down one of the pages. The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and afine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record forshoplifting. A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the governmentsuddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She couldhear a little of what he said: ... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ...probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration. In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you achoice, the judge finally said. You can either go to the penitentiaryfor ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colonyplanets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus. She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousanddollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested inneither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. Shecould recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothingshe could do about it. I wouldn't call that a choice, she said sourly. I'll ship out. V Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences,like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-insoft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and theelectrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion ofsecurity in an ever-changing world. She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady,thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of thedowntown stores. Well, maybe some day she would. But not today. And not tonight. The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for aminute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. Theconversation wasn't long. She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom toget a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that samenight. It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away,she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares fromother pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heelson the sidewalk. The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office buildingthan anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed thebuzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth onthe inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young manappeared in the doorway. Miss Carstens? She smiled pertly. We've been expecting you. She wondered a little at the we, but dutifully smiled and followedhim in. The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment.When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry atthe edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was abattery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most ofthe girls sitting in them. She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh. I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never.... The young man coughed politely. I'm afraid there's been no mistake.Full name, please. Suzanne Carstens, she said grimly, and gave the other statistics hewanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers. Suzanne Carstens, the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn'tmatter, though. Take a seat over there. She did as he asked and he faced the entire group. I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We'veinterceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice.We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we willpay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. Thecolonists need wives; they offer you—security. He stressed the word slightly. Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can staybehind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of tenthousand dollars. Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollarsand ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she hadworked so hard for, her symbol of security. Well, what do you say? There was a dead silence. The young manfrom the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. How about you, MissCarstens? She smiled sickly and nodded her head. I love to travel! she said. It didn't sound at all witty even to herself. <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> THE GIRLS FROM EARTH By FRANK M. ROBINSON Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Problem: How can you arrange marriages with men in one solar system, women in another—and neither willing to leave his own world? I The beasts aren't much help, are they? Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the linetied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river. No, he grunted, they're not. They always balk at a time like this,when they can see it'll be hard work. Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slackaround his thick waist. Together now, Karl. One! Two! They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on therope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees,their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but madeno effort to come closer. If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list. Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope. That's what I've been thinking about, he said, worried. They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raftbobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatenedto tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of itsolidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling,rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours orso, long before the heavy raft could be washed free. How much time have we got, Karl? The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye atthem. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to helpbeach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket putdown at Landing City. Two hours, maybe a little more, he stated hastily when Hill lookedmore worried. Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for ournumbers on the list. He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, andthrew them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched hissaddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it. Hill watched him curiously. What are you taking the furs for? Thisisn't the trading rocket. I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold andmaybe she'll appreciate the coverings then. You never would have thought of it yourself, Hill grunted. Grundymust have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the lessyou give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them,they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and thefamily-raising yourself. You didn't have to sign up, Karl pointed out. You could have appliedfor a wife from some different planet. One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work thefarms and raise families. Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddlingup and headed into the thick forest. <doc-sep>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>She took another look at the poster. The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressedit to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plainwrapper that the poster had come in. IV The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off theedge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylonthread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore itlook beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. Sheknew she would never be able to buy it. But she didn't intend to buy it. She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her.There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviouslyembarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It wasa perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that shehad purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes. Time enough, at any rate. The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off anyhangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled itup and dropped it in her shopping bag. She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when shefelt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and sheknew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it outto the end, to grasp any straw. Let go of me! she ordered in a frostily offended voice. Sorry, miss, the man said politely, but I think we have a short tripto take. She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up.She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, aprobing into her background for the psychological reasons that promptedher to steal, and then she'd be out again. They couldn't do anything to her that mattered. She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppershad looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facinga man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddieswho served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in thepresence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floatedin from the corridor. Why did you steal it? the judge asked. He held up the dress, which,she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under thedepartment store lights. I don't have anything to say, she said. I want to see a lawyer. She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, anotherplain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill. And she probably was. You had to do something nowadays. You couldn'tjust sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to theendless boring lectures on art and culture. Name? he asked in a tired voice. She knew the statistics he wanted. Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brownhair and green eyes. Prints on file. The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who leftand presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran hisfingers down one of the pages. The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and afine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record forshoplifting. A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the governmentsuddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She couldhear a little of what he said: ... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ...probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration. In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you achoice, the judge finally said. You can either go to the penitentiaryfor ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colonyplanets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus. She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousanddollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested inneither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. Shecould recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothingshe could do about it. I wouldn't call that a choice, she said sourly. I'll ship out. V Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences,like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-insoft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and theelectrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion ofsecurity in an ever-changing world. She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady,thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of thedowntown stores. Well, maybe some day she would. But not today. And not tonight. The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for aminute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. Theconversation wasn't long. She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom toget a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that samenight. It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away,she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares fromother pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heelson the sidewalk. The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office buildingthan anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed thebuzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth onthe inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young manappeared in the doorway. Miss Carstens? She smiled pertly. We've been expecting you. She wondered a little at the we, but dutifully smiled and followedhim in. The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment.When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry atthe edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was abattery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most ofthe girls sitting in them. She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh. I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never.... The young man coughed politely. I'm afraid there's been no mistake.Full name, please. Suzanne Carstens, she said grimly, and gave the other statistics hewanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers. Suzanne Carstens, the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn'tmatter, though. Take a seat over there. She did as he asked and he faced the entire group. I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We'veinterceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice.We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we willpay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. Thecolonists need wives; they offer you—security. He stressed the word slightly. Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can staybehind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of tenthousand dollars. Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollarsand ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she hadworked so hard for, her symbol of security. Well, what do you say? There was a dead silence. The young manfrom the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. How about you, MissCarstens? She smiled sickly and nodded her head. I love to travel! she said. It didn't sound at all witty even to herself. <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.