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What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> THE MAN OUTSIDE By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] No one, least of all Martin, could dispute that a man's life should be guarded by his kin—but by those who hadn't been born yet? Nobody in the neighborhood was surprised when Martin's motherdisappeared and Ninian came to take care of him. Mothers had a wayof disappearing around those parts and the kids were often betteroff without them. Martin was no exception. He'd never had it thisgood while he was living with his old lady. As for his father, Martinhad never had one. He'd been a war baby, born of one of the tides ofsoldiers—enemies and allies, both—that had engulfed the country insuccessive waves and bought or taken the women. So there was no troublethat way. Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that storyabout her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she reallywas his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tellhim to call her Aunt Ninian ? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'dbeen around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thoughtmaybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a littletoo crazy for that. He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was saferwith Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cryinstead of mopping up the floor with him. But I can't understand, he would say, keeping his face straight. Whydo you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousinConrad? Because he's coming to kill you. Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing. Ninian sighed. He's dissatisfied with the current social order andkilling you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.You wouldn't understand. You're damn right. I don't understand. What's it all about instraight gas? Oh, just don't ask any questions, Ninian said petulantly. When youget older, someone will explain the whole thing to you. <doc-sep>So Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things theway they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people heknew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed tothink it was disgusting. So if you don't like it, clean it up, he suggested. She looked at him as if he were out of his mind. Hire a maid, then! he jeered. And darned if that dope didn't go out and get a woman to come clean upthe place! He was so embarrassed, he didn't even dare show his face inthe streets—especially with the women buttonholing him and demandingto know what gave. They tried talking to Ninian, but she certainly knewhow to give them the cold shoulder. One day the truant officer came to ask why Martin hadn't been comingto school. Very few of the neighborhood kids attended classes veryregularly, so this was just routine. But Ninian didn't know that andshe went into a real tizzy, babbling that Martin had been sick andwould make up the work. Martin nearly did get sick from laughing sohard inside. But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out andhired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martinhad to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a stepwithout hearing Fancy Pants! yelled after him. Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these peoplethought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as littlebetter than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. Therewere an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly thesame way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really prettydumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo. It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practicalapplication to go by, she told him. He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming outwrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see whatshe'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of aspectator. When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses thatmushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly whereintensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites. This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in, shedeclared. Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here. And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man whocame to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him UncleRaymond. From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives andBartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and manymore—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his. <doc-sep>Martin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to playwith the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parentswould have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that ifa one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must besomething pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just asconspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; shewas supposed to know better than he did. He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded bymore luxury than he knew what to do with. The furniture was the latest New Grand Rapids African modern. Therewere tidy, colorful Picasso and Braque prints on the walls. And everyinch of the floor was modestly covered by carpeting, though the wallswere mostly unabashed glass. There were hot water and heat all the timeand a freezer well stocked with food—somewhat erratically chosen, forNinian didn't know much about meals. The non-glass part of the house was of neat, natural-toned wood, with aneat green lawn in front and a neat parti-colored garden in back. Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having otherkids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't givenhim enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'dnearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd huggedand kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done allshe could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and ifrespectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society. From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carryout a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—aworld of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in thegovernment service or the essential professions. And they seemed tothink even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better thanactually doing anything with the hands. In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wearpretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There wasno devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants ofnormal living. It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot ofthem were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.They came from the future. <doc-sep>When Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian hadpromised five years before. The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's anidealist, Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste. Martin nodded gravely. He was a quiet boy now, his brief past a dim andrather ridiculous memory. Who could ever imagine him robbing a grocerystore or wielding a broken bottle now? He still was rather undersizedand he'd read so much that he'd weakened his eyes and had to wearglasses. His face was pallid, because he spent little time in the sun,and his speech rather overbred, his mentors from the future havingcarefully eradicated all current vulgarities. And Conrad really got upset over the way Earth has been exploitingthe not so intelligent life-forms on the other planets, Raymondcontinued. Which is distressing—though, of course, it's not asif they were people. Besides, the government has been talking aboutpassing laws to do away with the—well, abuses and things like that,and I'm sure someday everything will come out all right. However,Conrad is so impatient. I thought, in your world, machines did all the work, Martin suggested. I've told you—our world is precisely the same as this one! Raymondsnapped. We just come a couple of centuries or so later, that's all.But remember, our interests are identical. We're virtually the samepeople ... although it is amazing what a difference two hundred oddyears of progress and polish can make in a species, isn't it? He continued more mildly: However, even you ought to be able tounderstand that we can't make machinery without metal. We need food.All that sort of thing comes from the out-system planets. And, on thoseworlds, it's far cheaper to use native labor than to ship out all thatexpensive machinery. After all, if we didn't give the natives jobs, howwould they manage to live? How did they live before? Come to think of it, if you don't work, howdo you live now?... I don't mean in the now for me, but the now foryou, Martin explained laboriously. It was so difficult to live in thepast and think in the future. I'm trying to talk to you as if you were an adult, Raymond said, butif you will persist in these childish interruptions— I'm sorry, Martin said. But he wasn't, for by now he had little respect left for any ofhis descendants. They were all exceedingly handsome and cultivatedyoung people, with superior educations, smooth ways of speaking andconsiderable self-confidence, but they just weren't very bright. Andhe had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of thelot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—morefrightening—his race had lost something vital. Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,Raymond went on blandly: Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself tofeel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been forthe fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, wemight never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feelingguilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for hisgreat-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be heldaccountable for his great-grandfather. How about a great-great-grandchild? Martin couldn't help asking. <doc-sep>Raymond flushed a delicate pink. Do you want to hear the rest of thisor don't you? Oh, I do! Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together forhimself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it. Unfortunately, Professor Farkas has just perfected the timetransmitter. Those government scientists are so infernallyofficious—always inventing such senseless things. It's supposed tobe hush-hush, but you know how news will leak out when one is alwaysdesperate for a fresh topic of conversation. Anyhow, Raymond went on to explain, Conrad had bribed one of Farkas'assistants for a set of the plans. Conrad's idea had been to go backin time and eliminate! their common great-grandfather. In that way,there would be no space-drive, and, hence, the Terrestrials would neverget to the other planets and oppress the local aborigines. Sounds like a good way of dealing with the problem, Martin observed. Raymond looked annoyed. It's the adolescent way, he said, to doaway with it, rather than find a solution. Would you destroy a wholesociety in order to root out a single injustice? Not if it were a good one otherwise. Well, there's your answer. Conrad got the apparatus built, or perhapshe built it himself. One doesn't inquire too closely into suchmatters. But when it came to the point, Conrad couldn't bear the ideaof eliminating our great-grandfather—because our great-grandfatherwas such a good man, you know. Raymond's expressive upper lipcurled. So Conrad decided to go further back still and get rid ofhis great-grandfather's father—who'd been, by all accounts, a prettyworthless character. That would be me, I suppose, Martin said quietly. Raymond turned a deep rose. Well, doesn't that just go to prove youmustn't believe everything you hear? The next sentence tumbled out ina rush. I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the othercousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided itwas our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you. Hebeamed at Martin. The boy smiled slowly. Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in eliminating me, then none of you would exist, would you? Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. Well, you didn't reallysuppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheeraltruism, did you? he asked, turning on the charm which all thecousins possessed to a consternating degree. <doc-sep>Martin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned longago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise. We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor'sassistants, Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us. Induced , Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to theuse of the iron maiden. Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded younight and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we madeour counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and herewe are! I see, Martin said. Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. After all, he pointedout defensively, whatever our motives, it has turned into a goodthing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporaryconveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more youcould ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Ofcourse Ninian was a ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where anylittle thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that ourera has completely disposed of the mercantiles— What did you do with them? Martin asked. But Raymond rushed on: Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,the more eccentricity you can get away with. And, he added, I mightas well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through thiswretched historical stint. So Ninian's going, said Martin, wondering why the news made him feelcuriously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in aremote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, forhim. Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend inexile, Raymond explained, even though our life spans are a bit longerthan yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoatgovernment. He looked inquisitively at Martin. You're not going togo all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you? No.... Martin said hesitantly. Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But wearen't very close, so it won't make a real difference. That was thesad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference. Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. I knew you weren't a sloppysentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,you know. Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirringof alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. How do you plan toprotect me when he comes? Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course, Raymond saidwith modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child'scombination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had nodoubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. And we've got arather elaborate burglar alarm system. Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiringwhich, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he wasdubious. Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this house ,but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this time ? Never fear—it has a temporal radius, Raymond replied. Factoryguarantee and all that. Just to be on the safe side, Martin said, I think I'd better haveone of those guns, too. A splendid idea! enthused Raymond. I was just about to think of thatmyself! <doc-sep>When it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears ather own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillfulat understanding his descendants, far better than they at understandinghim. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on thecheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right andthat she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at thevery last. Raymond and Martin moved into a luxurious mansion in a remote area. Thesite proved a well-chosen one; when the Second Atomic War came, half adozen years later, they weren't touched. Martin was never sure whetherthis had been sheer luck or expert planning. Probably luck, because hisdescendants were exceedingly inept planners. Few people in the world then could afford to live as stylishly asMartin and his guardian. The place not only contained every possibleconvenience and gadget but was crammed with bibelots and antiques,carefully chosen by Raymond and disputed by Martin, for, to the manfrom the future, all available artifacts were antiques. Otherwise,Martin accepted his new surroundings. His sense of wonder had becomedulled by now and the pink pseudo-Spanish castle—architecturallydreadful, of course, Raymond had said, but so hilariouslytypical—impressed him far less than had the suburban split-levelaquarium. How about a moat? Martin suggested when they first came. It seems togo with a castle. Do you think a moat could stop Conrad? Raymond asked, amused. No, Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, but it would make the placeseem safer somehow. The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and morenervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor thatstood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, becauseseveral times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept withthe ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it,until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them. During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for thehigher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitablyarose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. Atleast twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one oftheir vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoysuch occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms ofentertainment. <doc-sep>This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin, Raymondcommented as he took his place at the head of the table, because,unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, onejust—well, drifts along happily. Ours is a wonderful world, Grania sighed at Martin. I only wish wecould take you there. I'm sure you would like it. Don't be a fool, Grania! Raymond snapped. Well, Martin, have youmade up your mind what you want to be? Martin affected to think. A physicist, he said, not without malice.Or perhaps an engineer. There was a loud, excited chorus of dissent. He chuckled inwardly. Can't do that, Ives said. Might pick up some concepts from us. Don'tknow how; none of us knows a thing about science. But it could happen.Subconscious osmosis, if there is such a thing. That way, you mightinvent something ahead of time. And the fellow we got the plans fromparticularly cautioned us against that. Changing history. Dangerous. Might mess up our time frightfully, Bartholomew contributed, though,to be perfectly frank, I can't quite understand how. I am not going to sit down and explain the whole thing to you all overagain, Bart! Raymond said impatiently. Well, Martin? What would you suggest? Martin asked. How about becoming a painter? Art is eternal. And quite gentlemanly.Besides, artists are always expected to be either behind or ahead oftheir times. Furthermore, Ottillie added, one more artist couldn't make muchdifference in history. There were so many of them all through the ages. Martin couldn't hold back his question. What was I, actually, in thatother time? There was a chilly silence. Let's not talk about it, dear, Lalage finally said. Let's just bethankful we've saved you from that ! So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competentsecond-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve firstrank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almostpurely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel wasfear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor andwalk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him forthe sake of an ideal. But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were prettypictures. <doc-sep>Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call thedescendants cousin —next assumed guardianship. Ives took hisresponsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arrangedto have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings receivedcritical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modestsale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were notinterested. Takes time, Ives tried to reassure him. One day they'll be buyingyour pictures, Martin. Wait and see. Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martinas an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other youngman failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was achange of air and scenery. 'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't inventedspace travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.Tourists always like ruins best, anyway. So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,which Martin christened The Interregnum . They traveled about from seato ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and makingtrips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; thenearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much thesame as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormousmuseum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more. The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,largely because they could spend so much time far away from thecontemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. Sothey never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on The Interregnum . He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, althoughthere was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler throughtime. More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, becausethey came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboardship, giving each other parties and playing an avant-garde form ofshuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usuallyended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another ofhaving got advance information about the results. Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them onlywhen not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, thoughthey were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't courthis society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable. <doc-sep>He rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alonetogether; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had comefrom. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirelyaccurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earthproper, but that was because there were only a couple of million peopleleft on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highlyinterbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtueof their distinguished ancestry. Rather feudal, isn't it? Martin asked. Ives agreed, adding that the system had, however, been deliberatelyplanned, rather than the result of haphazard natural development.Everything potentially unpleasant, like the mercantiles, had beendeported. Not only natives livin' on the other worlds, Ives said as the twoof them stood at the ship's rail, surrounded by the limitless expanseof some ocean or other. People, too. Mostly lower classes, exceptfor officials and things. With wars and want and suffering, he addedregretfully, same as in your day.... Like now, I mean, he correctedhimself. Maybe it is worse, the way Conrad thinks. More planetsfor us to make trouble on. Three that were habitable aren't any more.Bombed. Very thorough job. Oh, Martin murmured, trying to sound shocked, horrified—interested,even. Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong, Ives said, aftera pause. Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting thepeople—I expect you could call them people—there. Still— he smiledshamefacedly—couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,could I? I suppose not, Martin said. Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, exceptConrad, and even he— Ives looked out over the sea. Must be a betterway out than Conrad's, he said without conviction. And everythingwill work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,if it doesn't. He glanced wistfully at Martin. I hope so, said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; hecouldn't even seem to care. During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martinhad gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almostwished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking.... He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realizethe basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would havebeen Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego onebitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor fromthe future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough totake a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body wasburied in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of thecontinent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth. A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All weredressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymondread the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clericalcousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffyabout the entire undertaking. He died for all of us, Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy overIves, so his death was not in vain. But Martin disagreed. <doc-sep>The ceaseless voyaging began again. The Interregnum voyaged to everyocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. Aftera while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousincame to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tellapart as the different oceans. All the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times inhis life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Onlythe young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trusttheir elders. As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interestin the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched portfor fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in thatera than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to seethe sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—andsometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapesthat his other work lacked. When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visitsomewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to thisjourney. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked waspurpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to thecousin's utter disgust. Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as youdo, the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants werescraping bottom now—advised. Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could bedisillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neitherpurpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ivesand felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longerunderstand. Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time? Martin idly askedthe current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now. The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. Conrad'sa very shrewd fellow, he whispered. He's biding his time—waitinguntil we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack! Oh, I see, Martin said. He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulatingmember of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he wouldever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than oneconversation, anyhow. When he does show up, I'll protect you, the cousin vowed, touchinghis ray gun. You haven't a thing to worry about. Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. Ihave every confidence in you, he told his descendant. He himself hadgiven up carrying a gun long ago. There was a war in the Northern Hemisphere and so The Interregnum voyaged to southern waters. There was a war in the south and they hidout in the Arctic. All the nations became too drained of power—fueland man and will—to fight, so there was a sterile peace for a longtime. The Interregnum roamed the seas restlessly, with her load ofpassengers from the future, plus one bored and aging contemporary. Shebore big guns now, because of the ever-present danger of pirates. <doc-sep>Perhaps it was the traditionally bracing effect of sea air—perhaps itwas the sheltered life—but Martin lived to be a very old man. He was ahundred and four when his last illness came. It was a great relief whenthe family doctor, called in again from the future, said there was nohope. Martin didn't think he could have borne another year of life. All the cousins gathered at the yacht to pay their last respects totheir progenitor. He saw Ninian again, after all these years, andRaymond—all the others, dozens of them, thronging around his bed,spilling out of the cabin and into the passageways and out onto thedeck, making their usual clamor, even though their voices were hushed. Only Ives was missing. He'd been the lucky one, Martin knew. He hadbeen spared the tragedy that was going to befall these blooming youngpeople—all the same age as when Martin had last seen them and doomednever to grow any older. Underneath their masks of woe, he could seerelief at the thought that at last they were going to be rid of theirresponsibility. And underneath Martin's death mask lay an impersonalpity for those poor, stupid descendants of his who had blundered soirretrievably. There was only one face which Martin had never seen before. It wasn'ta strange face, however, because Martin had seen one very like it inthe looking glass when he was a young man. You must be Conrad, Martin called across the cabin in a voice thatwas still clear. I've been looking forward to meeting you for sometime. The other cousins whirled to face the newcomer. You're too late, Con, Raymond gloated for the whole generation. He'slived out his life. But he hasn't lived out his life, Conrad contradicted. He's livedout the life you created for him. And for yourselves, too. For the first time, Martin saw compassion in the eyes of one of hislineage and found it vaguely disturbing. It didn't seem to belong there. Don't you realize even yet, Conrad went on, that as soon as he goes,you'll go, too—present, past, future, wherever you are, you'll go upin the air like puffs of smoke? What do you mean? Ninian quavered, her soft, pretty face alarmed. Martin answered Conrad's rueful smile, but left the explanations up tohim. It was his show, after all. Because you will never have existed, Conrad said. You have no rightto existence; it was you yourselves who watched him all the time,so he didn't have a chance to lead a normal life, get married, havechildren .... <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through. I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves. I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What— Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised. The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago. At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay. You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that? Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully. What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of any kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience? Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing! But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this. He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy. I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity. One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow. Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent. No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what we did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right. <doc-sep>Was Conrad telling him the truth, Martin wondered, or was he justgiving the conventional reassurance to the dying? More than that, washe trying to convince himself that what he had done was the rightthing? Every cousin had assured Martin that things were going to be allright. Was Conrad actually different from the rest? His plan had worked and the others' hadn't, but then all his plan hadconsisted of was doing nothing. That was all he and Martin had done ...nothing. Were they absolved of all responsibility merely because theyhad stood aside and taken advantage of the others' weaknesses? Why, Martin said to himself, in a sense, it could be said that Ihave fulfilled my original destiny—that I am a criminal. Well, it didn't matter; whatever happened, no one could hold him toblame. He held no stake in the future that was to come. It was othermen's future—other men's problem. He died very peacefully then, and,since he was the only one left on the ship, there was nobody to buryhim. The unmanned yacht drifted about the seas for years and gave rise tomany legends, none of them as unbelievable as the truth. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

This story follows the life of Martin from a young boy living in a rough neighborhood to an old man dying aboard an unmanned ship. We first see Martin following the disappearance of his mother - and lack of a father - which are commonplace in the neighborhood he grows up in where the kids rarely attend school and their living conditions are poor. Martin is taken in by a young woman, Ninian, who instructs him to call her Aunt Ninian despite being identified as his future descendant. Ninian has traveled back in time to her great-great-grandfather - Martin - in order to protect him from his future son Conrad. Conrad, described as an idealist, is dismayed by the future generations exploitation of Earth and destructive social order that casts out anyone and everything that doesn't encompass the privileged and elite. To correct the wrongdoings of the future, Conrad plans to kill Martin. The rest of Conrad’s cousins intercept this plan and instead, all decide to travel into the past to accompany Martin and protect him from an assassination attempt. Martin’s formative years are accompanied by Ninian, Raymond and Ives where he picks up art as a career, forms impersonal relationships with his descendants and learns more about the past and future quality of life. As years pass with no threat of Conrad in sight, Martin begins to explore his world alongside Ives on a yacht named The Interregnum. Soon though, the cousins that come and go begin to blur together and Martin picks up a detached view of the world as his interest wanes in his sheltered life. Martin lives to a very old age, and on his deathbed aboard the yacht, he is surrounded by all his descendants besides Ives, who passed of sickness earlier before. It is at this moment that Conrad appears, seemingly to finish his murder plot. However, it is revealed that no action was required to be taken by Conrad, as his fellow cousins have already achieved the mission of erasing their lineage. By containing Martin to a sheltered life, the cousins prevented Martin from living his normal life with a wife and kids, thus removing the possibility of their existence in the past, present and future. Furthermore, it is revealed that Martin had come to the same conclusion years ago, and chose instead to keep quiet out of his disdain for his descendants. With the cousins horrified at the knowledge, Conrad reassures Martin that their inaction resulted in hope, and Martin ponders to wonder if the assurance was genuine as he peacefully dies alone on the boat.

What is the relationship between Martin and Ives? [SEP] <s> THE MAN OUTSIDE By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] No one, least of all Martin, could dispute that a man's life should be guarded by his kin—but by those who hadn't been born yet? Nobody in the neighborhood was surprised when Martin's motherdisappeared and Ninian came to take care of him. Mothers had a wayof disappearing around those parts and the kids were often betteroff without them. Martin was no exception. He'd never had it thisgood while he was living with his old lady. As for his father, Martinhad never had one. He'd been a war baby, born of one of the tides ofsoldiers—enemies and allies, both—that had engulfed the country insuccessive waves and bought or taken the women. So there was no troublethat way. Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that storyabout her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she reallywas his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tellhim to call her Aunt Ninian ? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'dbeen around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thoughtmaybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a littletoo crazy for that. He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was saferwith Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cryinstead of mopping up the floor with him. But I can't understand, he would say, keeping his face straight. Whydo you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousinConrad? Because he's coming to kill you. Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing. Ninian sighed. He's dissatisfied with the current social order andkilling you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.You wouldn't understand. You're damn right. I don't understand. What's it all about instraight gas? Oh, just don't ask any questions, Ninian said petulantly. When youget older, someone will explain the whole thing to you. <doc-sep>So Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things theway they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people heknew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed tothink it was disgusting. So if you don't like it, clean it up, he suggested. She looked at him as if he were out of his mind. Hire a maid, then! he jeered. And darned if that dope didn't go out and get a woman to come clean upthe place! He was so embarrassed, he didn't even dare show his face inthe streets—especially with the women buttonholing him and demandingto know what gave. They tried talking to Ninian, but she certainly knewhow to give them the cold shoulder. One day the truant officer came to ask why Martin hadn't been comingto school. Very few of the neighborhood kids attended classes veryregularly, so this was just routine. But Ninian didn't know that andshe went into a real tizzy, babbling that Martin had been sick andwould make up the work. Martin nearly did get sick from laughing sohard inside. But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out andhired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martinhad to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a stepwithout hearing Fancy Pants! yelled after him. Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these peoplethought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as littlebetter than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. Therewere an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly thesame way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really prettydumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo. It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practicalapplication to go by, she told him. He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming outwrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see whatshe'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of aspectator. When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses thatmushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly whereintensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites. This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in, shedeclared. Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here. And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man whocame to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him UncleRaymond. From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives andBartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and manymore—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his. <doc-sep>Martin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to playwith the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parentswould have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that ifa one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must besomething pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just asconspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; shewas supposed to know better than he did. He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded bymore luxury than he knew what to do with. The furniture was the latest New Grand Rapids African modern. Therewere tidy, colorful Picasso and Braque prints on the walls. And everyinch of the floor was modestly covered by carpeting, though the wallswere mostly unabashed glass. There were hot water and heat all the timeand a freezer well stocked with food—somewhat erratically chosen, forNinian didn't know much about meals. The non-glass part of the house was of neat, natural-toned wood, with aneat green lawn in front and a neat parti-colored garden in back. Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having otherkids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't givenhim enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'dnearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd huggedand kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done allshe could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and ifrespectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society. From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carryout a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—aworld of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in thegovernment service or the essential professions. And they seemed tothink even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better thanactually doing anything with the hands. In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wearpretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There wasno devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants ofnormal living. It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot ofthem were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.They came from the future. <doc-sep>When Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian hadpromised five years before. The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's anidealist, Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste. Martin nodded gravely. He was a quiet boy now, his brief past a dim andrather ridiculous memory. Who could ever imagine him robbing a grocerystore or wielding a broken bottle now? He still was rather undersizedand he'd read so much that he'd weakened his eyes and had to wearglasses. His face was pallid, because he spent little time in the sun,and his speech rather overbred, his mentors from the future havingcarefully eradicated all current vulgarities. And Conrad really got upset over the way Earth has been exploitingthe not so intelligent life-forms on the other planets, Raymondcontinued. Which is distressing—though, of course, it's not asif they were people. Besides, the government has been talking aboutpassing laws to do away with the—well, abuses and things like that,and I'm sure someday everything will come out all right. However,Conrad is so impatient. I thought, in your world, machines did all the work, Martin suggested. I've told you—our world is precisely the same as this one! Raymondsnapped. We just come a couple of centuries or so later, that's all.But remember, our interests are identical. We're virtually the samepeople ... although it is amazing what a difference two hundred oddyears of progress and polish can make in a species, isn't it? He continued more mildly: However, even you ought to be able tounderstand that we can't make machinery without metal. We need food.All that sort of thing comes from the out-system planets. And, on thoseworlds, it's far cheaper to use native labor than to ship out all thatexpensive machinery. After all, if we didn't give the natives jobs, howwould they manage to live? How did they live before? Come to think of it, if you don't work, howdo you live now?... I don't mean in the now for me, but the now foryou, Martin explained laboriously. It was so difficult to live in thepast and think in the future. I'm trying to talk to you as if you were an adult, Raymond said, butif you will persist in these childish interruptions— I'm sorry, Martin said. But he wasn't, for by now he had little respect left for any ofhis descendants. They were all exceedingly handsome and cultivatedyoung people, with superior educations, smooth ways of speaking andconsiderable self-confidence, but they just weren't very bright. Andhe had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of thelot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—morefrightening—his race had lost something vital. Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,Raymond went on blandly: Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself tofeel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been forthe fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, wemight never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feelingguilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for hisgreat-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be heldaccountable for his great-grandfather. How about a great-great-grandchild? Martin couldn't help asking. <doc-sep>Raymond flushed a delicate pink. Do you want to hear the rest of thisor don't you? Oh, I do! Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together forhimself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it. Unfortunately, Professor Farkas has just perfected the timetransmitter. Those government scientists are so infernallyofficious—always inventing such senseless things. It's supposed tobe hush-hush, but you know how news will leak out when one is alwaysdesperate for a fresh topic of conversation. Anyhow, Raymond went on to explain, Conrad had bribed one of Farkas'assistants for a set of the plans. Conrad's idea had been to go backin time and eliminate! their common great-grandfather. In that way,there would be no space-drive, and, hence, the Terrestrials would neverget to the other planets and oppress the local aborigines. Sounds like a good way of dealing with the problem, Martin observed. Raymond looked annoyed. It's the adolescent way, he said, to doaway with it, rather than find a solution. Would you destroy a wholesociety in order to root out a single injustice? Not if it were a good one otherwise. Well, there's your answer. Conrad got the apparatus built, or perhapshe built it himself. One doesn't inquire too closely into suchmatters. But when it came to the point, Conrad couldn't bear the ideaof eliminating our great-grandfather—because our great-grandfatherwas such a good man, you know. Raymond's expressive upper lipcurled. So Conrad decided to go further back still and get rid ofhis great-grandfather's father—who'd been, by all accounts, a prettyworthless character. That would be me, I suppose, Martin said quietly. Raymond turned a deep rose. Well, doesn't that just go to prove youmustn't believe everything you hear? The next sentence tumbled out ina rush. I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the othercousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided itwas our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you. Hebeamed at Martin. The boy smiled slowly. Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in eliminating me, then none of you would exist, would you? Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. Well, you didn't reallysuppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheeraltruism, did you? he asked, turning on the charm which all thecousins possessed to a consternating degree. <doc-sep>Martin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned longago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise. We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor'sassistants, Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us. Induced , Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to theuse of the iron maiden. Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded younight and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we madeour counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and herewe are! I see, Martin said. Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. After all, he pointedout defensively, whatever our motives, it has turned into a goodthing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporaryconveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more youcould ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Ofcourse Ninian was a ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where anylittle thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that ourera has completely disposed of the mercantiles— What did you do with them? Martin asked. But Raymond rushed on: Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,the more eccentricity you can get away with. And, he added, I mightas well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through thiswretched historical stint. So Ninian's going, said Martin, wondering why the news made him feelcuriously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in aremote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, forhim. Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend inexile, Raymond explained, even though our life spans are a bit longerthan yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoatgovernment. He looked inquisitively at Martin. You're not going togo all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you? No.... Martin said hesitantly. Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But wearen't very close, so it won't make a real difference. That was thesad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference. Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. I knew you weren't a sloppysentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,you know. Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirringof alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. How do you plan toprotect me when he comes? Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course, Raymond saidwith modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child'scombination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had nodoubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. And we've got arather elaborate burglar alarm system. Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiringwhich, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he wasdubious. Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this house ,but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this time ? Never fear—it has a temporal radius, Raymond replied. Factoryguarantee and all that. Just to be on the safe side, Martin said, I think I'd better haveone of those guns, too. A splendid idea! enthused Raymond. I was just about to think of thatmyself! <doc-sep>When it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears ather own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillfulat understanding his descendants, far better than they at understandinghim. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on thecheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right andthat she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at thevery last. Raymond and Martin moved into a luxurious mansion in a remote area. Thesite proved a well-chosen one; when the Second Atomic War came, half adozen years later, they weren't touched. Martin was never sure whetherthis had been sheer luck or expert planning. Probably luck, because hisdescendants were exceedingly inept planners. Few people in the world then could afford to live as stylishly asMartin and his guardian. The place not only contained every possibleconvenience and gadget but was crammed with bibelots and antiques,carefully chosen by Raymond and disputed by Martin, for, to the manfrom the future, all available artifacts were antiques. Otherwise,Martin accepted his new surroundings. His sense of wonder had becomedulled by now and the pink pseudo-Spanish castle—architecturallydreadful, of course, Raymond had said, but so hilariouslytypical—impressed him far less than had the suburban split-levelaquarium. How about a moat? Martin suggested when they first came. It seems togo with a castle. Do you think a moat could stop Conrad? Raymond asked, amused. No, Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, but it would make the placeseem safer somehow. The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and morenervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor thatstood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, becauseseveral times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept withthe ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it,until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them. During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for thehigher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitablyarose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. Atleast twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one oftheir vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoysuch occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms ofentertainment. <doc-sep>This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin, Raymondcommented as he took his place at the head of the table, because,unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, onejust—well, drifts along happily. Ours is a wonderful world, Grania sighed at Martin. I only wish wecould take you there. I'm sure you would like it. Don't be a fool, Grania! Raymond snapped. Well, Martin, have youmade up your mind what you want to be? Martin affected to think. A physicist, he said, not without malice.Or perhaps an engineer. There was a loud, excited chorus of dissent. He chuckled inwardly. Can't do that, Ives said. Might pick up some concepts from us. Don'tknow how; none of us knows a thing about science. But it could happen.Subconscious osmosis, if there is such a thing. That way, you mightinvent something ahead of time. And the fellow we got the plans fromparticularly cautioned us against that. Changing history. Dangerous. Might mess up our time frightfully, Bartholomew contributed, though,to be perfectly frank, I can't quite understand how. I am not going to sit down and explain the whole thing to you all overagain, Bart! Raymond said impatiently. Well, Martin? What would you suggest? Martin asked. How about becoming a painter? Art is eternal. And quite gentlemanly.Besides, artists are always expected to be either behind or ahead oftheir times. Furthermore, Ottillie added, one more artist couldn't make muchdifference in history. There were so many of them all through the ages. Martin couldn't hold back his question. What was I, actually, in thatother time? There was a chilly silence. Let's not talk about it, dear, Lalage finally said. Let's just bethankful we've saved you from that ! So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competentsecond-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve firstrank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almostpurely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel wasfear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor andwalk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him forthe sake of an ideal. But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were prettypictures. <doc-sep>Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call thedescendants cousin —next assumed guardianship. Ives took hisresponsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arrangedto have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings receivedcritical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modestsale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were notinterested. Takes time, Ives tried to reassure him. One day they'll be buyingyour pictures, Martin. Wait and see. Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martinas an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other youngman failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was achange of air and scenery. 'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't inventedspace travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.Tourists always like ruins best, anyway. So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,which Martin christened The Interregnum . They traveled about from seato ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and makingtrips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; thenearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much thesame as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormousmuseum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more. The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,largely because they could spend so much time far away from thecontemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. Sothey never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on The Interregnum . He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, althoughthere was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler throughtime. More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, becausethey came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboardship, giving each other parties and playing an avant-garde form ofshuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usuallyended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another ofhaving got advance information about the results. Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them onlywhen not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, thoughthey were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't courthis society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable. <doc-sep>He rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alonetogether; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had comefrom. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirelyaccurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earthproper, but that was because there were only a couple of million peopleleft on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highlyinterbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtueof their distinguished ancestry. Rather feudal, isn't it? Martin asked. Ives agreed, adding that the system had, however, been deliberatelyplanned, rather than the result of haphazard natural development.Everything potentially unpleasant, like the mercantiles, had beendeported. Not only natives livin' on the other worlds, Ives said as the twoof them stood at the ship's rail, surrounded by the limitless expanseof some ocean or other. People, too. Mostly lower classes, exceptfor officials and things. With wars and want and suffering, he addedregretfully, same as in your day.... Like now, I mean, he correctedhimself. Maybe it is worse, the way Conrad thinks. More planetsfor us to make trouble on. Three that were habitable aren't any more.Bombed. Very thorough job. Oh, Martin murmured, trying to sound shocked, horrified—interested,even. Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong, Ives said, aftera pause. Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting thepeople—I expect you could call them people—there. Still— he smiledshamefacedly—couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,could I? I suppose not, Martin said. Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, exceptConrad, and even he— Ives looked out over the sea. Must be a betterway out than Conrad's, he said without conviction. And everythingwill work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,if it doesn't. He glanced wistfully at Martin. I hope so, said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; hecouldn't even seem to care. During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martinhad gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almostwished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking.... He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realizethe basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would havebeen Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego onebitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor fromthe future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough totake a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body wasburied in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of thecontinent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth. A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All weredressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymondread the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clericalcousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffyabout the entire undertaking. He died for all of us, Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy overIves, so his death was not in vain. But Martin disagreed. <doc-sep>The ceaseless voyaging began again. The Interregnum voyaged to everyocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. Aftera while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousincame to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tellapart as the different oceans. All the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times inhis life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Onlythe young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trusttheir elders. As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interestin the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched portfor fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in thatera than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to seethe sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—andsometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapesthat his other work lacked. When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visitsomewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to thisjourney. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked waspurpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to thecousin's utter disgust. Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as youdo, the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants werescraping bottom now—advised. Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could bedisillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neitherpurpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ivesand felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longerunderstand. Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time? Martin idly askedthe current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now. The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. Conrad'sa very shrewd fellow, he whispered. He's biding his time—waitinguntil we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack! Oh, I see, Martin said. He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulatingmember of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he wouldever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than oneconversation, anyhow. When he does show up, I'll protect you, the cousin vowed, touchinghis ray gun. You haven't a thing to worry about. Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. Ihave every confidence in you, he told his descendant. He himself hadgiven up carrying a gun long ago. There was a war in the Northern Hemisphere and so The Interregnum voyaged to southern waters. There was a war in the south and they hidout in the Arctic. All the nations became too drained of power—fueland man and will—to fight, so there was a sterile peace for a longtime. The Interregnum roamed the seas restlessly, with her load ofpassengers from the future, plus one bored and aging contemporary. Shebore big guns now, because of the ever-present danger of pirates. <doc-sep>Perhaps it was the traditionally bracing effect of sea air—perhaps itwas the sheltered life—but Martin lived to be a very old man. He was ahundred and four when his last illness came. It was a great relief whenthe family doctor, called in again from the future, said there was nohope. Martin didn't think he could have borne another year of life. All the cousins gathered at the yacht to pay their last respects totheir progenitor. He saw Ninian again, after all these years, andRaymond—all the others, dozens of them, thronging around his bed,spilling out of the cabin and into the passageways and out onto thedeck, making their usual clamor, even though their voices were hushed. Only Ives was missing. He'd been the lucky one, Martin knew. He hadbeen spared the tragedy that was going to befall these blooming youngpeople—all the same age as when Martin had last seen them and doomednever to grow any older. Underneath their masks of woe, he could seerelief at the thought that at last they were going to be rid of theirresponsibility. And underneath Martin's death mask lay an impersonalpity for those poor, stupid descendants of his who had blundered soirretrievably. There was only one face which Martin had never seen before. It wasn'ta strange face, however, because Martin had seen one very like it inthe looking glass when he was a young man. You must be Conrad, Martin called across the cabin in a voice thatwas still clear. I've been looking forward to meeting you for sometime. The other cousins whirled to face the newcomer. You're too late, Con, Raymond gloated for the whole generation. He'slived out his life. But he hasn't lived out his life, Conrad contradicted. He's livedout the life you created for him. And for yourselves, too. For the first time, Martin saw compassion in the eyes of one of hislineage and found it vaguely disturbing. It didn't seem to belong there. Don't you realize even yet, Conrad went on, that as soon as he goes,you'll go, too—present, past, future, wherever you are, you'll go upin the air like puffs of smoke? What do you mean? Ninian quavered, her soft, pretty face alarmed. Martin answered Conrad's rueful smile, but left the explanations up tohim. It was his show, after all. Because you will never have existed, Conrad said. You have no rightto existence; it was you yourselves who watched him all the time,so he didn't have a chance to lead a normal life, get married, havechildren .... <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through. I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves. I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What— Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised. The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago. At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay. You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that? Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully. What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of any kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience? Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing! But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this. He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy. I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity. One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow. Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent. No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what we did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right. <doc-sep>Was Conrad telling him the truth, Martin wondered, or was he justgiving the conventional reassurance to the dying? More than that, washe trying to convince himself that what he had done was the rightthing? Every cousin had assured Martin that things were going to be allright. Was Conrad actually different from the rest? His plan had worked and the others' hadn't, but then all his plan hadconsisted of was doing nothing. That was all he and Martin had done ...nothing. Were they absolved of all responsibility merely because theyhad stood aside and taken advantage of the others' weaknesses? Why, Martin said to himself, in a sense, it could be said that Ihave fulfilled my original destiny—that I am a criminal. Well, it didn't matter; whatever happened, no one could hold him toblame. He held no stake in the future that was to come. It was othermen's future—other men's problem. He died very peacefully then, and,since he was the only one left on the ship, there was nobody to buryhim. The unmanned yacht drifted about the seas for years and gave rise tomany legends, none of them as unbelievable as the truth. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Martin and Ives?

Cousin Ives enters Martin’s life when he is a little older, and is the third descendant to accompany him as his guardian. Out of all his descendants to assume guardianship, Martin forms the closest relationship with Ives. Rather than seeing Martin as a responsibility and duty, Ives sees Martin as an individual and seeks ways to connect and encourage his passions. For one, Ives buys a yacht named The Interregnum to which the pair take upon themselves to explore the current world in. They traveled across the waters and inland to see both the civilized and uncivilized world, with Martin taking it all in. When it was just the two of them, their relationship progressed further. Ives began to open up about the future world that he and his descendants come from and explain the nuances of the social order that rules. Ives is the first to explicitly and honestly describe the feudal and privileged social class that Martin’s descendants take part in, only due to their fortunate ancestry. Additionally, Ives is the only cousin to admit the potential truth in Conrad’s intentions, noting the dilemma between achieving moral good and selfishing maintaining their own good life. Martin even comments his confidence in Ives being able to see the obvious flaw in the cousins’ plans. However, during one winter, Ives fell ill to a severe chill and passed away before his own birth. After Ives’ death, Martin relently voyages across oceans and soon as they and the cousins blur, he begins to live detachedly.

What is the role of the ‘cousins’ in the story? [SEP] <s> THE MAN OUTSIDE By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] No one, least of all Martin, could dispute that a man's life should be guarded by his kin—but by those who hadn't been born yet? Nobody in the neighborhood was surprised when Martin's motherdisappeared and Ninian came to take care of him. Mothers had a wayof disappearing around those parts and the kids were often betteroff without them. Martin was no exception. He'd never had it thisgood while he was living with his old lady. As for his father, Martinhad never had one. He'd been a war baby, born of one of the tides ofsoldiers—enemies and allies, both—that had engulfed the country insuccessive waves and bought or taken the women. So there was no troublethat way. Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that storyabout her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she reallywas his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tellhim to call her Aunt Ninian ? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'dbeen around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thoughtmaybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a littletoo crazy for that. He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was saferwith Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cryinstead of mopping up the floor with him. But I can't understand, he would say, keeping his face straight. Whydo you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousinConrad? Because he's coming to kill you. Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing. Ninian sighed. He's dissatisfied with the current social order andkilling you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.You wouldn't understand. You're damn right. I don't understand. What's it all about instraight gas? Oh, just don't ask any questions, Ninian said petulantly. When youget older, someone will explain the whole thing to you. <doc-sep>So Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things theway they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people heknew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed tothink it was disgusting. So if you don't like it, clean it up, he suggested. She looked at him as if he were out of his mind. Hire a maid, then! he jeered. And darned if that dope didn't go out and get a woman to come clean upthe place! He was so embarrassed, he didn't even dare show his face inthe streets—especially with the women buttonholing him and demandingto know what gave. They tried talking to Ninian, but she certainly knewhow to give them the cold shoulder. One day the truant officer came to ask why Martin hadn't been comingto school. Very few of the neighborhood kids attended classes veryregularly, so this was just routine. But Ninian didn't know that andshe went into a real tizzy, babbling that Martin had been sick andwould make up the work. Martin nearly did get sick from laughing sohard inside. But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out andhired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martinhad to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a stepwithout hearing Fancy Pants! yelled after him. Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these peoplethought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as littlebetter than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. Therewere an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly thesame way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really prettydumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo. It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practicalapplication to go by, she told him. He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming outwrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see whatshe'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of aspectator. When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses thatmushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly whereintensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites. This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in, shedeclared. Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here. And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man whocame to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him UncleRaymond. From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives andBartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and manymore—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his. <doc-sep>Martin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to playwith the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parentswould have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that ifa one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must besomething pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just asconspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; shewas supposed to know better than he did. He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded bymore luxury than he knew what to do with. The furniture was the latest New Grand Rapids African modern. Therewere tidy, colorful Picasso and Braque prints on the walls. And everyinch of the floor was modestly covered by carpeting, though the wallswere mostly unabashed glass. There were hot water and heat all the timeand a freezer well stocked with food—somewhat erratically chosen, forNinian didn't know much about meals. The non-glass part of the house was of neat, natural-toned wood, with aneat green lawn in front and a neat parti-colored garden in back. Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having otherkids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't givenhim enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'dnearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd huggedand kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done allshe could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and ifrespectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society. From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carryout a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—aworld of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in thegovernment service or the essential professions. And they seemed tothink even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better thanactually doing anything with the hands. In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wearpretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There wasno devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants ofnormal living. It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot ofthem were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.They came from the future. <doc-sep>When Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian hadpromised five years before. The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's anidealist, Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste. Martin nodded gravely. He was a quiet boy now, his brief past a dim andrather ridiculous memory. Who could ever imagine him robbing a grocerystore or wielding a broken bottle now? He still was rather undersizedand he'd read so much that he'd weakened his eyes and had to wearglasses. His face was pallid, because he spent little time in the sun,and his speech rather overbred, his mentors from the future havingcarefully eradicated all current vulgarities. And Conrad really got upset over the way Earth has been exploitingthe not so intelligent life-forms on the other planets, Raymondcontinued. Which is distressing—though, of course, it's not asif they were people. Besides, the government has been talking aboutpassing laws to do away with the—well, abuses and things like that,and I'm sure someday everything will come out all right. However,Conrad is so impatient. I thought, in your world, machines did all the work, Martin suggested. I've told you—our world is precisely the same as this one! Raymondsnapped. We just come a couple of centuries or so later, that's all.But remember, our interests are identical. We're virtually the samepeople ... although it is amazing what a difference two hundred oddyears of progress and polish can make in a species, isn't it? He continued more mildly: However, even you ought to be able tounderstand that we can't make machinery without metal. We need food.All that sort of thing comes from the out-system planets. And, on thoseworlds, it's far cheaper to use native labor than to ship out all thatexpensive machinery. After all, if we didn't give the natives jobs, howwould they manage to live? How did they live before? Come to think of it, if you don't work, howdo you live now?... I don't mean in the now for me, but the now foryou, Martin explained laboriously. It was so difficult to live in thepast and think in the future. I'm trying to talk to you as if you were an adult, Raymond said, butif you will persist in these childish interruptions— I'm sorry, Martin said. But he wasn't, for by now he had little respect left for any ofhis descendants. They were all exceedingly handsome and cultivatedyoung people, with superior educations, smooth ways of speaking andconsiderable self-confidence, but they just weren't very bright. Andhe had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of thelot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—morefrightening—his race had lost something vital. Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,Raymond went on blandly: Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself tofeel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been forthe fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, wemight never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feelingguilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for hisgreat-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be heldaccountable for his great-grandfather. How about a great-great-grandchild? Martin couldn't help asking. <doc-sep>Raymond flushed a delicate pink. Do you want to hear the rest of thisor don't you? Oh, I do! Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together forhimself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it. Unfortunately, Professor Farkas has just perfected the timetransmitter. Those government scientists are so infernallyofficious—always inventing such senseless things. It's supposed tobe hush-hush, but you know how news will leak out when one is alwaysdesperate for a fresh topic of conversation. Anyhow, Raymond went on to explain, Conrad had bribed one of Farkas'assistants for a set of the plans. Conrad's idea had been to go backin time and eliminate! their common great-grandfather. In that way,there would be no space-drive, and, hence, the Terrestrials would neverget to the other planets and oppress the local aborigines. Sounds like a good way of dealing with the problem, Martin observed. Raymond looked annoyed. It's the adolescent way, he said, to doaway with it, rather than find a solution. Would you destroy a wholesociety in order to root out a single injustice? Not if it were a good one otherwise. Well, there's your answer. Conrad got the apparatus built, or perhapshe built it himself. One doesn't inquire too closely into suchmatters. But when it came to the point, Conrad couldn't bear the ideaof eliminating our great-grandfather—because our great-grandfatherwas such a good man, you know. Raymond's expressive upper lipcurled. So Conrad decided to go further back still and get rid ofhis great-grandfather's father—who'd been, by all accounts, a prettyworthless character. That would be me, I suppose, Martin said quietly. Raymond turned a deep rose. Well, doesn't that just go to prove youmustn't believe everything you hear? The next sentence tumbled out ina rush. I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the othercousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided itwas our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you. Hebeamed at Martin. The boy smiled slowly. Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in eliminating me, then none of you would exist, would you? Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. Well, you didn't reallysuppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheeraltruism, did you? he asked, turning on the charm which all thecousins possessed to a consternating degree. <doc-sep>Martin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned longago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise. We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor'sassistants, Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us. Induced , Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to theuse of the iron maiden. Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded younight and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we madeour counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and herewe are! I see, Martin said. Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. After all, he pointedout defensively, whatever our motives, it has turned into a goodthing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporaryconveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more youcould ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Ofcourse Ninian was a ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where anylittle thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that ourera has completely disposed of the mercantiles— What did you do with them? Martin asked. But Raymond rushed on: Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,the more eccentricity you can get away with. And, he added, I mightas well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through thiswretched historical stint. So Ninian's going, said Martin, wondering why the news made him feelcuriously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in aremote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, forhim. Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend inexile, Raymond explained, even though our life spans are a bit longerthan yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoatgovernment. He looked inquisitively at Martin. You're not going togo all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you? No.... Martin said hesitantly. Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But wearen't very close, so it won't make a real difference. That was thesad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference. Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. I knew you weren't a sloppysentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,you know. Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirringof alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. How do you plan toprotect me when he comes? Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course, Raymond saidwith modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child'scombination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had nodoubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. And we've got arather elaborate burglar alarm system. Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiringwhich, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he wasdubious. Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this house ,but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this time ? Never fear—it has a temporal radius, Raymond replied. Factoryguarantee and all that. Just to be on the safe side, Martin said, I think I'd better haveone of those guns, too. A splendid idea! enthused Raymond. I was just about to think of thatmyself! <doc-sep>When it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears ather own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillfulat understanding his descendants, far better than they at understandinghim. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on thecheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right andthat she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at thevery last. Raymond and Martin moved into a luxurious mansion in a remote area. Thesite proved a well-chosen one; when the Second Atomic War came, half adozen years later, they weren't touched. Martin was never sure whetherthis had been sheer luck or expert planning. Probably luck, because hisdescendants were exceedingly inept planners. Few people in the world then could afford to live as stylishly asMartin and his guardian. The place not only contained every possibleconvenience and gadget but was crammed with bibelots and antiques,carefully chosen by Raymond and disputed by Martin, for, to the manfrom the future, all available artifacts were antiques. Otherwise,Martin accepted his new surroundings. His sense of wonder had becomedulled by now and the pink pseudo-Spanish castle—architecturallydreadful, of course, Raymond had said, but so hilariouslytypical—impressed him far less than had the suburban split-levelaquarium. How about a moat? Martin suggested when they first came. It seems togo with a castle. Do you think a moat could stop Conrad? Raymond asked, amused. No, Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, but it would make the placeseem safer somehow. The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and morenervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor thatstood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, becauseseveral times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept withthe ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it,until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them. During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for thehigher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitablyarose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. Atleast twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one oftheir vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoysuch occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms ofentertainment. <doc-sep>This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin, Raymondcommented as he took his place at the head of the table, because,unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, onejust—well, drifts along happily. Ours is a wonderful world, Grania sighed at Martin. I only wish wecould take you there. I'm sure you would like it. Don't be a fool, Grania! Raymond snapped. Well, Martin, have youmade up your mind what you want to be? Martin affected to think. A physicist, he said, not without malice.Or perhaps an engineer. There was a loud, excited chorus of dissent. He chuckled inwardly. Can't do that, Ives said. Might pick up some concepts from us. Don'tknow how; none of us knows a thing about science. But it could happen.Subconscious osmosis, if there is such a thing. That way, you mightinvent something ahead of time. And the fellow we got the plans fromparticularly cautioned us against that. Changing history. Dangerous. Might mess up our time frightfully, Bartholomew contributed, though,to be perfectly frank, I can't quite understand how. I am not going to sit down and explain the whole thing to you all overagain, Bart! Raymond said impatiently. Well, Martin? What would you suggest? Martin asked. How about becoming a painter? Art is eternal. And quite gentlemanly.Besides, artists are always expected to be either behind or ahead oftheir times. Furthermore, Ottillie added, one more artist couldn't make muchdifference in history. There were so many of them all through the ages. Martin couldn't hold back his question. What was I, actually, in thatother time? There was a chilly silence. Let's not talk about it, dear, Lalage finally said. Let's just bethankful we've saved you from that ! So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competentsecond-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve firstrank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almostpurely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel wasfear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor andwalk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him forthe sake of an ideal. But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were prettypictures. <doc-sep>Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call thedescendants cousin —next assumed guardianship. Ives took hisresponsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arrangedto have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings receivedcritical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modestsale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were notinterested. Takes time, Ives tried to reassure him. One day they'll be buyingyour pictures, Martin. Wait and see. Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martinas an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other youngman failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was achange of air and scenery. 'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't inventedspace travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.Tourists always like ruins best, anyway. So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,which Martin christened The Interregnum . They traveled about from seato ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and makingtrips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; thenearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much thesame as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormousmuseum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more. The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,largely because they could spend so much time far away from thecontemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. Sothey never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on The Interregnum . He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, althoughthere was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler throughtime. More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, becausethey came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboardship, giving each other parties and playing an avant-garde form ofshuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usuallyended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another ofhaving got advance information about the results. Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them onlywhen not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, thoughthey were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't courthis society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable. <doc-sep>He rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alonetogether; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had comefrom. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirelyaccurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earthproper, but that was because there were only a couple of million peopleleft on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highlyinterbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtueof their distinguished ancestry. Rather feudal, isn't it? Martin asked. Ives agreed, adding that the system had, however, been deliberatelyplanned, rather than the result of haphazard natural development.Everything potentially unpleasant, like the mercantiles, had beendeported. Not only natives livin' on the other worlds, Ives said as the twoof them stood at the ship's rail, surrounded by the limitless expanseof some ocean or other. People, too. Mostly lower classes, exceptfor officials and things. With wars and want and suffering, he addedregretfully, same as in your day.... Like now, I mean, he correctedhimself. Maybe it is worse, the way Conrad thinks. More planetsfor us to make trouble on. Three that were habitable aren't any more.Bombed. Very thorough job. Oh, Martin murmured, trying to sound shocked, horrified—interested,even. Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong, Ives said, aftera pause. Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting thepeople—I expect you could call them people—there. Still— he smiledshamefacedly—couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,could I? I suppose not, Martin said. Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, exceptConrad, and even he— Ives looked out over the sea. Must be a betterway out than Conrad's, he said without conviction. And everythingwill work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,if it doesn't. He glanced wistfully at Martin. I hope so, said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; hecouldn't even seem to care. During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martinhad gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almostwished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking.... He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realizethe basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would havebeen Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego onebitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor fromthe future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough totake a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body wasburied in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of thecontinent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth. A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All weredressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymondread the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clericalcousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffyabout the entire undertaking. He died for all of us, Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy overIves, so his death was not in vain. But Martin disagreed. <doc-sep>The ceaseless voyaging began again. The Interregnum voyaged to everyocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. Aftera while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousincame to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tellapart as the different oceans. All the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times inhis life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Onlythe young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trusttheir elders. As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interestin the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched portfor fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in thatera than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to seethe sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—andsometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapesthat his other work lacked. When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visitsomewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to thisjourney. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked waspurpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to thecousin's utter disgust. Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as youdo, the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants werescraping bottom now—advised. Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could bedisillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neitherpurpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ivesand felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longerunderstand. Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time? Martin idly askedthe current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now. The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. Conrad'sa very shrewd fellow, he whispered. He's biding his time—waitinguntil we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack! Oh, I see, Martin said. He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulatingmember of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he wouldever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than oneconversation, anyhow. When he does show up, I'll protect you, the cousin vowed, touchinghis ray gun. You haven't a thing to worry about. Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. Ihave every confidence in you, he told his descendant. He himself hadgiven up carrying a gun long ago. There was a war in the Northern Hemisphere and so The Interregnum voyaged to southern waters. There was a war in the south and they hidout in the Arctic. All the nations became too drained of power—fueland man and will—to fight, so there was a sterile peace for a longtime. The Interregnum roamed the seas restlessly, with her load ofpassengers from the future, plus one bored and aging contemporary. Shebore big guns now, because of the ever-present danger of pirates. <doc-sep>Perhaps it was the traditionally bracing effect of sea air—perhaps itwas the sheltered life—but Martin lived to be a very old man. He was ahundred and four when his last illness came. It was a great relief whenthe family doctor, called in again from the future, said there was nohope. Martin didn't think he could have borne another year of life. All the cousins gathered at the yacht to pay their last respects totheir progenitor. He saw Ninian again, after all these years, andRaymond—all the others, dozens of them, thronging around his bed,spilling out of the cabin and into the passageways and out onto thedeck, making their usual clamor, even though their voices were hushed. Only Ives was missing. He'd been the lucky one, Martin knew. He hadbeen spared the tragedy that was going to befall these blooming youngpeople—all the same age as when Martin had last seen them and doomednever to grow any older. Underneath their masks of woe, he could seerelief at the thought that at last they were going to be rid of theirresponsibility. And underneath Martin's death mask lay an impersonalpity for those poor, stupid descendants of his who had blundered soirretrievably. There was only one face which Martin had never seen before. It wasn'ta strange face, however, because Martin had seen one very like it inthe looking glass when he was a young man. You must be Conrad, Martin called across the cabin in a voice thatwas still clear. I've been looking forward to meeting you for sometime. The other cousins whirled to face the newcomer. You're too late, Con, Raymond gloated for the whole generation. He'slived out his life. But he hasn't lived out his life, Conrad contradicted. He's livedout the life you created for him. And for yourselves, too. For the first time, Martin saw compassion in the eyes of one of hislineage and found it vaguely disturbing. It didn't seem to belong there. Don't you realize even yet, Conrad went on, that as soon as he goes,you'll go, too—present, past, future, wherever you are, you'll go upin the air like puffs of smoke? What do you mean? Ninian quavered, her soft, pretty face alarmed. Martin answered Conrad's rueful smile, but left the explanations up tohim. It was his show, after all. Because you will never have existed, Conrad said. You have no rightto existence; it was you yourselves who watched him all the time,so he didn't have a chance to lead a normal life, get married, havechildren .... <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through. I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves. I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What— Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised. The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago. At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay. You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that? Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully. What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of any kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience? Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing! But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this. He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy. I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity. One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow. Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent. No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what we did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right. <doc-sep>Was Conrad telling him the truth, Martin wondered, or was he justgiving the conventional reassurance to the dying? More than that, washe trying to convince himself that what he had done was the rightthing? Every cousin had assured Martin that things were going to be allright. Was Conrad actually different from the rest? His plan had worked and the others' hadn't, but then all his plan hadconsisted of was doing nothing. That was all he and Martin had done ...nothing. Were they absolved of all responsibility merely because theyhad stood aside and taken advantage of the others' weaknesses? Why, Martin said to himself, in a sense, it could be said that Ihave fulfilled my original destiny—that I am a criminal. Well, it didn't matter; whatever happened, no one could hold him toblame. He held no stake in the future that was to come. It was othermen's future—other men's problem. He died very peacefully then, and,since he was the only one left on the ship, there was nobody to buryhim. The unmanned yacht drifted about the seas for years and gave rise tomany legends, none of them as unbelievable as the truth. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the role of the ‘cousins’ in the story?

The ‘cousins’ featured in this story are all direct descendants of Martin, identified to be great-great-granddaughters and -sons. Instructed to be called Aunts and Uncles by a young Martin and then later cousins by a mature Martin, they have rallied together to travel into the past in order to protect and guard Martin from an assassination attempt by Conrad. Conrad, a fellow cousin, is thought to be an idealist by his fellow cousins and adamantly wrong in his belief that the right thing to do is to erase their lineage in order to correct injustice in their future society. Despite the heroic protection of Martin, we find out that the cousins’ guardianship of Martin is selfish in nature. Aside from Ives, Martin holds largely impersonal relationships with his cousins, who appear to view Martin as a reluctant duty. Because of Conrad as a looming threat over Martin’s livelihood, a rotation of cousins traveling from the future assume guardianship over Martin and dictates his life in his hobbies or the information he knows - all to protect their own livelihood. At Martin’s deathbed, we find out that the cousins have had the wrong idea this entire time. In their insistence at protecting Martin and shaping his life to what they created for him, they signed their own death warrant. In all their planning and supposed intelligence and worthiness, the cousins have failed to observe the flaw in the plan: that if Martin had no wife and no children, then their very existence would be naught. Their forced presence in Martin’s life had rid Martin’s potential exciting existence - and in return - Martin’s lackluster existence had rid the cousins of any kind of existence.

What is the significance of time in this story? [SEP] <s> THE MAN OUTSIDE By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] No one, least of all Martin, could dispute that a man's life should be guarded by his kin—but by those who hadn't been born yet? Nobody in the neighborhood was surprised when Martin's motherdisappeared and Ninian came to take care of him. Mothers had a wayof disappearing around those parts and the kids were often betteroff without them. Martin was no exception. He'd never had it thisgood while he was living with his old lady. As for his father, Martinhad never had one. He'd been a war baby, born of one of the tides ofsoldiers—enemies and allies, both—that had engulfed the country insuccessive waves and bought or taken the women. So there was no troublethat way. Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that storyabout her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she reallywas his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tellhim to call her Aunt Ninian ? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'dbeen around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thoughtmaybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a littletoo crazy for that. He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was saferwith Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cryinstead of mopping up the floor with him. But I can't understand, he would say, keeping his face straight. Whydo you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousinConrad? Because he's coming to kill you. Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing. Ninian sighed. He's dissatisfied with the current social order andkilling you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.You wouldn't understand. You're damn right. I don't understand. What's it all about instraight gas? Oh, just don't ask any questions, Ninian said petulantly. When youget older, someone will explain the whole thing to you. <doc-sep>So Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things theway they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people heknew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed tothink it was disgusting. So if you don't like it, clean it up, he suggested. She looked at him as if he were out of his mind. Hire a maid, then! he jeered. And darned if that dope didn't go out and get a woman to come clean upthe place! He was so embarrassed, he didn't even dare show his face inthe streets—especially with the women buttonholing him and demandingto know what gave. They tried talking to Ninian, but she certainly knewhow to give them the cold shoulder. One day the truant officer came to ask why Martin hadn't been comingto school. Very few of the neighborhood kids attended classes veryregularly, so this was just routine. But Ninian didn't know that andshe went into a real tizzy, babbling that Martin had been sick andwould make up the work. Martin nearly did get sick from laughing sohard inside. But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out andhired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martinhad to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a stepwithout hearing Fancy Pants! yelled after him. Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these peoplethought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as littlebetter than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. Therewere an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly thesame way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really prettydumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo. It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practicalapplication to go by, she told him. He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming outwrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see whatshe'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of aspectator. When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses thatmushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly whereintensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites. This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in, shedeclared. Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here. And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man whocame to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him UncleRaymond. From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives andBartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and manymore—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his. <doc-sep>Martin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to playwith the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parentswould have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that ifa one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must besomething pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just asconspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; shewas supposed to know better than he did. He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded bymore luxury than he knew what to do with. The furniture was the latest New Grand Rapids African modern. Therewere tidy, colorful Picasso and Braque prints on the walls. And everyinch of the floor was modestly covered by carpeting, though the wallswere mostly unabashed glass. There were hot water and heat all the timeand a freezer well stocked with food—somewhat erratically chosen, forNinian didn't know much about meals. The non-glass part of the house was of neat, natural-toned wood, with aneat green lawn in front and a neat parti-colored garden in back. Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having otherkids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't givenhim enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'dnearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd huggedand kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done allshe could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and ifrespectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society. From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carryout a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—aworld of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in thegovernment service or the essential professions. And they seemed tothink even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better thanactually doing anything with the hands. In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wearpretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There wasno devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants ofnormal living. It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot ofthem were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.They came from the future. <doc-sep>When Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian hadpromised five years before. The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's anidealist, Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste. Martin nodded gravely. He was a quiet boy now, his brief past a dim andrather ridiculous memory. Who could ever imagine him robbing a grocerystore or wielding a broken bottle now? He still was rather undersizedand he'd read so much that he'd weakened his eyes and had to wearglasses. His face was pallid, because he spent little time in the sun,and his speech rather overbred, his mentors from the future havingcarefully eradicated all current vulgarities. And Conrad really got upset over the way Earth has been exploitingthe not so intelligent life-forms on the other planets, Raymondcontinued. Which is distressing—though, of course, it's not asif they were people. Besides, the government has been talking aboutpassing laws to do away with the—well, abuses and things like that,and I'm sure someday everything will come out all right. However,Conrad is so impatient. I thought, in your world, machines did all the work, Martin suggested. I've told you—our world is precisely the same as this one! Raymondsnapped. We just come a couple of centuries or so later, that's all.But remember, our interests are identical. We're virtually the samepeople ... although it is amazing what a difference two hundred oddyears of progress and polish can make in a species, isn't it? He continued more mildly: However, even you ought to be able tounderstand that we can't make machinery without metal. We need food.All that sort of thing comes from the out-system planets. And, on thoseworlds, it's far cheaper to use native labor than to ship out all thatexpensive machinery. After all, if we didn't give the natives jobs, howwould they manage to live? How did they live before? Come to think of it, if you don't work, howdo you live now?... I don't mean in the now for me, but the now foryou, Martin explained laboriously. It was so difficult to live in thepast and think in the future. I'm trying to talk to you as if you were an adult, Raymond said, butif you will persist in these childish interruptions— I'm sorry, Martin said. But he wasn't, for by now he had little respect left for any ofhis descendants. They were all exceedingly handsome and cultivatedyoung people, with superior educations, smooth ways of speaking andconsiderable self-confidence, but they just weren't very bright. Andhe had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of thelot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—morefrightening—his race had lost something vital. Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,Raymond went on blandly: Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself tofeel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been forthe fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, wemight never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feelingguilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for hisgreat-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be heldaccountable for his great-grandfather. How about a great-great-grandchild? Martin couldn't help asking. <doc-sep>Raymond flushed a delicate pink. Do you want to hear the rest of thisor don't you? Oh, I do! Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together forhimself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it. Unfortunately, Professor Farkas has just perfected the timetransmitter. Those government scientists are so infernallyofficious—always inventing such senseless things. It's supposed tobe hush-hush, but you know how news will leak out when one is alwaysdesperate for a fresh topic of conversation. Anyhow, Raymond went on to explain, Conrad had bribed one of Farkas'assistants for a set of the plans. Conrad's idea had been to go backin time and eliminate! their common great-grandfather. In that way,there would be no space-drive, and, hence, the Terrestrials would neverget to the other planets and oppress the local aborigines. Sounds like a good way of dealing with the problem, Martin observed. Raymond looked annoyed. It's the adolescent way, he said, to doaway with it, rather than find a solution. Would you destroy a wholesociety in order to root out a single injustice? Not if it were a good one otherwise. Well, there's your answer. Conrad got the apparatus built, or perhapshe built it himself. One doesn't inquire too closely into suchmatters. But when it came to the point, Conrad couldn't bear the ideaof eliminating our great-grandfather—because our great-grandfatherwas such a good man, you know. Raymond's expressive upper lipcurled. So Conrad decided to go further back still and get rid ofhis great-grandfather's father—who'd been, by all accounts, a prettyworthless character. That would be me, I suppose, Martin said quietly. Raymond turned a deep rose. Well, doesn't that just go to prove youmustn't believe everything you hear? The next sentence tumbled out ina rush. I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the othercousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided itwas our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you. Hebeamed at Martin. The boy smiled slowly. Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in eliminating me, then none of you would exist, would you? Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. Well, you didn't reallysuppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheeraltruism, did you? he asked, turning on the charm which all thecousins possessed to a consternating degree. <doc-sep>Martin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned longago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise. We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor'sassistants, Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us. Induced , Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to theuse of the iron maiden. Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded younight and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we madeour counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and herewe are! I see, Martin said. Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. After all, he pointedout defensively, whatever our motives, it has turned into a goodthing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporaryconveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more youcould ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Ofcourse Ninian was a ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where anylittle thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that ourera has completely disposed of the mercantiles— What did you do with them? Martin asked. But Raymond rushed on: Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,the more eccentricity you can get away with. And, he added, I mightas well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through thiswretched historical stint. So Ninian's going, said Martin, wondering why the news made him feelcuriously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in aremote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, forhim. Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend inexile, Raymond explained, even though our life spans are a bit longerthan yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoatgovernment. He looked inquisitively at Martin. You're not going togo all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you? No.... Martin said hesitantly. Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But wearen't very close, so it won't make a real difference. That was thesad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference. Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. I knew you weren't a sloppysentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,you know. Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirringof alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. How do you plan toprotect me when he comes? Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course, Raymond saidwith modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child'scombination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had nodoubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. And we've got arather elaborate burglar alarm system. Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiringwhich, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he wasdubious. Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this house ,but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this time ? Never fear—it has a temporal radius, Raymond replied. Factoryguarantee and all that. Just to be on the safe side, Martin said, I think I'd better haveone of those guns, too. A splendid idea! enthused Raymond. I was just about to think of thatmyself! <doc-sep>When it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears ather own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillfulat understanding his descendants, far better than they at understandinghim. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on thecheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right andthat she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at thevery last. Raymond and Martin moved into a luxurious mansion in a remote area. Thesite proved a well-chosen one; when the Second Atomic War came, half adozen years later, they weren't touched. Martin was never sure whetherthis had been sheer luck or expert planning. Probably luck, because hisdescendants were exceedingly inept planners. Few people in the world then could afford to live as stylishly asMartin and his guardian. The place not only contained every possibleconvenience and gadget but was crammed with bibelots and antiques,carefully chosen by Raymond and disputed by Martin, for, to the manfrom the future, all available artifacts were antiques. Otherwise,Martin accepted his new surroundings. His sense of wonder had becomedulled by now and the pink pseudo-Spanish castle—architecturallydreadful, of course, Raymond had said, but so hilariouslytypical—impressed him far less than had the suburban split-levelaquarium. How about a moat? Martin suggested when they first came. It seems togo with a castle. Do you think a moat could stop Conrad? Raymond asked, amused. No, Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, but it would make the placeseem safer somehow. The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and morenervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor thatstood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, becauseseveral times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept withthe ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it,until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them. During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for thehigher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitablyarose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. Atleast twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one oftheir vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoysuch occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms ofentertainment. <doc-sep>This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin, Raymondcommented as he took his place at the head of the table, because,unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, onejust—well, drifts along happily. Ours is a wonderful world, Grania sighed at Martin. I only wish wecould take you there. I'm sure you would like it. Don't be a fool, Grania! Raymond snapped. Well, Martin, have youmade up your mind what you want to be? Martin affected to think. A physicist, he said, not without malice.Or perhaps an engineer. There was a loud, excited chorus of dissent. He chuckled inwardly. Can't do that, Ives said. Might pick up some concepts from us. Don'tknow how; none of us knows a thing about science. But it could happen.Subconscious osmosis, if there is such a thing. That way, you mightinvent something ahead of time. And the fellow we got the plans fromparticularly cautioned us against that. Changing history. Dangerous. Might mess up our time frightfully, Bartholomew contributed, though,to be perfectly frank, I can't quite understand how. I am not going to sit down and explain the whole thing to you all overagain, Bart! Raymond said impatiently. Well, Martin? What would you suggest? Martin asked. How about becoming a painter? Art is eternal. And quite gentlemanly.Besides, artists are always expected to be either behind or ahead oftheir times. Furthermore, Ottillie added, one more artist couldn't make muchdifference in history. There were so many of them all through the ages. Martin couldn't hold back his question. What was I, actually, in thatother time? There was a chilly silence. Let's not talk about it, dear, Lalage finally said. Let's just bethankful we've saved you from that ! So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competentsecond-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve firstrank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almostpurely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel wasfear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor andwalk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him forthe sake of an ideal. But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were prettypictures. <doc-sep>Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call thedescendants cousin —next assumed guardianship. Ives took hisresponsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arrangedto have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings receivedcritical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modestsale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were notinterested. Takes time, Ives tried to reassure him. One day they'll be buyingyour pictures, Martin. Wait and see. Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martinas an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other youngman failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was achange of air and scenery. 'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't inventedspace travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.Tourists always like ruins best, anyway. So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,which Martin christened The Interregnum . They traveled about from seato ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and makingtrips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; thenearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much thesame as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormousmuseum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more. The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,largely because they could spend so much time far away from thecontemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. Sothey never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on The Interregnum . He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, althoughthere was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler throughtime. More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, becausethey came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboardship, giving each other parties and playing an avant-garde form ofshuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usuallyended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another ofhaving got advance information about the results. Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them onlywhen not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, thoughthey were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't courthis society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable. <doc-sep>He rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alonetogether; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had comefrom. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirelyaccurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earthproper, but that was because there were only a couple of million peopleleft on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highlyinterbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtueof their distinguished ancestry. Rather feudal, isn't it? Martin asked. Ives agreed, adding that the system had, however, been deliberatelyplanned, rather than the result of haphazard natural development.Everything potentially unpleasant, like the mercantiles, had beendeported. Not only natives livin' on the other worlds, Ives said as the twoof them stood at the ship's rail, surrounded by the limitless expanseof some ocean or other. People, too. Mostly lower classes, exceptfor officials and things. With wars and want and suffering, he addedregretfully, same as in your day.... Like now, I mean, he correctedhimself. Maybe it is worse, the way Conrad thinks. More planetsfor us to make trouble on. Three that were habitable aren't any more.Bombed. Very thorough job. Oh, Martin murmured, trying to sound shocked, horrified—interested,even. Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong, Ives said, aftera pause. Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting thepeople—I expect you could call them people—there. Still— he smiledshamefacedly—couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,could I? I suppose not, Martin said. Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, exceptConrad, and even he— Ives looked out over the sea. Must be a betterway out than Conrad's, he said without conviction. And everythingwill work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,if it doesn't. He glanced wistfully at Martin. I hope so, said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; hecouldn't even seem to care. During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martinhad gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almostwished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking.... He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realizethe basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would havebeen Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego onebitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor fromthe future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough totake a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body wasburied in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of thecontinent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth. A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All weredressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymondread the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clericalcousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffyabout the entire undertaking. He died for all of us, Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy overIves, so his death was not in vain. But Martin disagreed. <doc-sep>The ceaseless voyaging began again. The Interregnum voyaged to everyocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. Aftera while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousincame to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tellapart as the different oceans. All the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times inhis life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Onlythe young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trusttheir elders. As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interestin the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched portfor fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in thatera than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to seethe sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—andsometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapesthat his other work lacked. When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visitsomewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to thisjourney. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked waspurpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to thecousin's utter disgust. Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as youdo, the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants werescraping bottom now—advised. Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could bedisillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neitherpurpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ivesand felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longerunderstand. Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time? Martin idly askedthe current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now. The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. Conrad'sa very shrewd fellow, he whispered. He's biding his time—waitinguntil we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack! Oh, I see, Martin said. He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulatingmember of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he wouldever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than oneconversation, anyhow. When he does show up, I'll protect you, the cousin vowed, touchinghis ray gun. You haven't a thing to worry about. Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. Ihave every confidence in you, he told his descendant. He himself hadgiven up carrying a gun long ago. There was a war in the Northern Hemisphere and so The Interregnum voyaged to southern waters. There was a war in the south and they hidout in the Arctic. All the nations became too drained of power—fueland man and will—to fight, so there was a sterile peace for a longtime. The Interregnum roamed the seas restlessly, with her load ofpassengers from the future, plus one bored and aging contemporary. Shebore big guns now, because of the ever-present danger of pirates. <doc-sep>Perhaps it was the traditionally bracing effect of sea air—perhaps itwas the sheltered life—but Martin lived to be a very old man. He was ahundred and four when his last illness came. It was a great relief whenthe family doctor, called in again from the future, said there was nohope. Martin didn't think he could have borne another year of life. All the cousins gathered at the yacht to pay their last respects totheir progenitor. He saw Ninian again, after all these years, andRaymond—all the others, dozens of them, thronging around his bed,spilling out of the cabin and into the passageways and out onto thedeck, making their usual clamor, even though their voices were hushed. Only Ives was missing. He'd been the lucky one, Martin knew. He hadbeen spared the tragedy that was going to befall these blooming youngpeople—all the same age as when Martin had last seen them and doomednever to grow any older. Underneath their masks of woe, he could seerelief at the thought that at last they were going to be rid of theirresponsibility. And underneath Martin's death mask lay an impersonalpity for those poor, stupid descendants of his who had blundered soirretrievably. There was only one face which Martin had never seen before. It wasn'ta strange face, however, because Martin had seen one very like it inthe looking glass when he was a young man. You must be Conrad, Martin called across the cabin in a voice thatwas still clear. I've been looking forward to meeting you for sometime. The other cousins whirled to face the newcomer. You're too late, Con, Raymond gloated for the whole generation. He'slived out his life. But he hasn't lived out his life, Conrad contradicted. He's livedout the life you created for him. And for yourselves, too. For the first time, Martin saw compassion in the eyes of one of hislineage and found it vaguely disturbing. It didn't seem to belong there. Don't you realize even yet, Conrad went on, that as soon as he goes,you'll go, too—present, past, future, wherever you are, you'll go upin the air like puffs of smoke? What do you mean? Ninian quavered, her soft, pretty face alarmed. Martin answered Conrad's rueful smile, but left the explanations up tohim. It was his show, after all. Because you will never have existed, Conrad said. You have no rightto existence; it was you yourselves who watched him all the time,so he didn't have a chance to lead a normal life, get married, havechildren .... <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through. I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves. I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What— Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised. The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago. At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay. You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that? Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully. What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of any kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience? Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing! But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this. He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy. I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity. One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow. Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent. No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what we did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right. <doc-sep>Was Conrad telling him the truth, Martin wondered, or was he justgiving the conventional reassurance to the dying? More than that, washe trying to convince himself that what he had done was the rightthing? Every cousin had assured Martin that things were going to be allright. Was Conrad actually different from the rest? His plan had worked and the others' hadn't, but then all his plan hadconsisted of was doing nothing. That was all he and Martin had done ...nothing. Were they absolved of all responsibility merely because theyhad stood aside and taken advantage of the others' weaknesses? Why, Martin said to himself, in a sense, it could be said that Ihave fulfilled my original destiny—that I am a criminal. Well, it didn't matter; whatever happened, no one could hold him toblame. He held no stake in the future that was to come. It was othermen's future—other men's problem. He died very peacefully then, and,since he was the only one left on the ship, there was nobody to buryhim. The unmanned yacht drifted about the seas for years and gave rise tomany legends, none of them as unbelievable as the truth. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of time in this story?

First, time is significant in this story as the main plotline to the cousins' interactions with Martin. With the future having time travel as a reality, characters in this story like Ninian are able to jump back and forth between the past - to bring Martin out of poverty and vulgar background - and the future to her present time. Although the characters in this story utilize time as an unchangeable and linear concept, we find out through hints in the story and at the final moment that time here is fluid and flexible. Anything that occurs in the past will affect the reality of the future. This is a startling pocket of truth that the cousins fail to realize until Martin’s deathbed - where they are horrified to find out that their selfish desire to protect their comfortable reality in the future had actually led to their own demise and ridded their entire existence. Additionally, time is used to explore the ruling ideologies of the social class both in present and in future. Despite the cousins proclaiming the future world to be free of poverty and highly privileged, Ives reveals that the realities of both worlds are similar in having wars and want and suffering. Only, with the latter future world dealing with these unsavory characters in exiling them and maintaining a feudal class system.

Does Martin’s attitudes towards the cousins change throughout the story, and why? [SEP] <s> THE MAN OUTSIDE By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] No one, least of all Martin, could dispute that a man's life should be guarded by his kin—but by those who hadn't been born yet? Nobody in the neighborhood was surprised when Martin's motherdisappeared and Ninian came to take care of him. Mothers had a wayof disappearing around those parts and the kids were often betteroff without them. Martin was no exception. He'd never had it thisgood while he was living with his old lady. As for his father, Martinhad never had one. He'd been a war baby, born of one of the tides ofsoldiers—enemies and allies, both—that had engulfed the country insuccessive waves and bought or taken the women. So there was no troublethat way. Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that storyabout her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she reallywas his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tellhim to call her Aunt Ninian ? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'dbeen around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thoughtmaybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a littletoo crazy for that. He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was saferwith Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cryinstead of mopping up the floor with him. But I can't understand, he would say, keeping his face straight. Whydo you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousinConrad? Because he's coming to kill you. Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing. Ninian sighed. He's dissatisfied with the current social order andkilling you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.You wouldn't understand. You're damn right. I don't understand. What's it all about instraight gas? Oh, just don't ask any questions, Ninian said petulantly. When youget older, someone will explain the whole thing to you. <doc-sep>So Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things theway they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people heknew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed tothink it was disgusting. So if you don't like it, clean it up, he suggested. She looked at him as if he were out of his mind. Hire a maid, then! he jeered. And darned if that dope didn't go out and get a woman to come clean upthe place! He was so embarrassed, he didn't even dare show his face inthe streets—especially with the women buttonholing him and demandingto know what gave. They tried talking to Ninian, but she certainly knewhow to give them the cold shoulder. One day the truant officer came to ask why Martin hadn't been comingto school. Very few of the neighborhood kids attended classes veryregularly, so this was just routine. But Ninian didn't know that andshe went into a real tizzy, babbling that Martin had been sick andwould make up the work. Martin nearly did get sick from laughing sohard inside. But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out andhired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martinhad to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a stepwithout hearing Fancy Pants! yelled after him. Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these peoplethought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as littlebetter than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. Therewere an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly thesame way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really prettydumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo. It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practicalapplication to go by, she told him. He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming outwrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see whatshe'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of aspectator. When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses thatmushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly whereintensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites. This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in, shedeclared. Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here. And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man whocame to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him UncleRaymond. From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives andBartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and manymore—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his. <doc-sep>Martin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to playwith the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parentswould have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that ifa one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must besomething pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just asconspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; shewas supposed to know better than he did. He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded bymore luxury than he knew what to do with. The furniture was the latest New Grand Rapids African modern. Therewere tidy, colorful Picasso and Braque prints on the walls. And everyinch of the floor was modestly covered by carpeting, though the wallswere mostly unabashed glass. There were hot water and heat all the timeand a freezer well stocked with food—somewhat erratically chosen, forNinian didn't know much about meals. The non-glass part of the house was of neat, natural-toned wood, with aneat green lawn in front and a neat parti-colored garden in back. Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having otherkids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't givenhim enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'dnearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd huggedand kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done allshe could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and ifrespectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society. From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carryout a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—aworld of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in thegovernment service or the essential professions. And they seemed tothink even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better thanactually doing anything with the hands. In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wearpretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There wasno devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants ofnormal living. It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot ofthem were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.They came from the future. <doc-sep>When Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian hadpromised five years before. The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's anidealist, Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste. Martin nodded gravely. He was a quiet boy now, his brief past a dim andrather ridiculous memory. Who could ever imagine him robbing a grocerystore or wielding a broken bottle now? He still was rather undersizedand he'd read so much that he'd weakened his eyes and had to wearglasses. His face was pallid, because he spent little time in the sun,and his speech rather overbred, his mentors from the future havingcarefully eradicated all current vulgarities. And Conrad really got upset over the way Earth has been exploitingthe not so intelligent life-forms on the other planets, Raymondcontinued. Which is distressing—though, of course, it's not asif they were people. Besides, the government has been talking aboutpassing laws to do away with the—well, abuses and things like that,and I'm sure someday everything will come out all right. However,Conrad is so impatient. I thought, in your world, machines did all the work, Martin suggested. I've told you—our world is precisely the same as this one! Raymondsnapped. We just come a couple of centuries or so later, that's all.But remember, our interests are identical. We're virtually the samepeople ... although it is amazing what a difference two hundred oddyears of progress and polish can make in a species, isn't it? He continued more mildly: However, even you ought to be able tounderstand that we can't make machinery without metal. We need food.All that sort of thing comes from the out-system planets. And, on thoseworlds, it's far cheaper to use native labor than to ship out all thatexpensive machinery. After all, if we didn't give the natives jobs, howwould they manage to live? How did they live before? Come to think of it, if you don't work, howdo you live now?... I don't mean in the now for me, but the now foryou, Martin explained laboriously. It was so difficult to live in thepast and think in the future. I'm trying to talk to you as if you were an adult, Raymond said, butif you will persist in these childish interruptions— I'm sorry, Martin said. But he wasn't, for by now he had little respect left for any ofhis descendants. They were all exceedingly handsome and cultivatedyoung people, with superior educations, smooth ways of speaking andconsiderable self-confidence, but they just weren't very bright. Andhe had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of thelot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—morefrightening—his race had lost something vital. Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,Raymond went on blandly: Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself tofeel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been forthe fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, wemight never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feelingguilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for hisgreat-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be heldaccountable for his great-grandfather. How about a great-great-grandchild? Martin couldn't help asking. <doc-sep>Raymond flushed a delicate pink. Do you want to hear the rest of thisor don't you? Oh, I do! Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together forhimself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it. Unfortunately, Professor Farkas has just perfected the timetransmitter. Those government scientists are so infernallyofficious—always inventing such senseless things. It's supposed tobe hush-hush, but you know how news will leak out when one is alwaysdesperate for a fresh topic of conversation. Anyhow, Raymond went on to explain, Conrad had bribed one of Farkas'assistants for a set of the plans. Conrad's idea had been to go backin time and eliminate! their common great-grandfather. In that way,there would be no space-drive, and, hence, the Terrestrials would neverget to the other planets and oppress the local aborigines. Sounds like a good way of dealing with the problem, Martin observed. Raymond looked annoyed. It's the adolescent way, he said, to doaway with it, rather than find a solution. Would you destroy a wholesociety in order to root out a single injustice? Not if it were a good one otherwise. Well, there's your answer. Conrad got the apparatus built, or perhapshe built it himself. One doesn't inquire too closely into suchmatters. But when it came to the point, Conrad couldn't bear the ideaof eliminating our great-grandfather—because our great-grandfatherwas such a good man, you know. Raymond's expressive upper lipcurled. So Conrad decided to go further back still and get rid ofhis great-grandfather's father—who'd been, by all accounts, a prettyworthless character. That would be me, I suppose, Martin said quietly. Raymond turned a deep rose. Well, doesn't that just go to prove youmustn't believe everything you hear? The next sentence tumbled out ina rush. I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the othercousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided itwas our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you. Hebeamed at Martin. The boy smiled slowly. Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in eliminating me, then none of you would exist, would you? Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. Well, you didn't reallysuppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheeraltruism, did you? he asked, turning on the charm which all thecousins possessed to a consternating degree. <doc-sep>Martin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned longago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise. We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor'sassistants, Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us. Induced , Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to theuse of the iron maiden. Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded younight and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we madeour counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and herewe are! I see, Martin said. Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. After all, he pointedout defensively, whatever our motives, it has turned into a goodthing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporaryconveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more youcould ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Ofcourse Ninian was a ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where anylittle thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that ourera has completely disposed of the mercantiles— What did you do with them? Martin asked. But Raymond rushed on: Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,the more eccentricity you can get away with. And, he added, I mightas well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through thiswretched historical stint. So Ninian's going, said Martin, wondering why the news made him feelcuriously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in aremote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, forhim. Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend inexile, Raymond explained, even though our life spans are a bit longerthan yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoatgovernment. He looked inquisitively at Martin. You're not going togo all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you? No.... Martin said hesitantly. Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But wearen't very close, so it won't make a real difference. That was thesad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference. Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. I knew you weren't a sloppysentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,you know. Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirringof alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. How do you plan toprotect me when he comes? Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course, Raymond saidwith modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child'scombination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had nodoubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. And we've got arather elaborate burglar alarm system. Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiringwhich, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he wasdubious. Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this house ,but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this time ? Never fear—it has a temporal radius, Raymond replied. Factoryguarantee and all that. Just to be on the safe side, Martin said, I think I'd better haveone of those guns, too. A splendid idea! enthused Raymond. I was just about to think of thatmyself! <doc-sep>When it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears ather own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillfulat understanding his descendants, far better than they at understandinghim. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on thecheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right andthat she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at thevery last. Raymond and Martin moved into a luxurious mansion in a remote area. Thesite proved a well-chosen one; when the Second Atomic War came, half adozen years later, they weren't touched. Martin was never sure whetherthis had been sheer luck or expert planning. Probably luck, because hisdescendants were exceedingly inept planners. Few people in the world then could afford to live as stylishly asMartin and his guardian. The place not only contained every possibleconvenience and gadget but was crammed with bibelots and antiques,carefully chosen by Raymond and disputed by Martin, for, to the manfrom the future, all available artifacts were antiques. Otherwise,Martin accepted his new surroundings. His sense of wonder had becomedulled by now and the pink pseudo-Spanish castle—architecturallydreadful, of course, Raymond had said, but so hilariouslytypical—impressed him far less than had the suburban split-levelaquarium. How about a moat? Martin suggested when they first came. It seems togo with a castle. Do you think a moat could stop Conrad? Raymond asked, amused. No, Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, but it would make the placeseem safer somehow. The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and morenervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor thatstood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, becauseseveral times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept withthe ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it,until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them. During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for thehigher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitablyarose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. Atleast twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one oftheir vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoysuch occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms ofentertainment. <doc-sep>This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin, Raymondcommented as he took his place at the head of the table, because,unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, onejust—well, drifts along happily. Ours is a wonderful world, Grania sighed at Martin. I only wish wecould take you there. I'm sure you would like it. Don't be a fool, Grania! Raymond snapped. Well, Martin, have youmade up your mind what you want to be? Martin affected to think. A physicist, he said, not without malice.Or perhaps an engineer. There was a loud, excited chorus of dissent. He chuckled inwardly. Can't do that, Ives said. Might pick up some concepts from us. Don'tknow how; none of us knows a thing about science. But it could happen.Subconscious osmosis, if there is such a thing. That way, you mightinvent something ahead of time. And the fellow we got the plans fromparticularly cautioned us against that. Changing history. Dangerous. Might mess up our time frightfully, Bartholomew contributed, though,to be perfectly frank, I can't quite understand how. I am not going to sit down and explain the whole thing to you all overagain, Bart! Raymond said impatiently. Well, Martin? What would you suggest? Martin asked. How about becoming a painter? Art is eternal. And quite gentlemanly.Besides, artists are always expected to be either behind or ahead oftheir times. Furthermore, Ottillie added, one more artist couldn't make muchdifference in history. There were so many of them all through the ages. Martin couldn't hold back his question. What was I, actually, in thatother time? There was a chilly silence. Let's not talk about it, dear, Lalage finally said. Let's just bethankful we've saved you from that ! So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competentsecond-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve firstrank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almostpurely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel wasfear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor andwalk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him forthe sake of an ideal. But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were prettypictures. <doc-sep>Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call thedescendants cousin —next assumed guardianship. Ives took hisresponsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arrangedto have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings receivedcritical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modestsale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were notinterested. Takes time, Ives tried to reassure him. One day they'll be buyingyour pictures, Martin. Wait and see. Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martinas an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other youngman failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was achange of air and scenery. 'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't inventedspace travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.Tourists always like ruins best, anyway. So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,which Martin christened The Interregnum . They traveled about from seato ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and makingtrips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; thenearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much thesame as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormousmuseum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more. The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,largely because they could spend so much time far away from thecontemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. Sothey never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on The Interregnum . He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, althoughthere was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler throughtime. More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, becausethey came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboardship, giving each other parties and playing an avant-garde form ofshuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usuallyended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another ofhaving got advance information about the results. Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them onlywhen not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, thoughthey were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't courthis society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable. <doc-sep>He rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alonetogether; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had comefrom. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirelyaccurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earthproper, but that was because there were only a couple of million peopleleft on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highlyinterbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtueof their distinguished ancestry. Rather feudal, isn't it? Martin asked. Ives agreed, adding that the system had, however, been deliberatelyplanned, rather than the result of haphazard natural development.Everything potentially unpleasant, like the mercantiles, had beendeported. Not only natives livin' on the other worlds, Ives said as the twoof them stood at the ship's rail, surrounded by the limitless expanseof some ocean or other. People, too. Mostly lower classes, exceptfor officials and things. With wars and want and suffering, he addedregretfully, same as in your day.... Like now, I mean, he correctedhimself. Maybe it is worse, the way Conrad thinks. More planetsfor us to make trouble on. Three that were habitable aren't any more.Bombed. Very thorough job. Oh, Martin murmured, trying to sound shocked, horrified—interested,even. Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong, Ives said, aftera pause. Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting thepeople—I expect you could call them people—there. Still— he smiledshamefacedly—couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,could I? I suppose not, Martin said. Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, exceptConrad, and even he— Ives looked out over the sea. Must be a betterway out than Conrad's, he said without conviction. And everythingwill work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,if it doesn't. He glanced wistfully at Martin. I hope so, said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; hecouldn't even seem to care. During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martinhad gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almostwished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking.... He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realizethe basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would havebeen Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego onebitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor fromthe future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough totake a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body wasburied in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of thecontinent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth. A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All weredressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymondread the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clericalcousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffyabout the entire undertaking. He died for all of us, Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy overIves, so his death was not in vain. But Martin disagreed. <doc-sep>The ceaseless voyaging began again. The Interregnum voyaged to everyocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. Aftera while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousincame to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tellapart as the different oceans. All the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times inhis life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Onlythe young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trusttheir elders. As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interestin the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched portfor fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in thatera than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to seethe sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—andsometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapesthat his other work lacked. When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visitsomewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to thisjourney. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked waspurpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to thecousin's utter disgust. Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as youdo, the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants werescraping bottom now—advised. Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could bedisillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neitherpurpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ivesand felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longerunderstand. Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time? Martin idly askedthe current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now. The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. Conrad'sa very shrewd fellow, he whispered. He's biding his time—waitinguntil we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack! Oh, I see, Martin said. He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulatingmember of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he wouldever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than oneconversation, anyhow. When he does show up, I'll protect you, the cousin vowed, touchinghis ray gun. You haven't a thing to worry about. Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. Ihave every confidence in you, he told his descendant. He himself hadgiven up carrying a gun long ago. There was a war in the Northern Hemisphere and so The Interregnum voyaged to southern waters. There was a war in the south and they hidout in the Arctic. All the nations became too drained of power—fueland man and will—to fight, so there was a sterile peace for a longtime. The Interregnum roamed the seas restlessly, with her load ofpassengers from the future, plus one bored and aging contemporary. Shebore big guns now, because of the ever-present danger of pirates. <doc-sep>Perhaps it was the traditionally bracing effect of sea air—perhaps itwas the sheltered life—but Martin lived to be a very old man. He was ahundred and four when his last illness came. It was a great relief whenthe family doctor, called in again from the future, said there was nohope. Martin didn't think he could have borne another year of life. All the cousins gathered at the yacht to pay their last respects totheir progenitor. He saw Ninian again, after all these years, andRaymond—all the others, dozens of them, thronging around his bed,spilling out of the cabin and into the passageways and out onto thedeck, making their usual clamor, even though their voices were hushed. Only Ives was missing. He'd been the lucky one, Martin knew. He hadbeen spared the tragedy that was going to befall these blooming youngpeople—all the same age as when Martin had last seen them and doomednever to grow any older. Underneath their masks of woe, he could seerelief at the thought that at last they were going to be rid of theirresponsibility. And underneath Martin's death mask lay an impersonalpity for those poor, stupid descendants of his who had blundered soirretrievably. There was only one face which Martin had never seen before. It wasn'ta strange face, however, because Martin had seen one very like it inthe looking glass when he was a young man. You must be Conrad, Martin called across the cabin in a voice thatwas still clear. I've been looking forward to meeting you for sometime. The other cousins whirled to face the newcomer. You're too late, Con, Raymond gloated for the whole generation. He'slived out his life. But he hasn't lived out his life, Conrad contradicted. He's livedout the life you created for him. And for yourselves, too. For the first time, Martin saw compassion in the eyes of one of hislineage and found it vaguely disturbing. It didn't seem to belong there. Don't you realize even yet, Conrad went on, that as soon as he goes,you'll go, too—present, past, future, wherever you are, you'll go upin the air like puffs of smoke? What do you mean? Ninian quavered, her soft, pretty face alarmed. Martin answered Conrad's rueful smile, but left the explanations up tohim. It was his show, after all. Because you will never have existed, Conrad said. You have no rightto existence; it was you yourselves who watched him all the time,so he didn't have a chance to lead a normal life, get married, havechildren .... <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through. I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves. I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What— Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised. The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago. At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay. You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that? Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully. What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of any kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience? Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing! But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this. He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy. I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity. One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow. Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent. No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what we did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right. <doc-sep>Was Conrad telling him the truth, Martin wondered, or was he justgiving the conventional reassurance to the dying? More than that, washe trying to convince himself that what he had done was the rightthing? Every cousin had assured Martin that things were going to be allright. Was Conrad actually different from the rest? His plan had worked and the others' hadn't, but then all his plan hadconsisted of was doing nothing. That was all he and Martin had done ...nothing. Were they absolved of all responsibility merely because theyhad stood aside and taken advantage of the others' weaknesses? Why, Martin said to himself, in a sense, it could be said that Ihave fulfilled my original destiny—that I am a criminal. Well, it didn't matter; whatever happened, no one could hold him toblame. He held no stake in the future that was to come. It was othermen's future—other men's problem. He died very peacefully then, and,since he was the only one left on the ship, there was nobody to buryhim. The unmanned yacht drifted about the seas for years and gave rise tomany legends, none of them as unbelievable as the truth. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Does Martin’s attitudes towards the cousins change throughout the story, and why?

When Ninian initially arrives, Martin blatantly considers her to be dumb. Dumb to hire a cleaning maid, dumb to freak out over Martin’s absence at school, and dumb to hire a private tutor. Even with them moving to a different and more privileged neighborhood, he considers her dumb to go through all this effort to still remain conspicuous. As the reasons behind the cousins’ presence in the past and guardianship over Martin is revealed, his sentiment towards them remains the same. It seems that Martin is able to catch onto the obvious flaw in the cousins’ plans quite early on, and yet with so many cousins slipping in and out, and despite their proclaimed intelligence, none of them are able to pick up on this flaw. The flaw being: with Martin having no children, their very existence becomes an impossibility. This is revealed at the end of the story where Martin is on his deathbed, noting that he had come to this conclusion many years before and had chosen not to say anything.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> Spawning Ground By LESTER DEL REY They weren't human. They were something more—and something less—they were, in short, humanity's hopes for survival! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The Starship Pandora creaked and groaned as her landing pads settledunevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed tobe restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years fromthe waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoedthrough her hallways. Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He wasa big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibilityhad pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under hisreddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonieswere rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward thecontrol room, grumbling at the heavy gravity. Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as hemoved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. Morning, Bob. Youneed a shave. Yeah. He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran ahand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. Anything newduring the night? About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little waysnorth of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into theclouds. The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobodyknew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to havean almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. Andour two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost themin the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back. Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmenin the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for trainingas cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman andPinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution. Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn'tseemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorousand harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite oftheir internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs eachon their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts. But something had happened to the exploration party fifteen yearsback, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to checkup. <doc-sep>He turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sunmust be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds thatwrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls offog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forestglowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feedinganimals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even thedeep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship wascompletely hidden by the fog. There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animalsnow, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them.... But there was no time. Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load ofdeep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any signof Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayedalready. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happenedto the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have toreport back. He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enoughof the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air byluck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectorsoriginally. Bob! Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. Bob, there arethe kids! Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caughthis eye. The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantasticspeed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something thatmoved there. He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, justbeyond the movement he'd seen through the mist. Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, butGwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets. They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together. Then the mists cleared. Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almosteight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuitedcadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was amomentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning theothers forward. <doc-sep>Get the jeeps out! Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door ofthe little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It wasagonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the doorback at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around inconfusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. Thejeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, andGwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back. There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet wasirritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped tothe seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, thejeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it pickedup speed. The other two followed. There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things lookedhorrible in a travesty of manhood. The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that wereracing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swungabout, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twentymiles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, inspite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures diveddownward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists. Follow the blobs, Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool toleave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with thekids. But it was too late to go back. The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward intoa gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but hehad to slow as the fog thickened lower down. Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their owntrail to confuse the pursuers. There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had aglimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarsefaces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against thewindshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul thesteering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone. The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. Theother jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too lateto help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry orthe horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog. A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne. He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creatureseemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off. Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forwardagainst the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-footleader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on eachshoulder. The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creatureleaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, divingfor the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt. <doc-sep>The arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distortedshoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as hishands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in hisnose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds afterthe captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavysound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made nofurther move, though it was still breathing. Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelliwas either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free tokick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loadedonto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monsteron another before heading back. No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute! Barker shookhis own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing. I hope so, Gwayne told him. I want that thing to live—and you'redetailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make signlanguage or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessyand why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be theanswer. Barker nodded grimly. I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alienmetabolism. He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spatsickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. Bob, it stillmakes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there wasno sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some. Troglodytes, maybe, Gwayne guessed. Anyhow, send for me when you getanything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstayingour time here already. The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd beenpicked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they werebusy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soonas he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and lessinformative with retelling. If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might savetime and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. Thatwas almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemedto be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group hadbeen overcome by the aliens. It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could theprimitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was itsfuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who toldthese creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by alittle more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the shipcunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work. Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to findsomething—and find it fast. Earth needed every world she could makeremotely habitable, or mankind was probably doomed to extinction. <doc-sep>The race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weaponsinto a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed toprevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had founda drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent lifethere to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own. But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System hadfinally proved that the sun was going to go nova. It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it wouldrender the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,man had to colonize. And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. Theexplorers went out in desperation to find what they could; theterraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starshipsbegan filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conservespace. Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth andfour more months back. In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on thefootholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe someof the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe nonewould be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each wasprecious as a haven for the race. If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, asit now seemed, no more time could be wasted here. Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair tostrip them of their world, but the first law was survival. But how could primitives do what these must have done? He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made ofcemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfullylaminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no humanhand had been able to do for centuries. Beautiful primitive work, he muttered. Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. You cansee a lot more of it out there, she suggested. He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things weresquatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?For the return of their leader—or for something that would give theship to them? Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. How's the captive coming? Barker's voice sounded odd. Physically fine. You can see him. But— Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He sworeat Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for notchecking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices. There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growlingsound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barkerseemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in. The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. Thethick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to makesome kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned upunerringly toward the device on the officer's cap. Haarroo, Cabbaan! the thing said. <doc-sep>Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face wastaut with strain. The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair onits head. It was the golden comet of a captain. He never meant to hurt the kids—just to talk to them, Barker cut inquickly. I've got some of the story. He's changed. He can't talk verywell. Says they've had to change the language around to make the soundsfit, and he's forgotten how to use what normal English he can. But itgets easier as you listen. It's Hennessy, all right. I'm certain. Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seizeon the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a littleEnglish, maybe. But Hennessy had been his friend. How many barmaids in the Cheshire Cat? How many pups did your oldestkid's dog have? How many were brown? The lips contorted into something vaguely like a smile, and thecuriously shaped fingers that could handle no human-designed equipmentspread out. Three. Seven. Zero. The answers were right. By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand thetwisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took along time telling. When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes insilence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. Is itpossible, Doc? No, Barker said flatly. He spread his hands and grimaced. No. Notby what I know. But it happened. I've looked at a few tissues underthe microscope. The changes are there. It's hard to believe abouttheir kids. Adults in eight years, but they stay shorter. It can't bea hereditary change—the things that affect the body don't change thegerm plasm. But in this case, what changed Hennessy is real, so maybethe fact that the change is passed on is as real as he claims. Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs droppeddown to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd ofmonsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost astall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high. The kids of the exploring party.... <doc-sep>Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgleas the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto theground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to theship again. He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd hadtime to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting offgiving the gist of it to Jane. It was the blobs, he summarized it. They seem to be amused by men.They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessydoesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen. And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside thehull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earthfood would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeperthis time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colonywhere three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll neverknow. Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eightyears—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earthtools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the neweyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world. She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what mustnow be her home. Then she sighed. You'll need practice, but the othersdon't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'llbelieve it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really beenchanged yet, have we? No, he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. No.They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back. She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was onlypuzzlement in her face. Why? And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her thesame answer he had found for himself. The spawning ground! It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant herseed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preservethat seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already werebecoming uncertain. Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead ofmen having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strangechildren of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek backto civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhapssome of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the nextrise to culture a better one. We're needed here, he told her, his voice pleading for theunderstanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. These people needas rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them witha decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe oraccept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here. She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. Befruitful, she whispered. Be fruitful and spawn and replenish anearth. No, he told her. Replenish the stars. But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait. Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanesagain, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, theycould adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead themthrough all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyondnumbering. Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for thechildren of men! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The Starship Pandora lands on a planet where an exploring ship and a rescue group disappear. Captain Gwayne was ordered to come and inspect the lost ships for a week. They prolong their stay because of a discovery of the carefully buried ship whose parts were exposed by a landslide and detected by a metal locator a few days ago. When two cadets, Kaufman and Pinelli, and one member, Doctor Barker, approach to examine the buried ship, a horde of mysterious creatures come to them. The leader of mysterious creatures, tall and man-like, kidnaps the two cadets with his members and runs away. Captain Gwayne and other crew members ride on jeeps and chase after the monsters. When they catch up to the mysterious leader, the cadets are sitting on each shoulder of the leader without harm. Captain Gwayne and Doctor Barker collaborate to defeat the leader and bring it back to the ship.After bringing back the captive, Captain Gwayne has learned from the creature that he is Hennessy, the missing captain of the buried ship. He reveals that the blobs, a peculiarity on the planet, can change the cells in living creatures to help them adapt to the planet, which has done to Captain Hennessy and his crew members. All the mysterious creatures surrounding the ship are either the original crew members or their descendants. They decided to bury the ship after noticing the changes. After he finished the story, Captain Hennessy went to gather with his people. And now, Captain Gwayne faces the same situation as Captain Hennessy did in the past: either die when they go back to the Earth or stay on the planet to become a different creature, which at least makes humankind survive differently. Captain Gwayne decides to stay, so he discharges all the fuel out to not let the ship live again. He then tells Jane Corey, the Lieutenant, the truth and his decision. They both know that they have to stay for the better strength of the species after generations because humankind needs to have at least one hope to spread their seeds, even in a different shape. They will obliterate all their traces so that the Earth will send no more humans to the planet.

Who is Hennessy? What happens to him throughout the story? [SEP] <s> Spawning Ground By LESTER DEL REY They weren't human. They were something more—and something less—they were, in short, humanity's hopes for survival! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The Starship Pandora creaked and groaned as her landing pads settledunevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed tobe restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years fromthe waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoedthrough her hallways. Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He wasa big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibilityhad pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under hisreddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonieswere rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward thecontrol room, grumbling at the heavy gravity. Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as hemoved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. Morning, Bob. Youneed a shave. Yeah. He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran ahand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. Anything newduring the night? About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little waysnorth of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into theclouds. The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobodyknew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to havean almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. Andour two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost themin the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back. Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmenin the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for trainingas cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman andPinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution. Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn'tseemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorousand harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite oftheir internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs eachon their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts. But something had happened to the exploration party fifteen yearsback, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to checkup. <doc-sep>He turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sunmust be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds thatwrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls offog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forestglowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feedinganimals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even thedeep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship wascompletely hidden by the fog. There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animalsnow, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them.... But there was no time. Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load ofdeep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any signof Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayedalready. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happenedto the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have toreport back. He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enoughof the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air byluck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectorsoriginally. Bob! Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. Bob, there arethe kids! Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caughthis eye. The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantasticspeed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something thatmoved there. He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, justbeyond the movement he'd seen through the mist. Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, butGwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets. They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together. Then the mists cleared. Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almosteight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuitedcadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was amomentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning theothers forward. <doc-sep>Get the jeeps out! Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door ofthe little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It wasagonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the doorback at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around inconfusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. Thejeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, andGwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back. There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet wasirritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped tothe seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, thejeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it pickedup speed. The other two followed. There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things lookedhorrible in a travesty of manhood. The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that wereracing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swungabout, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twentymiles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, inspite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures diveddownward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists. Follow the blobs, Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool toleave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with thekids. But it was too late to go back. The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward intoa gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but hehad to slow as the fog thickened lower down. Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their owntrail to confuse the pursuers. There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had aglimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarsefaces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against thewindshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul thesteering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone. The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. Theother jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too lateto help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry orthe horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog. A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne. He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creatureseemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off. Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forwardagainst the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-footleader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on eachshoulder. The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creatureleaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, divingfor the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt. <doc-sep>The arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distortedshoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as hishands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in hisnose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds afterthe captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavysound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made nofurther move, though it was still breathing. Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelliwas either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free tokick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loadedonto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monsteron another before heading back. No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute! Barker shookhis own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing. I hope so, Gwayne told him. I want that thing to live—and you'redetailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make signlanguage or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessyand why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be theanswer. Barker nodded grimly. I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alienmetabolism. He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spatsickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. Bob, it stillmakes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there wasno sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some. Troglodytes, maybe, Gwayne guessed. Anyhow, send for me when you getanything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstayingour time here already. The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd beenpicked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they werebusy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soonas he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and lessinformative with retelling. If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might savetime and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. Thatwas almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemedto be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group hadbeen overcome by the aliens. It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could theprimitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was itsfuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who toldthese creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by alittle more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the shipcunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work. Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to findsomething—and find it fast. Earth needed every world she could makeremotely habitable, or mankind was probably doomed to extinction. <doc-sep>The race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weaponsinto a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed toprevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had founda drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent lifethere to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own. But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System hadfinally proved that the sun was going to go nova. It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it wouldrender the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,man had to colonize. And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. Theexplorers went out in desperation to find what they could; theterraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starshipsbegan filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conservespace. Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth andfour more months back. In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on thefootholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe someof the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe nonewould be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each wasprecious as a haven for the race. If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, asit now seemed, no more time could be wasted here. Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair tostrip them of their world, but the first law was survival. But how could primitives do what these must have done? He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made ofcemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfullylaminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no humanhand had been able to do for centuries. Beautiful primitive work, he muttered. Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. You cansee a lot more of it out there, she suggested. He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things weresquatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?For the return of their leader—or for something that would give theship to them? Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. How's the captive coming? Barker's voice sounded odd. Physically fine. You can see him. But— Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He sworeat Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for notchecking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices. There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growlingsound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barkerseemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in. The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. Thethick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to makesome kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned upunerringly toward the device on the officer's cap. Haarroo, Cabbaan! the thing said. <doc-sep>Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face wastaut with strain. The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair onits head. It was the golden comet of a captain. He never meant to hurt the kids—just to talk to them, Barker cut inquickly. I've got some of the story. He's changed. He can't talk verywell. Says they've had to change the language around to make the soundsfit, and he's forgotten how to use what normal English he can. But itgets easier as you listen. It's Hennessy, all right. I'm certain. Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seizeon the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a littleEnglish, maybe. But Hennessy had been his friend. How many barmaids in the Cheshire Cat? How many pups did your oldestkid's dog have? How many were brown? The lips contorted into something vaguely like a smile, and thecuriously shaped fingers that could handle no human-designed equipmentspread out. Three. Seven. Zero. The answers were right. By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand thetwisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took along time telling. When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes insilence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. Is itpossible, Doc? No, Barker said flatly. He spread his hands and grimaced. No. Notby what I know. But it happened. I've looked at a few tissues underthe microscope. The changes are there. It's hard to believe abouttheir kids. Adults in eight years, but they stay shorter. It can't bea hereditary change—the things that affect the body don't change thegerm plasm. But in this case, what changed Hennessy is real, so maybethe fact that the change is passed on is as real as he claims. Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs droppeddown to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd ofmonsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost astall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high. The kids of the exploring party.... <doc-sep>Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgleas the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto theground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to theship again. He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd hadtime to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting offgiving the gist of it to Jane. It was the blobs, he summarized it. They seem to be amused by men.They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessydoesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen. And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside thehull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earthfood would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeperthis time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colonywhere three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll neverknow. Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eightyears—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earthtools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the neweyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world. She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what mustnow be her home. Then she sighed. You'll need practice, but the othersdon't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'llbelieve it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really beenchanged yet, have we? No, he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. No.They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back. She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was onlypuzzlement in her face. Why? And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her thesame answer he had found for himself. The spawning ground! It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant herseed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preservethat seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already werebecoming uncertain. Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead ofmen having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strangechildren of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek backto civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhapssome of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the nextrise to culture a better one. We're needed here, he told her, his voice pleading for theunderstanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. These people needas rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them witha decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe oraccept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here. She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. Befruitful, she whispered. Be fruitful and spawn and replenish anearth. No, he told her. Replenish the stars. But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait. Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanesagain, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, theycould adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead themthrough all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyondnumbering. Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for thechildren of men! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Hennessy? What happens to him throughout the story?

Hennessy is the captain of the lost ship sent to inspect an exploring team fifteen years ago on a planet. He is also a friend of Captain Gwayne, who comes after him to check his loss. He becomes a mysterious creature adapted by the blobs, a peculiarity on the planet. Due to this change to him and his crew members, they decide to bury their ships carefully not to let other people find them.When the Starship Pandora lands on the planet and the two cadets from the ship approach to examine the buried ship, Hennessy kidnaps them with his members, leading Captain Gwayne to come to capture him. After becoming a captive in the ship, he reveals his identity to Captain Gwayne, and Gwayne confirms his identity with a series of questions that are only known to them. Finally, he tells all the story to Gwayne and leaves to gather with his people outside the ship.

Who is Jane Corey? What happens to her throughout the story? [SEP] <s> Spawning Ground By LESTER DEL REY They weren't human. They were something more—and something less—they were, in short, humanity's hopes for survival! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The Starship Pandora creaked and groaned as her landing pads settledunevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed tobe restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years fromthe waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoedthrough her hallways. Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He wasa big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibilityhad pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under hisreddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonieswere rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward thecontrol room, grumbling at the heavy gravity. Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as hemoved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. Morning, Bob. Youneed a shave. Yeah. He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran ahand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. Anything newduring the night? About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little waysnorth of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into theclouds. The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobodyknew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to havean almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. Andour two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost themin the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back. Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmenin the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for trainingas cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman andPinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution. Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn'tseemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorousand harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite oftheir internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs eachon their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts. But something had happened to the exploration party fifteen yearsback, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to checkup. <doc-sep>He turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sunmust be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds thatwrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls offog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forestglowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feedinganimals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even thedeep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship wascompletely hidden by the fog. There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animalsnow, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them.... But there was no time. Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load ofdeep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any signof Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayedalready. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happenedto the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have toreport back. He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enoughof the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air byluck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectorsoriginally. Bob! Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. Bob, there arethe kids! Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caughthis eye. The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantasticspeed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something thatmoved there. He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, justbeyond the movement he'd seen through the mist. Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, butGwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets. They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together. Then the mists cleared. Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almosteight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuitedcadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was amomentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning theothers forward. <doc-sep>Get the jeeps out! Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door ofthe little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It wasagonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the doorback at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around inconfusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. Thejeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, andGwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back. There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet wasirritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped tothe seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, thejeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it pickedup speed. The other two followed. There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things lookedhorrible in a travesty of manhood. The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that wereracing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swungabout, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twentymiles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, inspite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures diveddownward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists. Follow the blobs, Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool toleave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with thekids. But it was too late to go back. The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward intoa gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but hehad to slow as the fog thickened lower down. Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their owntrail to confuse the pursuers. There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had aglimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarsefaces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against thewindshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul thesteering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone. The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. Theother jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too lateto help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry orthe horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog. A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne. He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creatureseemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off. Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forwardagainst the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-footleader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on eachshoulder. The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creatureleaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, divingfor the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt. <doc-sep>The arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distortedshoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as hishands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in hisnose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds afterthe captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavysound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made nofurther move, though it was still breathing. Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelliwas either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free tokick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loadedonto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monsteron another before heading back. No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute! Barker shookhis own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing. I hope so, Gwayne told him. I want that thing to live—and you'redetailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make signlanguage or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessyand why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be theanswer. Barker nodded grimly. I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alienmetabolism. He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spatsickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. Bob, it stillmakes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there wasno sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some. Troglodytes, maybe, Gwayne guessed. Anyhow, send for me when you getanything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstayingour time here already. The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd beenpicked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they werebusy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soonas he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and lessinformative with retelling. If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might savetime and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. Thatwas almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemedto be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group hadbeen overcome by the aliens. It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could theprimitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was itsfuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who toldthese creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by alittle more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the shipcunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work. Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to findsomething—and find it fast. Earth needed every world she could makeremotely habitable, or mankind was probably doomed to extinction. <doc-sep>The race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weaponsinto a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed toprevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had founda drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent lifethere to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own. But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System hadfinally proved that the sun was going to go nova. It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it wouldrender the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,man had to colonize. And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. Theexplorers went out in desperation to find what they could; theterraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starshipsbegan filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conservespace. Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth andfour more months back. In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on thefootholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe someof the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe nonewould be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each wasprecious as a haven for the race. If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, asit now seemed, no more time could be wasted here. Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair tostrip them of their world, but the first law was survival. But how could primitives do what these must have done? He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made ofcemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfullylaminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no humanhand had been able to do for centuries. Beautiful primitive work, he muttered. Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. You cansee a lot more of it out there, she suggested. He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things weresquatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?For the return of their leader—or for something that would give theship to them? Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. How's the captive coming? Barker's voice sounded odd. Physically fine. You can see him. But— Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He sworeat Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for notchecking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices. There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growlingsound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barkerseemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in. The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. Thethick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to makesome kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned upunerringly toward the device on the officer's cap. Haarroo, Cabbaan! the thing said. <doc-sep>Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face wastaut with strain. The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair onits head. It was the golden comet of a captain. He never meant to hurt the kids—just to talk to them, Barker cut inquickly. I've got some of the story. He's changed. He can't talk verywell. Says they've had to change the language around to make the soundsfit, and he's forgotten how to use what normal English he can. But itgets easier as you listen. It's Hennessy, all right. I'm certain. Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seizeon the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a littleEnglish, maybe. But Hennessy had been his friend. How many barmaids in the Cheshire Cat? How many pups did your oldestkid's dog have? How many were brown? The lips contorted into something vaguely like a smile, and thecuriously shaped fingers that could handle no human-designed equipmentspread out. Three. Seven. Zero. The answers were right. By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand thetwisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took along time telling. When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes insilence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. Is itpossible, Doc? No, Barker said flatly. He spread his hands and grimaced. No. Notby what I know. But it happened. I've looked at a few tissues underthe microscope. The changes are there. It's hard to believe abouttheir kids. Adults in eight years, but they stay shorter. It can't bea hereditary change—the things that affect the body don't change thegerm plasm. But in this case, what changed Hennessy is real, so maybethe fact that the change is passed on is as real as he claims. Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs droppeddown to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd ofmonsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost astall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high. The kids of the exploring party.... <doc-sep>Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgleas the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto theground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to theship again. He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd hadtime to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting offgiving the gist of it to Jane. It was the blobs, he summarized it. They seem to be amused by men.They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessydoesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen. And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside thehull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earthfood would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeperthis time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colonywhere three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll neverknow. Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eightyears—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earthtools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the neweyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world. She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what mustnow be her home. Then she sighed. You'll need practice, but the othersdon't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'llbelieve it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really beenchanged yet, have we? No, he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. No.They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back. She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was onlypuzzlement in her face. Why? And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her thesame answer he had found for himself. The spawning ground! It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant herseed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preservethat seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already werebecoming uncertain. Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead ofmen having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strangechildren of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek backto civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhapssome of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the nextrise to culture a better one. We're needed here, he told her, his voice pleading for theunderstanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. These people needas rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them witha decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe oraccept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here. She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. Befruitful, she whispered. Be fruitful and spawn and replenish anearth. No, he told her. Replenish the stars. But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait. Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanesagain, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, theycould adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead themthrough all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyondnumbering. Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for thechildren of men! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Jane Corey? What happens to her throughout the story?

Jane Corey is the lieutenant on the Starship Pandora. She calls Captain Gwayne “Bob.” She informs Captain Gwayne about the sneaking out of two cadets and the situation when Captain Gwayne asks her. She also gets the jeeps out when Captain Gwayne tries to catch up with the mysterious creatures who captured the cadets. In addition, after Captain Gwayne learns the truth from Hennessy, the leader of the mysterious creature, and discharges the fuel from the ship, he tells Jane about his decision. Jane does not condemn him for deciding the future of other members alone because she realizes that they must stay on the planet to function as a spawning ground for the human species. She is a good partner for Captain Gwayne.

What is the significance of the blobs? [SEP] <s> Spawning Ground By LESTER DEL REY They weren't human. They were something more—and something less—they were, in short, humanity's hopes for survival! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The Starship Pandora creaked and groaned as her landing pads settledunevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed tobe restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years fromthe waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoedthrough her hallways. Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He wasa big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibilityhad pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under hisreddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonieswere rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward thecontrol room, grumbling at the heavy gravity. Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as hemoved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. Morning, Bob. Youneed a shave. Yeah. He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran ahand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. Anything newduring the night? About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little waysnorth of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into theclouds. The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobodyknew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to havean almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. Andour two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost themin the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back. Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmenin the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for trainingas cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman andPinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution. Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn'tseemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorousand harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite oftheir internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs eachon their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts. But something had happened to the exploration party fifteen yearsback, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to checkup. <doc-sep>He turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sunmust be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds thatwrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls offog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forestglowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feedinganimals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even thedeep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship wascompletely hidden by the fog. There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animalsnow, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them.... But there was no time. Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load ofdeep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any signof Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayedalready. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happenedto the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have toreport back. He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enoughof the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air byluck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectorsoriginally. Bob! Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. Bob, there arethe kids! Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caughthis eye. The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantasticspeed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something thatmoved there. He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, justbeyond the movement he'd seen through the mist. Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, butGwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets. They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together. Then the mists cleared. Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almosteight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuitedcadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was amomentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning theothers forward. <doc-sep>Get the jeeps out! Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door ofthe little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It wasagonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the doorback at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around inconfusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. Thejeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, andGwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back. There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet wasirritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped tothe seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, thejeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it pickedup speed. The other two followed. There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things lookedhorrible in a travesty of manhood. The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that wereracing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swungabout, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twentymiles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, inspite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures diveddownward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists. Follow the blobs, Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool toleave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with thekids. But it was too late to go back. The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward intoa gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but hehad to slow as the fog thickened lower down. Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their owntrail to confuse the pursuers. There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had aglimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarsefaces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against thewindshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul thesteering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone. The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. Theother jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too lateto help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry orthe horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog. A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne. He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creatureseemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off. Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forwardagainst the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-footleader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on eachshoulder. The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creatureleaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, divingfor the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt. <doc-sep>The arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distortedshoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as hishands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in hisnose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds afterthe captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavysound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made nofurther move, though it was still breathing. Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelliwas either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free tokick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loadedonto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monsteron another before heading back. No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute! Barker shookhis own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing. I hope so, Gwayne told him. I want that thing to live—and you'redetailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make signlanguage or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessyand why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be theanswer. Barker nodded grimly. I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alienmetabolism. He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spatsickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. Bob, it stillmakes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there wasno sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some. Troglodytes, maybe, Gwayne guessed. Anyhow, send for me when you getanything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstayingour time here already. The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd beenpicked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they werebusy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soonas he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and lessinformative with retelling. If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might savetime and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. Thatwas almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemedto be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group hadbeen overcome by the aliens. It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could theprimitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was itsfuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who toldthese creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by alittle more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the shipcunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work. Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to findsomething—and find it fast. Earth needed every world she could makeremotely habitable, or mankind was probably doomed to extinction. <doc-sep>The race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weaponsinto a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed toprevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had founda drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent lifethere to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own. But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System hadfinally proved that the sun was going to go nova. It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it wouldrender the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,man had to colonize. And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. Theexplorers went out in desperation to find what they could; theterraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starshipsbegan filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conservespace. Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth andfour more months back. In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on thefootholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe someof the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe nonewould be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each wasprecious as a haven for the race. If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, asit now seemed, no more time could be wasted here. Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair tostrip them of their world, but the first law was survival. But how could primitives do what these must have done? He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made ofcemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfullylaminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no humanhand had been able to do for centuries. Beautiful primitive work, he muttered. Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. You cansee a lot more of it out there, she suggested. He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things weresquatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?For the return of their leader—or for something that would give theship to them? Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. How's the captive coming? Barker's voice sounded odd. Physically fine. You can see him. But— Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He sworeat Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for notchecking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices. There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growlingsound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barkerseemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in. The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. Thethick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to makesome kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned upunerringly toward the device on the officer's cap. Haarroo, Cabbaan! the thing said. <doc-sep>Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face wastaut with strain. The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair onits head. It was the golden comet of a captain. He never meant to hurt the kids—just to talk to them, Barker cut inquickly. I've got some of the story. He's changed. He can't talk verywell. Says they've had to change the language around to make the soundsfit, and he's forgotten how to use what normal English he can. But itgets easier as you listen. It's Hennessy, all right. I'm certain. Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seizeon the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a littleEnglish, maybe. But Hennessy had been his friend. How many barmaids in the Cheshire Cat? How many pups did your oldestkid's dog have? How many were brown? The lips contorted into something vaguely like a smile, and thecuriously shaped fingers that could handle no human-designed equipmentspread out. Three. Seven. Zero. The answers were right. By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand thetwisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took along time telling. When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes insilence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. Is itpossible, Doc? No, Barker said flatly. He spread his hands and grimaced. No. Notby what I know. But it happened. I've looked at a few tissues underthe microscope. The changes are there. It's hard to believe abouttheir kids. Adults in eight years, but they stay shorter. It can't bea hereditary change—the things that affect the body don't change thegerm plasm. But in this case, what changed Hennessy is real, so maybethe fact that the change is passed on is as real as he claims. Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs droppeddown to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd ofmonsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost astall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high. The kids of the exploring party.... <doc-sep>Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgleas the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto theground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to theship again. He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd hadtime to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting offgiving the gist of it to Jane. It was the blobs, he summarized it. They seem to be amused by men.They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessydoesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen. And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside thehull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earthfood would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeperthis time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colonywhere three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll neverknow. Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eightyears—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earthtools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the neweyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world. She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what mustnow be her home. Then she sighed. You'll need practice, but the othersdon't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'llbelieve it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really beenchanged yet, have we? No, he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. No.They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back. She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was onlypuzzlement in her face. Why? And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her thesame answer he had found for himself. The spawning ground! It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant herseed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preservethat seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already werebecoming uncertain. Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead ofmen having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strangechildren of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek backto civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhapssome of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the nextrise to culture a better one. We're needed here, he told her, his voice pleading for theunderstanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. These people needas rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them witha decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe oraccept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here. She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. Befruitful, she whispered. Be fruitful and spawn and replenish anearth. No, he told her. Replenish the stars. But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait. Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanesagain, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, theycould adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead themthrough all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyondnumbering. Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for thechildren of men! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the blobs?

The blobs are insect-like creatures with skeletons inside with four to twelve legs on their bodies. They are harmless. They are curious about any moving objects on the ground. They can change the cells in any living thing to adapt to the planet. They like humans, so they change their cells to let them stay on the planet.The blobs are the main reason why Captain Hennessy and Gwayne decide to stay on the planet. They choose to stay because the blobs make them able to survive on the planet without having to change the whole planet to do so. Without the blobs, they may leave to search for other planets that can let humans survive. But with the blobs, someday in the future, humans may be able to seek out more possibilities in other worlds where the blobs will help them adapt to the new environments. In addition, the blobs also change their shape from only a twelve-leg body to having a four-leg form, which is also evidence of how they like human beings.

What happens to the human race on the Earth? [SEP] <s> Spawning Ground By LESTER DEL REY They weren't human. They were something more—and something less—they were, in short, humanity's hopes for survival! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The Starship Pandora creaked and groaned as her landing pads settledunevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed tobe restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years fromthe waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoedthrough her hallways. Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He wasa big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibilityhad pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under hisreddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonieswere rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward thecontrol room, grumbling at the heavy gravity. Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as hemoved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. Morning, Bob. Youneed a shave. Yeah. He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran ahand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. Anything newduring the night? About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little waysnorth of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into theclouds. The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobodyknew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to havean almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. Andour two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost themin the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back. Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmenin the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for trainingas cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman andPinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution. Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn'tseemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorousand harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite oftheir internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs eachon their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts. But something had happened to the exploration party fifteen yearsback, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to checkup. <doc-sep>He turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sunmust be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds thatwrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls offog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forestglowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feedinganimals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even thedeep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship wascompletely hidden by the fog. There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animalsnow, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them.... But there was no time. Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load ofdeep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any signof Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayedalready. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happenedto the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have toreport back. He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enoughof the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air byluck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectorsoriginally. Bob! Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. Bob, there arethe kids! Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caughthis eye. The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantasticspeed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something thatmoved there. He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, justbeyond the movement he'd seen through the mist. Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, butGwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets. They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together. Then the mists cleared. Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almosteight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuitedcadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was amomentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning theothers forward. <doc-sep>Get the jeeps out! Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door ofthe little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It wasagonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the doorback at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around inconfusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. Thejeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, andGwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back. There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet wasirritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped tothe seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, thejeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it pickedup speed. The other two followed. There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things lookedhorrible in a travesty of manhood. The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that wereracing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swungabout, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twentymiles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, inspite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures diveddownward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists. Follow the blobs, Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool toleave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with thekids. But it was too late to go back. The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward intoa gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but hehad to slow as the fog thickened lower down. Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their owntrail to confuse the pursuers. There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had aglimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarsefaces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against thewindshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul thesteering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone. The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. Theother jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too lateto help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry orthe horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog. A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne. He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creatureseemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off. Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forwardagainst the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-footleader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on eachshoulder. The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creatureleaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, divingfor the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt. <doc-sep>The arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distortedshoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as hishands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in hisnose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds afterthe captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavysound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made nofurther move, though it was still breathing. Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelliwas either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free tokick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loadedonto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monsteron another before heading back. No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute! Barker shookhis own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing. I hope so, Gwayne told him. I want that thing to live—and you'redetailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make signlanguage or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessyand why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be theanswer. Barker nodded grimly. I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alienmetabolism. He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spatsickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. Bob, it stillmakes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there wasno sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some. Troglodytes, maybe, Gwayne guessed. Anyhow, send for me when you getanything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstayingour time here already. The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd beenpicked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they werebusy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soonas he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and lessinformative with retelling. If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might savetime and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. Thatwas almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemedto be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group hadbeen overcome by the aliens. It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could theprimitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was itsfuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who toldthese creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by alittle more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the shipcunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work. Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to findsomething—and find it fast. Earth needed every world she could makeremotely habitable, or mankind was probably doomed to extinction. <doc-sep>The race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weaponsinto a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed toprevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had founda drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent lifethere to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own. But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System hadfinally proved that the sun was going to go nova. It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it wouldrender the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,man had to colonize. And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. Theexplorers went out in desperation to find what they could; theterraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starshipsbegan filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conservespace. Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth andfour more months back. In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on thefootholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe someof the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe nonewould be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each wasprecious as a haven for the race. If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, asit now seemed, no more time could be wasted here. Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair tostrip them of their world, but the first law was survival. But how could primitives do what these must have done? He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made ofcemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfullylaminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no humanhand had been able to do for centuries. Beautiful primitive work, he muttered. Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. You cansee a lot more of it out there, she suggested. He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things weresquatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?For the return of their leader—or for something that would give theship to them? Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. How's the captive coming? Barker's voice sounded odd. Physically fine. You can see him. But— Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He sworeat Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for notchecking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices. There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growlingsound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barkerseemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in. The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. Thethick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to makesome kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned upunerringly toward the device on the officer's cap. Haarroo, Cabbaan! the thing said. <doc-sep>Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face wastaut with strain. The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair onits head. It was the golden comet of a captain. He never meant to hurt the kids—just to talk to them, Barker cut inquickly. I've got some of the story. He's changed. He can't talk verywell. Says they've had to change the language around to make the soundsfit, and he's forgotten how to use what normal English he can. But itgets easier as you listen. It's Hennessy, all right. I'm certain. Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seizeon the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a littleEnglish, maybe. But Hennessy had been his friend. How many barmaids in the Cheshire Cat? How many pups did your oldestkid's dog have? How many were brown? The lips contorted into something vaguely like a smile, and thecuriously shaped fingers that could handle no human-designed equipmentspread out. Three. Seven. Zero. The answers were right. By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand thetwisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took along time telling. When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes insilence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. Is itpossible, Doc? No, Barker said flatly. He spread his hands and grimaced. No. Notby what I know. But it happened. I've looked at a few tissues underthe microscope. The changes are there. It's hard to believe abouttheir kids. Adults in eight years, but they stay shorter. It can't bea hereditary change—the things that affect the body don't change thegerm plasm. But in this case, what changed Hennessy is real, so maybethe fact that the change is passed on is as real as he claims. Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs droppeddown to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd ofmonsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost astall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high. The kids of the exploring party.... <doc-sep>Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgleas the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto theground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to theship again. He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd hadtime to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting offgiving the gist of it to Jane. It was the blobs, he summarized it. They seem to be amused by men.They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessydoesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen. And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside thehull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earthfood would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeperthis time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colonywhere three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll neverknow. Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eightyears—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earthtools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the neweyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world. She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what mustnow be her home. Then she sighed. You'll need practice, but the othersdon't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'llbelieve it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really beenchanged yet, have we? No, he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. No.They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back. She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was onlypuzzlement in her face. Why? And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her thesame answer he had found for himself. The spawning ground! It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant herseed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preservethat seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already werebecoming uncertain. Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead ofmen having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strangechildren of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek backto civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhapssome of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the nextrise to culture a better one. We're needed here, he told her, his voice pleading for theunderstanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. These people needas rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them witha decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe oraccept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here. She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. Befruitful, she whispered. Be fruitful and spawn and replenish anearth. No, he told her. Replenish the stars. But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait. Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanesagain, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, theycould adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead themthrough all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyondnumbering. Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for thechildren of men! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What happens to the human race on the Earth?

After the invention of atomic weapons, humans maintained peace for nearly two centuries. However, four decades ago, observation revealed that the sun would soon go nova, which would make the whole solar system uninhabitable for millennia. Since then, humans have been searching for habitable planets in other solar systems. They send many starships carrying deep-sleep stored people to different worlds, hoping they could be the colonies for the human race in the future, but none has promised to be safe for generations. So the exploring teams are sent continuously. Yet the situation is challenging. The training schools cannot export enough astronauts, so promising young candidates are trained as cadets on starships. Humans do not have enough time to find another Earth to live on for generations.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> THE FIRST ONE By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by von Dongen [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog July 1961.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.] The first man to return from beyond the Great Frontier may bewelcomed ... but will it be as a curiosity, rather than as ahero...? There was the usual welcoming crowd for a celebrity, and the usualspeeches by the usual politicians who met him at the airport which hadonce been twenty miles outside of Croton, but which the growing city hadsince engulfed and placed well within its boundaries. But everythingwasn't usual. The crowd was quiet, and the mayor didn't seem quite asat-ease as he'd been on his last big welcoming—for Corporal Berringer,one of the crew of the spaceship Washington , first to set Americansupon Mars. His Honor's handclasp was somewhat moist and cold. HisHonor's eyes held a trace of remoteness. Still, he was the honored home-comer, the successful returnee, thehometown boy who had made good in a big way, and they took the triumphaltour up Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. There he satbetween the mayor and a nervous young coed chosen as homecoming queen,and looked out at the police and fire department bands, the NationalGuard, the boy scouts and girl scouts, the Elks and Masons. Several ofthe churches in town had shown indecision as to how to instruct theirparishioners to treat him. But they had all come around. The tremendousnational interest, the fact that he was the First One, had made themcome around. It was obvious by now that they would have to adjust asthey'd adjusted to all the other firsts taking place in these—as thenewspapers had dubbed the start of the Twenty-first Century—theGalloping Twenties. He was glad when the official greeting was over. He was a very tired manand he had come farther, traveled longer and over darker country, thanany man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, akiss from his wife, a word from his son, and later to see some oldfriends and a relative or two. He didn't want to talk about the journey.He wanted to forget the immediacy, the urgency, the terror; then perhapshe would talk. Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he hadreturned and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the greatmariners, from Columbus onward—long, dull periods of time passing,passing, and then the arrival. The house had changed. He saw that as soon as the official car let himoff at 45 Roosevelt Street. The change was, he knew, for the better.They had put a porch in front. They had rehabilitated, spruced up,almost rebuilt the entire outside and grounds. But he was sorry. He hadwanted it to be as before. The head of the American Legion and the chief of police, who hadescorted him on this trip from the square, didn't ask to go in with him.He was glad. He'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through withstrangers. There were dozens of them up and down the street, standingbeside parked cars, looking at him. But when he looked back at them,their eyes dropped, they turned away, they began moving off. He wasstill too much the First One to have his gaze met. He walked up what had once been a concrete path and was now an ornateflagstone path. He climbed the new porch and raised the ornamentalknocker on the new door and heard the soft music sound within. He wassurprised that he'd had to do this. He'd thought Edith would be watchingat a window. And perhaps she had been watching ... but she hadn't opened the door. The door opened; he looked at her. It hadn't been too long and shehadn't changed at all. She was still the small, slender girl he'd lovedin high school, the small, slender woman he'd married twelve years ago.Ralphie was with her. They held onto each other as if seeking mutualsupport, the thirty-three-year old woman and ten-year-old boy. Theylooked at him, and then both moved forward, still together. He said,It's good to be home! Edith nodded and, still holding to Ralphie with one hand, put the otherarm around him. He kissed her—her neck, her cheek—and all the oldjokes came to mind, the jokes of travel-weary, battle-weary men, theand- then -I'll-put-my-pack-aside jokes that spoke of terrible hunger.She was trembling, and even as her lips came up to touch his he felt thedifference, and because of this difference he turned with urgency toRalphie and picked him up and hugged him and said, because he couldthink of nothing else to say, What a big fella, what a big fella. Ralphie stood in his arms as if his feet were still planted on thefloor, and he didn't look at his father but somewhere beyond him. Ididn't grow much while you were gone, Dad, Mom says I don't eat enough. So he put him down and told himself that it would all change, thateverything would loosen up just as his commanding officer, GeneralCarlisle, had said it would early this morning before he leftWashington. Give it some time, Carlisle had said. You need the time; they needthe time. And for the love of heaven, don't be sensitive. <doc-sep>Edith was leading him into the living room, her hand lying still in his,a cool, dead bird lying still in his. He sat down on the couch, she satdown beside him—but she had hesitated. He wasn't being sensitive; shehad hesitated. His wife had hesitated before sitting down beside him. Carlisle had said his position was analogous to Columbus', to Vasco DeGama's, to Preshoff's when the Russian returned from the Moon—but moreso. Carlisle had said lots of things, but even Carlisle who had workedwith him all the way, who had engineered the entire fantasticjourney—even Carlisle the Nobel prize winner, the multi-degreed geniusin uniform, had not actually spoken to him as one man to another. The eyes. It always showed in their eyes. He looked across the room at Ralphie, standing in the doorway, a boyalready tall, already widening in the shoulders, already large offeature. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing himselftwenty-five years ago. But Ralphie's face was drawn, was worried in away that few ten-year-old faces are. How's it going in school? he asked. Gee, Dad, it's the second month of summer vacation. Well, then, before summer vacation? Pretty good. Edith said, He made top forum the six-month period before vacation, andhe made top forum the six-month period you went away, Hank. He nodded, remembering that, remembering everything, remembering thewarmth of her farewell, the warmth of Ralphie's farewell, their tears ashe left for the experimental flight station in the Aleutians. They hadfeared for him, having read of the many launchings gone wrong even incontinent-to-continent experimental flight. They had been right to worry. He had suffered much after that blow-up.But now they should be rejoicing, because he had survived and made thelong journey. Ralphie suddenly said, I got to go, Dad. I promised Waltand the others I'd pitch. It's Inter-Town Little League, you know. It'sHarmon, you know. I got to keep my word. Without waiting for an answer,he waved his hand—it shook; a ten-year-old boy's hand that shook—andran from the room and from the house. He and Edith sat beside each other, and he wanted badly to take her inhis arms, and yet he didn't want to oppress her. He stood up. I'm verytired. I'd like to lie down a while. Which wasn't true, because he'dbeen lying down all the months of the way back. She said, Of course. How stupid of me, expecting you to sit around andmake small talk and pick up just where you left off. He nodded. But that was exactly what he wanted to do—make small talkand pick up just where he'd left off. But they didn't expect it of him;they wouldn't let him; they felt he had changed too much. <doc-sep>She led him upstairs and along the foyer past Ralphie's room and pastthe small guest room to their bedroom. This, too, had changed. It wasnewly painted and it had new furniture. He saw twin beds separated by anornate little table with an ornate little lamp, and this looked moreominous a barrier to him than the twelve-foot concrete-and-barbed-wirefence around the experimental station. Which one is mine, he asked, and tried to smile. She also tried to smile. The one near the window. You always liked thefresh air, the sunshine in the morning. You always said it helped youto get up on time when you were stationed at the base outside of town.You always said it reminded you—being able to see the sky—that youwere going to go up in it, and that you were going to come down from itto this bed again. Not this bed, he murmured, and was a little sorry afterward. No, not this bed, she said quickly. Your lodge donated the bedroomset and I really didn't know— She waved her hand, her face white. He was sure then that she had known, and that the beds and the barrierbetween them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He wentto the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket,began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some arm scarsstill showed. He waited for her to leave the room. She said, Well then, rest up, dear, and went out. He took off his shirt and saw himself in the mirror on the oppositewall; and then took off his under-shirt. The body scars were faint, thescars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicingdiagonally across his upper abdomen to disappear under his trousers.There were several more on his back, and one on his right thigh. They'dbeen treated properly and would soon disappear. But she had never seenthem. Perhaps she never would. Perhaps pajamas and robes and dark rooms wouldkeep them from her until they were gone. Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving WalterReed Hospital early this morning; which was something he founddistasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time,he began to understand that there would be many things, previouslybeneath them both, which would have to be considered. She had changed;Ralphie had changed; all the people he knew had probablychanged—because they thought he had changed. He was tired of thinking. He lay down and closed his eyes. He lethimself taste bitterness, unhappiness, a loneliness he had never knownbefore. But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance beganfiltering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the sameman who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family andfriends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he couldcommunicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First Onewould again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for—areturn to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwashinstead of the freneticisms of the lime-light. It would certainly begranted to him. He slept. <doc-sep>Dinner was at seven p.m. His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucillecame. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and atein the dining room at the big table. Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. Hisfamily had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack oftalkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially withcompany present—to describe everything and anything that had happenedto him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especiallywith his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had beengood-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured. This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. Stiffwas perhaps the word. They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He lookedat Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,Younger than ever. It was nothing new; he'd said it many many timesbefore, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quipsomething like, Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean. This timeshe burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more wasthe fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comforther; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table. He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touchedher left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't moveit—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-coolembrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let itdrop out of sight. So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being. The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joebegan to talk. The greatest little development of circular uniformhouses you ever did see, he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice.Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before— At that point helooked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested inthis normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,mumbled, Soup's getting cold, and began to eat. His hand shook alittle; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it. Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' TuesdayGarden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat betweenJoe and Mother—his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he feltalone—and said, I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rosebushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower ortrowel. Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching ofthe lips—and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, Ihave a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room awhile. She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusivemother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had oftenirritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barelytouched his shoulder and fled. So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served—thin, rareslices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. Hecut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphieand said, Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard.Ralphie said, Yeah, Dad. Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork andmurmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and saidLucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was goinginto the living room for a while. She'll be back for dessert, ofcourse, he said, his laugh sounding forced. Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked atRalphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe waschewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked atLucille; she was disappearing into the living room. He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glassoverturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. Theywere all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his bigright fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such ascene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as theFirst One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fearof, that he could have smashed more than a table. Edith said, Hank! He said, voice hoarse, Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick ofthe lot of you. <doc-sep>Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing fooddown his throat. Mother said, Henry dear— He didn't answer. She beganto cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never saidanything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have beenthe time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something aboutgetting together again soon and drop out and see the new developmentand he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him. He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the specialdessert she'd been preparing half the day—a magnificent English trifle.She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. Shehesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called theboy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of thetable. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said,Hey, I promised— You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball orsomething; anything to get away from your father. Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, Aw, no, Dad. Edith said, He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an eveningtogether—talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly. Ralphie said, Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to. Hank stood up. The question is not whether I want to. You both know Iwant to. The question is whether you want to. They answered together that of course they wanted to. But theireyes—his wife's and son's eyes—could not meet his, and so he said hewas going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would inall probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and thatthey shouldn't count on him for normal social life. He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes. But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to alighted room. Phil and Rhona are here. He blinked at her. She smiled,and it seemed her old smile. They're so anxious to see you, Hank. Icould barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They wantto go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will. He sat up. Phil, he muttered. Phil and Rhona. They'd had wonderfultimes together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest andclosest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming. Do the town? They'd paint it and then tear it down! <doc-sep>It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'dalso expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him toexpect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil soundedvery much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter andfull of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, andclapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so muchmore gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than wasgood for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go alongon the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer. They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road toManfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffeeand Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but hemerely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana. There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been theremany times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognizedhim. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was asif he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world. At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but hesaid, I haven't danced with my girl Rhona. His tongue was thick, hismind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on herface—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritualof flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were goingto be sick. So let's rock, he said and stood up. They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,mechanical dancing doll. The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,Beddy-bye time. Hank said, First one dance with my loving wife. He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waitedfor her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.Because while she put herself against him, there was something in herface—no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes—that made him knowshe was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time whenthe music ended, he was ready to go home. They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear ofPhil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his oldself. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self withthe First One. They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, andPhil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen andlooked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fenceparalleling the road. Hey, he said, pointing, do you know why that'sthe most popular place on earth? Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made alittle sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on awhile longer, not yet aware of his supposed faux pas . You know why? he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughterrumbling up from his chest. You know why, folks? Rhona said, Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at— Hank said, No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth? Phil said, Because people are— And then he caught himself and wavedhis hand and muttered, I forgot the punch line. Because people are dying to get in, Hank said, and looked through thewindow, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleetingtombstones. The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have beennothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. Maybe you shouldlet me out right here, Hank said. I'm home—or that's what everyoneseems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe thatwould satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula oranother monster from the movies. Edith said, Oh, Hank, don't, don't! The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went fourblocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night. Hedidn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone pathand entered the house. <doc-sep>Hank, Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, I'm so sorry— There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'llall work out in time. Yes, she said quickly, that's it. I need a little time. We all need alittle time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening.I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurtyou terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we'refrightened. I'm going to stay in the guest room, he said, for as long asnecessary. For good if need be. How could it be for good? How, Hank? That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had sincereturning. And there was something else; what Carlisle had told him,even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did. There are others coming, Edith. Eight that I know of in the tanks rightnow. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment Idid—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He wassmashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almostready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The government is going to saveall they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy manloses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered,he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain andorgan process—the process that made it all possible. So people have toget used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly oldsuperstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some ofus; because in time it'll be an ordinary thing. Edith said, Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Pleasebelieve that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and— She paused.There's one question. He knew what the question was. It had been the first asked him byeveryone from the president of the United States on down. I saw nothing, he said. It was as if I slept those six and a halfmonths—slept without dreaming. She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he wassatisfied. Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories ofhow they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered andpulled the covers closer to him and luxuriated in being safe in his ownhome. THE END <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The story is about a family man - Henry Devers - returning to his hometown after a unique adventure. He was participating in an experimental flight that ended in an explosion. But he managed to survive thanks to regenerative technologies that helped rebuild his body and make him breathe again. The story starts with a grandiose tour around his town where the mayor, the National Guard, the Fire Department bands, and many other people participate though they all seem a little distant and scared to Devers. The official car lets him off at his house that, as he notices, has changed a little. Edith, his wife, and Ralphie, his ten-year-old son, meet him at the door. Later, in the living room, they have an awkward conversation about Ralphie’s school grades, his son quickly leaves for a baseball game, and soon Devers goes to sleep in his separate twin bed that his wife bought while he was away. He looks at his scars before going to bed, thinking about how people’s behavior changed because they believe Henry has changed. In the evening, Henry’s mother, uncle Joe, and aunt Lucille come for dinner. Again everyone seems aloof: Henry’s overly affectionate mother now barely touches him and even cries for several minutes, his aunt and uncle cannot talk about casual things - no one looks him in the eyes. After all, Devers gets infuriated and screams at the guests, they leave, and his son once again tries to leave instead of spending time with the parents. Later in the evening, Edith wakes her husband because his good friends Phil and Rhona came - they all go to bowling alleys and then to a tavern. Even Devers’ close friends seem stiff and cautious while talking to him, dancing with him, being around him. On their way back, Phil tries to make a joke about a cemetery but stops himself from finishing it - this upsets Henry even more, completely ruining the evening. When they get home Edith tries to apologize to her husband and admits that she’s frightened. In reply, he says that soon such regenerative technologies and processes will be an ordinary thing, and his captain, for example, who died together with Devers, will soon leave the hospital, too. She asks him to be patient with everybody.

Who’s Henry Devers and what happens to him throughout the story? [SEP] <s> THE FIRST ONE By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by von Dongen [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog July 1961.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.] The first man to return from beyond the Great Frontier may bewelcomed ... but will it be as a curiosity, rather than as ahero...? There was the usual welcoming crowd for a celebrity, and the usualspeeches by the usual politicians who met him at the airport which hadonce been twenty miles outside of Croton, but which the growing city hadsince engulfed and placed well within its boundaries. But everythingwasn't usual. The crowd was quiet, and the mayor didn't seem quite asat-ease as he'd been on his last big welcoming—for Corporal Berringer,one of the crew of the spaceship Washington , first to set Americansupon Mars. His Honor's handclasp was somewhat moist and cold. HisHonor's eyes held a trace of remoteness. Still, he was the honored home-comer, the successful returnee, thehometown boy who had made good in a big way, and they took the triumphaltour up Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. There he satbetween the mayor and a nervous young coed chosen as homecoming queen,and looked out at the police and fire department bands, the NationalGuard, the boy scouts and girl scouts, the Elks and Masons. Several ofthe churches in town had shown indecision as to how to instruct theirparishioners to treat him. But they had all come around. The tremendousnational interest, the fact that he was the First One, had made themcome around. It was obvious by now that they would have to adjust asthey'd adjusted to all the other firsts taking place in these—as thenewspapers had dubbed the start of the Twenty-first Century—theGalloping Twenties. He was glad when the official greeting was over. He was a very tired manand he had come farther, traveled longer and over darker country, thanany man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, akiss from his wife, a word from his son, and later to see some oldfriends and a relative or two. He didn't want to talk about the journey.He wanted to forget the immediacy, the urgency, the terror; then perhapshe would talk. Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he hadreturned and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the greatmariners, from Columbus onward—long, dull periods of time passing,passing, and then the arrival. The house had changed. He saw that as soon as the official car let himoff at 45 Roosevelt Street. The change was, he knew, for the better.They had put a porch in front. They had rehabilitated, spruced up,almost rebuilt the entire outside and grounds. But he was sorry. He hadwanted it to be as before. The head of the American Legion and the chief of police, who hadescorted him on this trip from the square, didn't ask to go in with him.He was glad. He'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through withstrangers. There were dozens of them up and down the street, standingbeside parked cars, looking at him. But when he looked back at them,their eyes dropped, they turned away, they began moving off. He wasstill too much the First One to have his gaze met. He walked up what had once been a concrete path and was now an ornateflagstone path. He climbed the new porch and raised the ornamentalknocker on the new door and heard the soft music sound within. He wassurprised that he'd had to do this. He'd thought Edith would be watchingat a window. And perhaps she had been watching ... but she hadn't opened the door. The door opened; he looked at her. It hadn't been too long and shehadn't changed at all. She was still the small, slender girl he'd lovedin high school, the small, slender woman he'd married twelve years ago.Ralphie was with her. They held onto each other as if seeking mutualsupport, the thirty-three-year old woman and ten-year-old boy. Theylooked at him, and then both moved forward, still together. He said,It's good to be home! Edith nodded and, still holding to Ralphie with one hand, put the otherarm around him. He kissed her—her neck, her cheek—and all the oldjokes came to mind, the jokes of travel-weary, battle-weary men, theand- then -I'll-put-my-pack-aside jokes that spoke of terrible hunger.She was trembling, and even as her lips came up to touch his he felt thedifference, and because of this difference he turned with urgency toRalphie and picked him up and hugged him and said, because he couldthink of nothing else to say, What a big fella, what a big fella. Ralphie stood in his arms as if his feet were still planted on thefloor, and he didn't look at his father but somewhere beyond him. Ididn't grow much while you were gone, Dad, Mom says I don't eat enough. So he put him down and told himself that it would all change, thateverything would loosen up just as his commanding officer, GeneralCarlisle, had said it would early this morning before he leftWashington. Give it some time, Carlisle had said. You need the time; they needthe time. And for the love of heaven, don't be sensitive. <doc-sep>Edith was leading him into the living room, her hand lying still in his,a cool, dead bird lying still in his. He sat down on the couch, she satdown beside him—but she had hesitated. He wasn't being sensitive; shehad hesitated. His wife had hesitated before sitting down beside him. Carlisle had said his position was analogous to Columbus', to Vasco DeGama's, to Preshoff's when the Russian returned from the Moon—but moreso. Carlisle had said lots of things, but even Carlisle who had workedwith him all the way, who had engineered the entire fantasticjourney—even Carlisle the Nobel prize winner, the multi-degreed geniusin uniform, had not actually spoken to him as one man to another. The eyes. It always showed in their eyes. He looked across the room at Ralphie, standing in the doorway, a boyalready tall, already widening in the shoulders, already large offeature. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing himselftwenty-five years ago. But Ralphie's face was drawn, was worried in away that few ten-year-old faces are. How's it going in school? he asked. Gee, Dad, it's the second month of summer vacation. Well, then, before summer vacation? Pretty good. Edith said, He made top forum the six-month period before vacation, andhe made top forum the six-month period you went away, Hank. He nodded, remembering that, remembering everything, remembering thewarmth of her farewell, the warmth of Ralphie's farewell, their tears ashe left for the experimental flight station in the Aleutians. They hadfeared for him, having read of the many launchings gone wrong even incontinent-to-continent experimental flight. They had been right to worry. He had suffered much after that blow-up.But now they should be rejoicing, because he had survived and made thelong journey. Ralphie suddenly said, I got to go, Dad. I promised Waltand the others I'd pitch. It's Inter-Town Little League, you know. It'sHarmon, you know. I got to keep my word. Without waiting for an answer,he waved his hand—it shook; a ten-year-old boy's hand that shook—andran from the room and from the house. He and Edith sat beside each other, and he wanted badly to take her inhis arms, and yet he didn't want to oppress her. He stood up. I'm verytired. I'd like to lie down a while. Which wasn't true, because he'dbeen lying down all the months of the way back. She said, Of course. How stupid of me, expecting you to sit around andmake small talk and pick up just where you left off. He nodded. But that was exactly what he wanted to do—make small talkand pick up just where he'd left off. But they didn't expect it of him;they wouldn't let him; they felt he had changed too much. <doc-sep>She led him upstairs and along the foyer past Ralphie's room and pastthe small guest room to their bedroom. This, too, had changed. It wasnewly painted and it had new furniture. He saw twin beds separated by anornate little table with an ornate little lamp, and this looked moreominous a barrier to him than the twelve-foot concrete-and-barbed-wirefence around the experimental station. Which one is mine, he asked, and tried to smile. She also tried to smile. The one near the window. You always liked thefresh air, the sunshine in the morning. You always said it helped youto get up on time when you were stationed at the base outside of town.You always said it reminded you—being able to see the sky—that youwere going to go up in it, and that you were going to come down from itto this bed again. Not this bed, he murmured, and was a little sorry afterward. No, not this bed, she said quickly. Your lodge donated the bedroomset and I really didn't know— She waved her hand, her face white. He was sure then that she had known, and that the beds and the barrierbetween them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He wentto the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket,began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some arm scarsstill showed. He waited for her to leave the room. She said, Well then, rest up, dear, and went out. He took off his shirt and saw himself in the mirror on the oppositewall; and then took off his under-shirt. The body scars were faint, thescars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicingdiagonally across his upper abdomen to disappear under his trousers.There were several more on his back, and one on his right thigh. They'dbeen treated properly and would soon disappear. But she had never seenthem. Perhaps she never would. Perhaps pajamas and robes and dark rooms wouldkeep them from her until they were gone. Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving WalterReed Hospital early this morning; which was something he founddistasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time,he began to understand that there would be many things, previouslybeneath them both, which would have to be considered. She had changed;Ralphie had changed; all the people he knew had probablychanged—because they thought he had changed. He was tired of thinking. He lay down and closed his eyes. He lethimself taste bitterness, unhappiness, a loneliness he had never knownbefore. But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance beganfiltering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the sameman who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family andfriends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he couldcommunicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First Onewould again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for—areturn to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwashinstead of the freneticisms of the lime-light. It would certainly begranted to him. He slept. <doc-sep>Dinner was at seven p.m. His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucillecame. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and atein the dining room at the big table. Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. Hisfamily had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack oftalkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially withcompany present—to describe everything and anything that had happenedto him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especiallywith his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had beengood-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured. This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. Stiffwas perhaps the word. They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He lookedat Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,Younger than ever. It was nothing new; he'd said it many many timesbefore, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quipsomething like, Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean. This timeshe burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more wasthe fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comforther; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table. He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touchedher left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't moveit—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-coolembrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let itdrop out of sight. So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being. The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joebegan to talk. The greatest little development of circular uniformhouses you ever did see, he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice.Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before— At that point helooked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested inthis normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,mumbled, Soup's getting cold, and began to eat. His hand shook alittle; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it. Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' TuesdayGarden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat betweenJoe and Mother—his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he feltalone—and said, I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rosebushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower ortrowel. Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching ofthe lips—and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, Ihave a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room awhile. She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusivemother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had oftenirritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barelytouched his shoulder and fled. So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served—thin, rareslices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. Hecut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphieand said, Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard.Ralphie said, Yeah, Dad. Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork andmurmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and saidLucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was goinginto the living room for a while. She'll be back for dessert, ofcourse, he said, his laugh sounding forced. Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked atRalphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe waschewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked atLucille; she was disappearing into the living room. He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glassoverturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. Theywere all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his bigright fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such ascene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as theFirst One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fearof, that he could have smashed more than a table. Edith said, Hank! He said, voice hoarse, Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick ofthe lot of you. <doc-sep>Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing fooddown his throat. Mother said, Henry dear— He didn't answer. She beganto cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never saidanything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have beenthe time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something aboutgetting together again soon and drop out and see the new developmentand he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him. He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the specialdessert she'd been preparing half the day—a magnificent English trifle.She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. Shehesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called theboy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of thetable. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said,Hey, I promised— You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball orsomething; anything to get away from your father. Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, Aw, no, Dad. Edith said, He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an eveningtogether—talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly. Ralphie said, Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to. Hank stood up. The question is not whether I want to. You both know Iwant to. The question is whether you want to. They answered together that of course they wanted to. But theireyes—his wife's and son's eyes—could not meet his, and so he said hewas going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would inall probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and thatthey shouldn't count on him for normal social life. He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes. But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to alighted room. Phil and Rhona are here. He blinked at her. She smiled,and it seemed her old smile. They're so anxious to see you, Hank. Icould barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They wantto go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will. He sat up. Phil, he muttered. Phil and Rhona. They'd had wonderfultimes together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest andclosest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming. Do the town? They'd paint it and then tear it down! <doc-sep>It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'dalso expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him toexpect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil soundedvery much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter andfull of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, andclapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so muchmore gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than wasgood for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go alongon the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer. They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road toManfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffeeand Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but hemerely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana. There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been theremany times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognizedhim. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was asif he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world. At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but hesaid, I haven't danced with my girl Rhona. His tongue was thick, hismind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on herface—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritualof flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were goingto be sick. So let's rock, he said and stood up. They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,mechanical dancing doll. The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,Beddy-bye time. Hank said, First one dance with my loving wife. He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waitedfor her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.Because while she put herself against him, there was something in herface—no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes—that made him knowshe was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time whenthe music ended, he was ready to go home. They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear ofPhil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his oldself. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self withthe First One. They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, andPhil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen andlooked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fenceparalleling the road. Hey, he said, pointing, do you know why that'sthe most popular place on earth? Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made alittle sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on awhile longer, not yet aware of his supposed faux pas . You know why? he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughterrumbling up from his chest. You know why, folks? Rhona said, Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at— Hank said, No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth? Phil said, Because people are— And then he caught himself and wavedhis hand and muttered, I forgot the punch line. Because people are dying to get in, Hank said, and looked through thewindow, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleetingtombstones. The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have beennothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. Maybe you shouldlet me out right here, Hank said. I'm home—or that's what everyoneseems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe thatwould satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula oranother monster from the movies. Edith said, Oh, Hank, don't, don't! The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went fourblocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night. Hedidn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone pathand entered the house. <doc-sep>Hank, Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, I'm so sorry— There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'llall work out in time. Yes, she said quickly, that's it. I need a little time. We all need alittle time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening.I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurtyou terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we'refrightened. I'm going to stay in the guest room, he said, for as long asnecessary. For good if need be. How could it be for good? How, Hank? That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had sincereturning. And there was something else; what Carlisle had told him,even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did. There are others coming, Edith. Eight that I know of in the tanks rightnow. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment Idid—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He wassmashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almostready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The government is going to saveall they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy manloses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered,he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain andorgan process—the process that made it all possible. So people have toget used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly oldsuperstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some ofus; because in time it'll be an ordinary thing. Edith said, Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Pleasebelieve that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and— She paused.There's one question. He knew what the question was. It had been the first asked him byeveryone from the president of the United States on down. I saw nothing, he said. It was as if I slept those six and a halfmonths—slept without dreaming. She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he wassatisfied. Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories ofhow they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered andpulled the covers closer to him and luxuriated in being safe in his ownhome. THE END <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who’s Henry Devers and what happens to him throughout the story?

Henry Devers was participating in an experimental flight that ended in an explosion. After that, he became the first person ever saved by regenerative technologies that had helped rebuild his body and make him breathe again. At the beginning of the story, he leaves the hospital after months of medical sleep during which his body was healing. Devers is met by the mayor and curious yet quiet crowds, he goes on a triumphant tour around the town and finally comes home to his wife Edith and his ten-year-old son Ralphie. They also seem aloof and hesitant, having no idea what to say or do around him now. He realizes his wife bought a separate twin bed which looks like an additional barrier between them to him, and his son quickly leaves for a baseball game having no apparent desire to spend time with the father. In the evening, his mother, uncle Joe, and aunt Lucille come for dinner: his mother cries, his uncle and aunt are not talkative - everyone looks stiff and uncomfortable, they are avoiding Henry’s gaze. It infuriates him, and after his angry outburst, the guests soon leave. After another small awkward conversation with his family, he goes to bed only to be soon woken up by Edith who informs him about his friends’ arrival. Phil and Rhona seem happy to see their friend, but after going to bowling alleys and a tavern Devers realizes that they are apprehensive and scared, just like everyone else. After Phil’s unsuccessful joke about a cemetery, Devers understands that everyone treats him as The First One, they cannot act as they used to because they are afraid. Later at home, Edith admits that she’s frightened and they all need time to adapt. In reply, he tells her that soon such regenerative technologies and processes will be an ordinary thing, and his captain, for example, who died together with Henry, will soon leave the hospital, too. Devers won't be the only one. He goes to sleep in the guest room.

What’s the significance of the regenerative technology in the story? [SEP] <s> THE FIRST ONE By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by von Dongen [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog July 1961.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.] The first man to return from beyond the Great Frontier may bewelcomed ... but will it be as a curiosity, rather than as ahero...? There was the usual welcoming crowd for a celebrity, and the usualspeeches by the usual politicians who met him at the airport which hadonce been twenty miles outside of Croton, but which the growing city hadsince engulfed and placed well within its boundaries. But everythingwasn't usual. The crowd was quiet, and the mayor didn't seem quite asat-ease as he'd been on his last big welcoming—for Corporal Berringer,one of the crew of the spaceship Washington , first to set Americansupon Mars. His Honor's handclasp was somewhat moist and cold. HisHonor's eyes held a trace of remoteness. Still, he was the honored home-comer, the successful returnee, thehometown boy who had made good in a big way, and they took the triumphaltour up Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. There he satbetween the mayor and a nervous young coed chosen as homecoming queen,and looked out at the police and fire department bands, the NationalGuard, the boy scouts and girl scouts, the Elks and Masons. Several ofthe churches in town had shown indecision as to how to instruct theirparishioners to treat him. But they had all come around. The tremendousnational interest, the fact that he was the First One, had made themcome around. It was obvious by now that they would have to adjust asthey'd adjusted to all the other firsts taking place in these—as thenewspapers had dubbed the start of the Twenty-first Century—theGalloping Twenties. He was glad when the official greeting was over. He was a very tired manand he had come farther, traveled longer and over darker country, thanany man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, akiss from his wife, a word from his son, and later to see some oldfriends and a relative or two. He didn't want to talk about the journey.He wanted to forget the immediacy, the urgency, the terror; then perhapshe would talk. Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he hadreturned and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the greatmariners, from Columbus onward—long, dull periods of time passing,passing, and then the arrival. The house had changed. He saw that as soon as the official car let himoff at 45 Roosevelt Street. The change was, he knew, for the better.They had put a porch in front. They had rehabilitated, spruced up,almost rebuilt the entire outside and grounds. But he was sorry. He hadwanted it to be as before. The head of the American Legion and the chief of police, who hadescorted him on this trip from the square, didn't ask to go in with him.He was glad. He'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through withstrangers. There were dozens of them up and down the street, standingbeside parked cars, looking at him. But when he looked back at them,their eyes dropped, they turned away, they began moving off. He wasstill too much the First One to have his gaze met. He walked up what had once been a concrete path and was now an ornateflagstone path. He climbed the new porch and raised the ornamentalknocker on the new door and heard the soft music sound within. He wassurprised that he'd had to do this. He'd thought Edith would be watchingat a window. And perhaps she had been watching ... but she hadn't opened the door. The door opened; he looked at her. It hadn't been too long and shehadn't changed at all. She was still the small, slender girl he'd lovedin high school, the small, slender woman he'd married twelve years ago.Ralphie was with her. They held onto each other as if seeking mutualsupport, the thirty-three-year old woman and ten-year-old boy. Theylooked at him, and then both moved forward, still together. He said,It's good to be home! Edith nodded and, still holding to Ralphie with one hand, put the otherarm around him. He kissed her—her neck, her cheek—and all the oldjokes came to mind, the jokes of travel-weary, battle-weary men, theand- then -I'll-put-my-pack-aside jokes that spoke of terrible hunger.She was trembling, and even as her lips came up to touch his he felt thedifference, and because of this difference he turned with urgency toRalphie and picked him up and hugged him and said, because he couldthink of nothing else to say, What a big fella, what a big fella. Ralphie stood in his arms as if his feet were still planted on thefloor, and he didn't look at his father but somewhere beyond him. Ididn't grow much while you were gone, Dad, Mom says I don't eat enough. So he put him down and told himself that it would all change, thateverything would loosen up just as his commanding officer, GeneralCarlisle, had said it would early this morning before he leftWashington. Give it some time, Carlisle had said. You need the time; they needthe time. And for the love of heaven, don't be sensitive. <doc-sep>Edith was leading him into the living room, her hand lying still in his,a cool, dead bird lying still in his. He sat down on the couch, she satdown beside him—but she had hesitated. He wasn't being sensitive; shehad hesitated. His wife had hesitated before sitting down beside him. Carlisle had said his position was analogous to Columbus', to Vasco DeGama's, to Preshoff's when the Russian returned from the Moon—but moreso. Carlisle had said lots of things, but even Carlisle who had workedwith him all the way, who had engineered the entire fantasticjourney—even Carlisle the Nobel prize winner, the multi-degreed geniusin uniform, had not actually spoken to him as one man to another. The eyes. It always showed in their eyes. He looked across the room at Ralphie, standing in the doorway, a boyalready tall, already widening in the shoulders, already large offeature. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing himselftwenty-five years ago. But Ralphie's face was drawn, was worried in away that few ten-year-old faces are. How's it going in school? he asked. Gee, Dad, it's the second month of summer vacation. Well, then, before summer vacation? Pretty good. Edith said, He made top forum the six-month period before vacation, andhe made top forum the six-month period you went away, Hank. He nodded, remembering that, remembering everything, remembering thewarmth of her farewell, the warmth of Ralphie's farewell, their tears ashe left for the experimental flight station in the Aleutians. They hadfeared for him, having read of the many launchings gone wrong even incontinent-to-continent experimental flight. They had been right to worry. He had suffered much after that blow-up.But now they should be rejoicing, because he had survived and made thelong journey. Ralphie suddenly said, I got to go, Dad. I promised Waltand the others I'd pitch. It's Inter-Town Little League, you know. It'sHarmon, you know. I got to keep my word. Without waiting for an answer,he waved his hand—it shook; a ten-year-old boy's hand that shook—andran from the room and from the house. He and Edith sat beside each other, and he wanted badly to take her inhis arms, and yet he didn't want to oppress her. He stood up. I'm verytired. I'd like to lie down a while. Which wasn't true, because he'dbeen lying down all the months of the way back. She said, Of course. How stupid of me, expecting you to sit around andmake small talk and pick up just where you left off. He nodded. But that was exactly what he wanted to do—make small talkand pick up just where he'd left off. But they didn't expect it of him;they wouldn't let him; they felt he had changed too much. <doc-sep>She led him upstairs and along the foyer past Ralphie's room and pastthe small guest room to their bedroom. This, too, had changed. It wasnewly painted and it had new furniture. He saw twin beds separated by anornate little table with an ornate little lamp, and this looked moreominous a barrier to him than the twelve-foot concrete-and-barbed-wirefence around the experimental station. Which one is mine, he asked, and tried to smile. She also tried to smile. The one near the window. You always liked thefresh air, the sunshine in the morning. You always said it helped youto get up on time when you were stationed at the base outside of town.You always said it reminded you—being able to see the sky—that youwere going to go up in it, and that you were going to come down from itto this bed again. Not this bed, he murmured, and was a little sorry afterward. No, not this bed, she said quickly. Your lodge donated the bedroomset and I really didn't know— She waved her hand, her face white. He was sure then that she had known, and that the beds and the barrierbetween them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He wentto the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket,began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some arm scarsstill showed. He waited for her to leave the room. She said, Well then, rest up, dear, and went out. He took off his shirt and saw himself in the mirror on the oppositewall; and then took off his under-shirt. The body scars were faint, thescars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicingdiagonally across his upper abdomen to disappear under his trousers.There were several more on his back, and one on his right thigh. They'dbeen treated properly and would soon disappear. But she had never seenthem. Perhaps she never would. Perhaps pajamas and robes and dark rooms wouldkeep them from her until they were gone. Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving WalterReed Hospital early this morning; which was something he founddistasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time,he began to understand that there would be many things, previouslybeneath them both, which would have to be considered. She had changed;Ralphie had changed; all the people he knew had probablychanged—because they thought he had changed. He was tired of thinking. He lay down and closed his eyes. He lethimself taste bitterness, unhappiness, a loneliness he had never knownbefore. But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance beganfiltering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the sameman who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family andfriends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he couldcommunicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First Onewould again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for—areturn to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwashinstead of the freneticisms of the lime-light. It would certainly begranted to him. He slept. <doc-sep>Dinner was at seven p.m. His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucillecame. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and atein the dining room at the big table. Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. Hisfamily had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack oftalkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially withcompany present—to describe everything and anything that had happenedto him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especiallywith his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had beengood-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured. This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. Stiffwas perhaps the word. They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He lookedat Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,Younger than ever. It was nothing new; he'd said it many many timesbefore, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quipsomething like, Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean. This timeshe burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more wasthe fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comforther; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table. He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touchedher left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't moveit—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-coolembrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let itdrop out of sight. So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being. The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joebegan to talk. The greatest little development of circular uniformhouses you ever did see, he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice.Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before— At that point helooked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested inthis normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,mumbled, Soup's getting cold, and began to eat. His hand shook alittle; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it. Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' TuesdayGarden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat betweenJoe and Mother—his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he feltalone—and said, I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rosebushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower ortrowel. Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching ofthe lips—and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, Ihave a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room awhile. She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusivemother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had oftenirritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barelytouched his shoulder and fled. So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served—thin, rareslices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. Hecut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphieand said, Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard.Ralphie said, Yeah, Dad. Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork andmurmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and saidLucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was goinginto the living room for a while. She'll be back for dessert, ofcourse, he said, his laugh sounding forced. Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked atRalphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe waschewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked atLucille; she was disappearing into the living room. He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glassoverturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. Theywere all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his bigright fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such ascene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as theFirst One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fearof, that he could have smashed more than a table. Edith said, Hank! He said, voice hoarse, Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick ofthe lot of you. <doc-sep>Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing fooddown his throat. Mother said, Henry dear— He didn't answer. She beganto cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never saidanything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have beenthe time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something aboutgetting together again soon and drop out and see the new developmentand he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him. He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the specialdessert she'd been preparing half the day—a magnificent English trifle.She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. Shehesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called theboy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of thetable. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said,Hey, I promised— You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball orsomething; anything to get away from your father. Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, Aw, no, Dad. Edith said, He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an eveningtogether—talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly. Ralphie said, Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to. Hank stood up. The question is not whether I want to. You both know Iwant to. The question is whether you want to. They answered together that of course they wanted to. But theireyes—his wife's and son's eyes—could not meet his, and so he said hewas going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would inall probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and thatthey shouldn't count on him for normal social life. He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes. But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to alighted room. Phil and Rhona are here. He blinked at her. She smiled,and it seemed her old smile. They're so anxious to see you, Hank. Icould barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They wantto go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will. He sat up. Phil, he muttered. Phil and Rhona. They'd had wonderfultimes together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest andclosest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming. Do the town? They'd paint it and then tear it down! <doc-sep>It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'dalso expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him toexpect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil soundedvery much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter andfull of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, andclapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so muchmore gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than wasgood for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go alongon the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer. They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road toManfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffeeand Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but hemerely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana. There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been theremany times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognizedhim. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was asif he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world. At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but hesaid, I haven't danced with my girl Rhona. His tongue was thick, hismind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on herface—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritualof flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were goingto be sick. So let's rock, he said and stood up. They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,mechanical dancing doll. The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,Beddy-bye time. Hank said, First one dance with my loving wife. He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waitedfor her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.Because while she put herself against him, there was something in herface—no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes—that made him knowshe was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time whenthe music ended, he was ready to go home. They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear ofPhil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his oldself. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self withthe First One. They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, andPhil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen andlooked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fenceparalleling the road. Hey, he said, pointing, do you know why that'sthe most popular place on earth? Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made alittle sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on awhile longer, not yet aware of his supposed faux pas . You know why? he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughterrumbling up from his chest. You know why, folks? Rhona said, Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at— Hank said, No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth? Phil said, Because people are— And then he caught himself and wavedhis hand and muttered, I forgot the punch line. Because people are dying to get in, Hank said, and looked through thewindow, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleetingtombstones. The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have beennothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. Maybe you shouldlet me out right here, Hank said. I'm home—or that's what everyoneseems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe thatwould satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula oranother monster from the movies. Edith said, Oh, Hank, don't, don't! The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went fourblocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night. Hedidn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone pathand entered the house. <doc-sep>Hank, Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, I'm so sorry— There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'llall work out in time. Yes, she said quickly, that's it. I need a little time. We all need alittle time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening.I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurtyou terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we'refrightened. I'm going to stay in the guest room, he said, for as long asnecessary. For good if need be. How could it be for good? How, Hank? That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had sincereturning. And there was something else; what Carlisle had told him,even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did. There are others coming, Edith. Eight that I know of in the tanks rightnow. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment Idid—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He wassmashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almostready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The government is going to saveall they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy manloses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered,he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain andorgan process—the process that made it all possible. So people have toget used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly oldsuperstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some ofus; because in time it'll be an ordinary thing. Edith said, Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Pleasebelieve that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and— She paused.There's one question. He knew what the question was. It had been the first asked him byeveryone from the president of the United States on down. I saw nothing, he said. It was as if I slept those six and a halfmonths—slept without dreaming. She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he wassatisfied. Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories ofhow they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered andpulled the covers closer to him and luxuriated in being safe in his ownhome. THE END <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What’s the significance of the regenerative technology in the story?

The main character - Henry Devers - is the first man to have been saved by regenerative technologies. After leaving the hospital, he goes on a grandiose tour around the town, but he can see that the crowds are quiet. At home, his wife Edith seems overly hesitant and restrained, his son Ralphie quickly leaves them. Later in the evening, during dinner, his mother, aunt, and uncle also seem stiff and anxious, infuriating him. After that, he meets with his close friends hoping for them to treat him as before, but all their actions show that they are not comfortable with Devers either. He realizes that everyone he knows doesn't know how to behave around him, they cannot look him in the eyes and are scared. The First One status makes everyone terrified of him, which his wife later admits. But Devers assures her that soon this kind of technology will be ubiquitous, and the old superstitions will die, people like him will be ordinary citizens.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> THE FIRST ONE By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by von Dongen [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog July 1961.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.] The first man to return from beyond the Great Frontier may bewelcomed ... but will it be as a curiosity, rather than as ahero...? There was the usual welcoming crowd for a celebrity, and the usualspeeches by the usual politicians who met him at the airport which hadonce been twenty miles outside of Croton, but which the growing city hadsince engulfed and placed well within its boundaries. But everythingwasn't usual. The crowd was quiet, and the mayor didn't seem quite asat-ease as he'd been on his last big welcoming—for Corporal Berringer,one of the crew of the spaceship Washington , first to set Americansupon Mars. His Honor's handclasp was somewhat moist and cold. HisHonor's eyes held a trace of remoteness. Still, he was the honored home-comer, the successful returnee, thehometown boy who had made good in a big way, and they took the triumphaltour up Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. There he satbetween the mayor and a nervous young coed chosen as homecoming queen,and looked out at the police and fire department bands, the NationalGuard, the boy scouts and girl scouts, the Elks and Masons. Several ofthe churches in town had shown indecision as to how to instruct theirparishioners to treat him. But they had all come around. The tremendousnational interest, the fact that he was the First One, had made themcome around. It was obvious by now that they would have to adjust asthey'd adjusted to all the other firsts taking place in these—as thenewspapers had dubbed the start of the Twenty-first Century—theGalloping Twenties. He was glad when the official greeting was over. He was a very tired manand he had come farther, traveled longer and over darker country, thanany man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, akiss from his wife, a word from his son, and later to see some oldfriends and a relative or two. He didn't want to talk about the journey.He wanted to forget the immediacy, the urgency, the terror; then perhapshe would talk. Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he hadreturned and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the greatmariners, from Columbus onward—long, dull periods of time passing,passing, and then the arrival. The house had changed. He saw that as soon as the official car let himoff at 45 Roosevelt Street. The change was, he knew, for the better.They had put a porch in front. They had rehabilitated, spruced up,almost rebuilt the entire outside and grounds. But he was sorry. He hadwanted it to be as before. The head of the American Legion and the chief of police, who hadescorted him on this trip from the square, didn't ask to go in with him.He was glad. He'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through withstrangers. There were dozens of them up and down the street, standingbeside parked cars, looking at him. But when he looked back at them,their eyes dropped, they turned away, they began moving off. He wasstill too much the First One to have his gaze met. He walked up what had once been a concrete path and was now an ornateflagstone path. He climbed the new porch and raised the ornamentalknocker on the new door and heard the soft music sound within. He wassurprised that he'd had to do this. He'd thought Edith would be watchingat a window. And perhaps she had been watching ... but she hadn't opened the door. The door opened; he looked at her. It hadn't been too long and shehadn't changed at all. She was still the small, slender girl he'd lovedin high school, the small, slender woman he'd married twelve years ago.Ralphie was with her. They held onto each other as if seeking mutualsupport, the thirty-three-year old woman and ten-year-old boy. Theylooked at him, and then both moved forward, still together. He said,It's good to be home! Edith nodded and, still holding to Ralphie with one hand, put the otherarm around him. He kissed her—her neck, her cheek—and all the oldjokes came to mind, the jokes of travel-weary, battle-weary men, theand- then -I'll-put-my-pack-aside jokes that spoke of terrible hunger.She was trembling, and even as her lips came up to touch his he felt thedifference, and because of this difference he turned with urgency toRalphie and picked him up and hugged him and said, because he couldthink of nothing else to say, What a big fella, what a big fella. Ralphie stood in his arms as if his feet were still planted on thefloor, and he didn't look at his father but somewhere beyond him. Ididn't grow much while you were gone, Dad, Mom says I don't eat enough. So he put him down and told himself that it would all change, thateverything would loosen up just as his commanding officer, GeneralCarlisle, had said it would early this morning before he leftWashington. Give it some time, Carlisle had said. You need the time; they needthe time. And for the love of heaven, don't be sensitive. <doc-sep>Edith was leading him into the living room, her hand lying still in his,a cool, dead bird lying still in his. He sat down on the couch, she satdown beside him—but she had hesitated. He wasn't being sensitive; shehad hesitated. His wife had hesitated before sitting down beside him. Carlisle had said his position was analogous to Columbus', to Vasco DeGama's, to Preshoff's when the Russian returned from the Moon—but moreso. Carlisle had said lots of things, but even Carlisle who had workedwith him all the way, who had engineered the entire fantasticjourney—even Carlisle the Nobel prize winner, the multi-degreed geniusin uniform, had not actually spoken to him as one man to another. The eyes. It always showed in their eyes. He looked across the room at Ralphie, standing in the doorway, a boyalready tall, already widening in the shoulders, already large offeature. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing himselftwenty-five years ago. But Ralphie's face was drawn, was worried in away that few ten-year-old faces are. How's it going in school? he asked. Gee, Dad, it's the second month of summer vacation. Well, then, before summer vacation? Pretty good. Edith said, He made top forum the six-month period before vacation, andhe made top forum the six-month period you went away, Hank. He nodded, remembering that, remembering everything, remembering thewarmth of her farewell, the warmth of Ralphie's farewell, their tears ashe left for the experimental flight station in the Aleutians. They hadfeared for him, having read of the many launchings gone wrong even incontinent-to-continent experimental flight. They had been right to worry. He had suffered much after that blow-up.But now they should be rejoicing, because he had survived and made thelong journey. Ralphie suddenly said, I got to go, Dad. I promised Waltand the others I'd pitch. It's Inter-Town Little League, you know. It'sHarmon, you know. I got to keep my word. Without waiting for an answer,he waved his hand—it shook; a ten-year-old boy's hand that shook—andran from the room and from the house. He and Edith sat beside each other, and he wanted badly to take her inhis arms, and yet he didn't want to oppress her. He stood up. I'm verytired. I'd like to lie down a while. Which wasn't true, because he'dbeen lying down all the months of the way back. She said, Of course. How stupid of me, expecting you to sit around andmake small talk and pick up just where you left off. He nodded. But that was exactly what he wanted to do—make small talkand pick up just where he'd left off. But they didn't expect it of him;they wouldn't let him; they felt he had changed too much. <doc-sep>She led him upstairs and along the foyer past Ralphie's room and pastthe small guest room to their bedroom. This, too, had changed. It wasnewly painted and it had new furniture. He saw twin beds separated by anornate little table with an ornate little lamp, and this looked moreominous a barrier to him than the twelve-foot concrete-and-barbed-wirefence around the experimental station. Which one is mine, he asked, and tried to smile. She also tried to smile. The one near the window. You always liked thefresh air, the sunshine in the morning. You always said it helped youto get up on time when you were stationed at the base outside of town.You always said it reminded you—being able to see the sky—that youwere going to go up in it, and that you were going to come down from itto this bed again. Not this bed, he murmured, and was a little sorry afterward. No, not this bed, she said quickly. Your lodge donated the bedroomset and I really didn't know— She waved her hand, her face white. He was sure then that she had known, and that the beds and the barrierbetween them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He wentto the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket,began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some arm scarsstill showed. He waited for her to leave the room. She said, Well then, rest up, dear, and went out. He took off his shirt and saw himself in the mirror on the oppositewall; and then took off his under-shirt. The body scars were faint, thescars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicingdiagonally across his upper abdomen to disappear under his trousers.There were several more on his back, and one on his right thigh. They'dbeen treated properly and would soon disappear. But she had never seenthem. Perhaps she never would. Perhaps pajamas and robes and dark rooms wouldkeep them from her until they were gone. Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving WalterReed Hospital early this morning; which was something he founddistasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time,he began to understand that there would be many things, previouslybeneath them both, which would have to be considered. She had changed;Ralphie had changed; all the people he knew had probablychanged—because they thought he had changed. He was tired of thinking. He lay down and closed his eyes. He lethimself taste bitterness, unhappiness, a loneliness he had never knownbefore. But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance beganfiltering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the sameman who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family andfriends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he couldcommunicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First Onewould again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for—areturn to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwashinstead of the freneticisms of the lime-light. It would certainly begranted to him. He slept. <doc-sep>Dinner was at seven p.m. His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucillecame. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and atein the dining room at the big table. Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. Hisfamily had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack oftalkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially withcompany present—to describe everything and anything that had happenedto him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especiallywith his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had beengood-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured. This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. Stiffwas perhaps the word. They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He lookedat Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,Younger than ever. It was nothing new; he'd said it many many timesbefore, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quipsomething like, Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean. This timeshe burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more wasthe fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comforther; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table. He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touchedher left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't moveit—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-coolembrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let itdrop out of sight. So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being. The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joebegan to talk. The greatest little development of circular uniformhouses you ever did see, he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice.Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before— At that point helooked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested inthis normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,mumbled, Soup's getting cold, and began to eat. His hand shook alittle; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it. Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' TuesdayGarden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat betweenJoe and Mother—his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he feltalone—and said, I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rosebushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower ortrowel. Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching ofthe lips—and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, Ihave a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room awhile. She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusivemother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had oftenirritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barelytouched his shoulder and fled. So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served—thin, rareslices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. Hecut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphieand said, Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard.Ralphie said, Yeah, Dad. Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork andmurmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and saidLucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was goinginto the living room for a while. She'll be back for dessert, ofcourse, he said, his laugh sounding forced. Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked atRalphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe waschewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked atLucille; she was disappearing into the living room. He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glassoverturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. Theywere all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his bigright fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such ascene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as theFirst One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fearof, that he could have smashed more than a table. Edith said, Hank! He said, voice hoarse, Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick ofthe lot of you. <doc-sep>Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing fooddown his throat. Mother said, Henry dear— He didn't answer. She beganto cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never saidanything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have beenthe time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something aboutgetting together again soon and drop out and see the new developmentand he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him. He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the specialdessert she'd been preparing half the day—a magnificent English trifle.She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. Shehesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called theboy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of thetable. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said,Hey, I promised— You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball orsomething; anything to get away from your father. Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, Aw, no, Dad. Edith said, He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an eveningtogether—talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly. Ralphie said, Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to. Hank stood up. The question is not whether I want to. You both know Iwant to. The question is whether you want to. They answered together that of course they wanted to. But theireyes—his wife's and son's eyes—could not meet his, and so he said hewas going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would inall probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and thatthey shouldn't count on him for normal social life. He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes. But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to alighted room. Phil and Rhona are here. He blinked at her. She smiled,and it seemed her old smile. They're so anxious to see you, Hank. Icould barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They wantto go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will. He sat up. Phil, he muttered. Phil and Rhona. They'd had wonderfultimes together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest andclosest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming. Do the town? They'd paint it and then tear it down! <doc-sep>It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'dalso expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him toexpect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil soundedvery much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter andfull of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, andclapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so muchmore gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than wasgood for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go alongon the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer. They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road toManfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffeeand Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but hemerely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana. There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been theremany times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognizedhim. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was asif he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world. At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but hesaid, I haven't danced with my girl Rhona. His tongue was thick, hismind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on herface—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritualof flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were goingto be sick. So let's rock, he said and stood up. They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,mechanical dancing doll. The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,Beddy-bye time. Hank said, First one dance with my loving wife. He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waitedfor her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.Because while she put herself against him, there was something in herface—no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes—that made him knowshe was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time whenthe music ended, he was ready to go home. They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear ofPhil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his oldself. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self withthe First One. They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, andPhil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen andlooked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fenceparalleling the road. Hey, he said, pointing, do you know why that'sthe most popular place on earth? Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made alittle sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on awhile longer, not yet aware of his supposed faux pas . You know why? he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughterrumbling up from his chest. You know why, folks? Rhona said, Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at— Hank said, No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth? Phil said, Because people are— And then he caught himself and wavedhis hand and muttered, I forgot the punch line. Because people are dying to get in, Hank said, and looked through thewindow, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleetingtombstones. The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have beennothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. Maybe you shouldlet me out right here, Hank said. I'm home—or that's what everyoneseems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe thatwould satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula oranother monster from the movies. Edith said, Oh, Hank, don't, don't! The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went fourblocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night. Hedidn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone pathand entered the house. <doc-sep>Hank, Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, I'm so sorry— There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'llall work out in time. Yes, she said quickly, that's it. I need a little time. We all need alittle time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening.I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurtyou terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we'refrightened. I'm going to stay in the guest room, he said, for as long asnecessary. For good if need be. How could it be for good? How, Hank? That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had sincereturning. And there was something else; what Carlisle had told him,even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did. There are others coming, Edith. Eight that I know of in the tanks rightnow. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment Idid—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He wassmashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almostready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The government is going to saveall they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy manloses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered,he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain andorgan process—the process that made it all possible. So people have toget used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly oldsuperstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some ofus; because in time it'll be an ordinary thing. Edith said, Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Pleasebelieve that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and— She paused.There's one question. He knew what the question was. It had been the first asked him byeveryone from the president of the United States on down. I saw nothing, he said. It was as if I slept those six and a halfmonths—slept without dreaming. She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he wassatisfied. Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories ofhow they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered andpulled the covers closer to him and luxuriated in being safe in his ownhome. THE END <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

At the beginning of the story, Henry Devers - the first man to have been saved by regenerative technologies - goes on a town tour up to Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. He gets off at 45 Roosevelt street - his home. Here he has an awkward interaction with his wife Edith and his son Ralphie who soon leaves for a baseball game. In the evening, Henry, his wife, son, mother, uncle, and aunt eat in the dining room - the guests seem to be stiff and nervous, it infuriates Devers. After an outburst of anger, he goes to his room. After his friends, Rhona and Phil, come to see him, they all go to bowling alleys and then to Manfred’s Tavern where they dance, though his friends seem relatively uncomfortable and scared. On their way back, they drive past a cemetery when Phil makes an inappropriate joke which leads to a moment of dead silence. Later, when they come home, Devers and Edith have a sincere conversation - she admits that everyone, including her, is terrified. After reassuring his wife, Henry goes to sleep in the guest room.

Who’s Edith and what happens to her throughout the story? [SEP] <s> THE FIRST ONE By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by von Dongen [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog July 1961.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.] The first man to return from beyond the Great Frontier may bewelcomed ... but will it be as a curiosity, rather than as ahero...? There was the usual welcoming crowd for a celebrity, and the usualspeeches by the usual politicians who met him at the airport which hadonce been twenty miles outside of Croton, but which the growing city hadsince engulfed and placed well within its boundaries. But everythingwasn't usual. The crowd was quiet, and the mayor didn't seem quite asat-ease as he'd been on his last big welcoming—for Corporal Berringer,one of the crew of the spaceship Washington , first to set Americansupon Mars. His Honor's handclasp was somewhat moist and cold. HisHonor's eyes held a trace of remoteness. Still, he was the honored home-comer, the successful returnee, thehometown boy who had made good in a big way, and they took the triumphaltour up Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. There he satbetween the mayor and a nervous young coed chosen as homecoming queen,and looked out at the police and fire department bands, the NationalGuard, the boy scouts and girl scouts, the Elks and Masons. Several ofthe churches in town had shown indecision as to how to instruct theirparishioners to treat him. But they had all come around. The tremendousnational interest, the fact that he was the First One, had made themcome around. It was obvious by now that they would have to adjust asthey'd adjusted to all the other firsts taking place in these—as thenewspapers had dubbed the start of the Twenty-first Century—theGalloping Twenties. He was glad when the official greeting was over. He was a very tired manand he had come farther, traveled longer and over darker country, thanany man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, akiss from his wife, a word from his son, and later to see some oldfriends and a relative or two. He didn't want to talk about the journey.He wanted to forget the immediacy, the urgency, the terror; then perhapshe would talk. Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he hadreturned and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the greatmariners, from Columbus onward—long, dull periods of time passing,passing, and then the arrival. The house had changed. He saw that as soon as the official car let himoff at 45 Roosevelt Street. The change was, he knew, for the better.They had put a porch in front. They had rehabilitated, spruced up,almost rebuilt the entire outside and grounds. But he was sorry. He hadwanted it to be as before. The head of the American Legion and the chief of police, who hadescorted him on this trip from the square, didn't ask to go in with him.He was glad. He'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through withstrangers. There were dozens of them up and down the street, standingbeside parked cars, looking at him. But when he looked back at them,their eyes dropped, they turned away, they began moving off. He wasstill too much the First One to have his gaze met. He walked up what had once been a concrete path and was now an ornateflagstone path. He climbed the new porch and raised the ornamentalknocker on the new door and heard the soft music sound within. He wassurprised that he'd had to do this. He'd thought Edith would be watchingat a window. And perhaps she had been watching ... but she hadn't opened the door. The door opened; he looked at her. It hadn't been too long and shehadn't changed at all. She was still the small, slender girl he'd lovedin high school, the small, slender woman he'd married twelve years ago.Ralphie was with her. They held onto each other as if seeking mutualsupport, the thirty-three-year old woman and ten-year-old boy. Theylooked at him, and then both moved forward, still together. He said,It's good to be home! Edith nodded and, still holding to Ralphie with one hand, put the otherarm around him. He kissed her—her neck, her cheek—and all the oldjokes came to mind, the jokes of travel-weary, battle-weary men, theand- then -I'll-put-my-pack-aside jokes that spoke of terrible hunger.She was trembling, and even as her lips came up to touch his he felt thedifference, and because of this difference he turned with urgency toRalphie and picked him up and hugged him and said, because he couldthink of nothing else to say, What a big fella, what a big fella. Ralphie stood in his arms as if his feet were still planted on thefloor, and he didn't look at his father but somewhere beyond him. Ididn't grow much while you were gone, Dad, Mom says I don't eat enough. So he put him down and told himself that it would all change, thateverything would loosen up just as his commanding officer, GeneralCarlisle, had said it would early this morning before he leftWashington. Give it some time, Carlisle had said. You need the time; they needthe time. And for the love of heaven, don't be sensitive. <doc-sep>Edith was leading him into the living room, her hand lying still in his,a cool, dead bird lying still in his. He sat down on the couch, she satdown beside him—but she had hesitated. He wasn't being sensitive; shehad hesitated. His wife had hesitated before sitting down beside him. Carlisle had said his position was analogous to Columbus', to Vasco DeGama's, to Preshoff's when the Russian returned from the Moon—but moreso. Carlisle had said lots of things, but even Carlisle who had workedwith him all the way, who had engineered the entire fantasticjourney—even Carlisle the Nobel prize winner, the multi-degreed geniusin uniform, had not actually spoken to him as one man to another. The eyes. It always showed in their eyes. He looked across the room at Ralphie, standing in the doorway, a boyalready tall, already widening in the shoulders, already large offeature. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing himselftwenty-five years ago. But Ralphie's face was drawn, was worried in away that few ten-year-old faces are. How's it going in school? he asked. Gee, Dad, it's the second month of summer vacation. Well, then, before summer vacation? Pretty good. Edith said, He made top forum the six-month period before vacation, andhe made top forum the six-month period you went away, Hank. He nodded, remembering that, remembering everything, remembering thewarmth of her farewell, the warmth of Ralphie's farewell, their tears ashe left for the experimental flight station in the Aleutians. They hadfeared for him, having read of the many launchings gone wrong even incontinent-to-continent experimental flight. They had been right to worry. He had suffered much after that blow-up.But now they should be rejoicing, because he had survived and made thelong journey. Ralphie suddenly said, I got to go, Dad. I promised Waltand the others I'd pitch. It's Inter-Town Little League, you know. It'sHarmon, you know. I got to keep my word. Without waiting for an answer,he waved his hand—it shook; a ten-year-old boy's hand that shook—andran from the room and from the house. He and Edith sat beside each other, and he wanted badly to take her inhis arms, and yet he didn't want to oppress her. He stood up. I'm verytired. I'd like to lie down a while. Which wasn't true, because he'dbeen lying down all the months of the way back. She said, Of course. How stupid of me, expecting you to sit around andmake small talk and pick up just where you left off. He nodded. But that was exactly what he wanted to do—make small talkand pick up just where he'd left off. But they didn't expect it of him;they wouldn't let him; they felt he had changed too much. <doc-sep>She led him upstairs and along the foyer past Ralphie's room and pastthe small guest room to their bedroom. This, too, had changed. It wasnewly painted and it had new furniture. He saw twin beds separated by anornate little table with an ornate little lamp, and this looked moreominous a barrier to him than the twelve-foot concrete-and-barbed-wirefence around the experimental station. Which one is mine, he asked, and tried to smile. She also tried to smile. The one near the window. You always liked thefresh air, the sunshine in the morning. You always said it helped youto get up on time when you were stationed at the base outside of town.You always said it reminded you—being able to see the sky—that youwere going to go up in it, and that you were going to come down from itto this bed again. Not this bed, he murmured, and was a little sorry afterward. No, not this bed, she said quickly. Your lodge donated the bedroomset and I really didn't know— She waved her hand, her face white. He was sure then that she had known, and that the beds and the barrierbetween them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He wentto the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket,began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some arm scarsstill showed. He waited for her to leave the room. She said, Well then, rest up, dear, and went out. He took off his shirt and saw himself in the mirror on the oppositewall; and then took off his under-shirt. The body scars were faint, thescars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicingdiagonally across his upper abdomen to disappear under his trousers.There were several more on his back, and one on his right thigh. They'dbeen treated properly and would soon disappear. But she had never seenthem. Perhaps she never would. Perhaps pajamas and robes and dark rooms wouldkeep them from her until they were gone. Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving WalterReed Hospital early this morning; which was something he founddistasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time,he began to understand that there would be many things, previouslybeneath them both, which would have to be considered. She had changed;Ralphie had changed; all the people he knew had probablychanged—because they thought he had changed. He was tired of thinking. He lay down and closed his eyes. He lethimself taste bitterness, unhappiness, a loneliness he had never knownbefore. But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance beganfiltering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the sameman who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family andfriends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he couldcommunicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First Onewould again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for—areturn to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwashinstead of the freneticisms of the lime-light. It would certainly begranted to him. He slept. <doc-sep>Dinner was at seven p.m. His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucillecame. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and atein the dining room at the big table. Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. Hisfamily had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack oftalkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially withcompany present—to describe everything and anything that had happenedto him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especiallywith his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had beengood-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured. This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. Stiffwas perhaps the word. They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He lookedat Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,Younger than ever. It was nothing new; he'd said it many many timesbefore, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quipsomething like, Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean. This timeshe burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more wasthe fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comforther; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table. He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touchedher left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't moveit—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-coolembrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let itdrop out of sight. So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being. The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joebegan to talk. The greatest little development of circular uniformhouses you ever did see, he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice.Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before— At that point helooked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested inthis normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,mumbled, Soup's getting cold, and began to eat. His hand shook alittle; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it. Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' TuesdayGarden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat betweenJoe and Mother—his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he feltalone—and said, I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rosebushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower ortrowel. Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching ofthe lips—and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, Ihave a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room awhile. She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusivemother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had oftenirritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barelytouched his shoulder and fled. So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served—thin, rareslices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. Hecut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphieand said, Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard.Ralphie said, Yeah, Dad. Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork andmurmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and saidLucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was goinginto the living room for a while. She'll be back for dessert, ofcourse, he said, his laugh sounding forced. Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked atRalphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe waschewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked atLucille; she was disappearing into the living room. He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glassoverturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. Theywere all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his bigright fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such ascene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as theFirst One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fearof, that he could have smashed more than a table. Edith said, Hank! He said, voice hoarse, Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick ofthe lot of you. <doc-sep>Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing fooddown his throat. Mother said, Henry dear— He didn't answer. She beganto cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never saidanything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have beenthe time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something aboutgetting together again soon and drop out and see the new developmentand he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him. He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the specialdessert she'd been preparing half the day—a magnificent English trifle.She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. Shehesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called theboy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of thetable. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said,Hey, I promised— You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball orsomething; anything to get away from your father. Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, Aw, no, Dad. Edith said, He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an eveningtogether—talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly. Ralphie said, Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to. Hank stood up. The question is not whether I want to. You both know Iwant to. The question is whether you want to. They answered together that of course they wanted to. But theireyes—his wife's and son's eyes—could not meet his, and so he said hewas going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would inall probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and thatthey shouldn't count on him for normal social life. He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes. But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to alighted room. Phil and Rhona are here. He blinked at her. She smiled,and it seemed her old smile. They're so anxious to see you, Hank. Icould barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They wantto go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will. He sat up. Phil, he muttered. Phil and Rhona. They'd had wonderfultimes together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest andclosest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming. Do the town? They'd paint it and then tear it down! <doc-sep>It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'dalso expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him toexpect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil soundedvery much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter andfull of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, andclapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so muchmore gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than wasgood for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go alongon the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer. They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road toManfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffeeand Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but hemerely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana. There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been theremany times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognizedhim. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was asif he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world. At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but hesaid, I haven't danced with my girl Rhona. His tongue was thick, hismind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on herface—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritualof flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were goingto be sick. So let's rock, he said and stood up. They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,mechanical dancing doll. The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,Beddy-bye time. Hank said, First one dance with my loving wife. He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waitedfor her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.Because while she put herself against him, there was something in herface—no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes—that made him knowshe was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time whenthe music ended, he was ready to go home. They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear ofPhil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his oldself. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self withthe First One. They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, andPhil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen andlooked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fenceparalleling the road. Hey, he said, pointing, do you know why that'sthe most popular place on earth? Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made alittle sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on awhile longer, not yet aware of his supposed faux pas . You know why? he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughterrumbling up from his chest. You know why, folks? Rhona said, Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at— Hank said, No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth? Phil said, Because people are— And then he caught himself and wavedhis hand and muttered, I forgot the punch line. Because people are dying to get in, Hank said, and looked through thewindow, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleetingtombstones. The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have beennothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. Maybe you shouldlet me out right here, Hank said. I'm home—or that's what everyoneseems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe thatwould satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula oranother monster from the movies. Edith said, Oh, Hank, don't, don't! The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went fourblocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night. Hedidn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone pathand entered the house. <doc-sep>Hank, Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, I'm so sorry— There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'llall work out in time. Yes, she said quickly, that's it. I need a little time. We all need alittle time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening.I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurtyou terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we'refrightened. I'm going to stay in the guest room, he said, for as long asnecessary. For good if need be. How could it be for good? How, Hank? That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had sincereturning. And there was something else; what Carlisle had told him,even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did. There are others coming, Edith. Eight that I know of in the tanks rightnow. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment Idid—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He wassmashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almostready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The government is going to saveall they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy manloses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered,he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain andorgan process—the process that made it all possible. So people have toget used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly oldsuperstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some ofus; because in time it'll be an ordinary thing. Edith said, Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Pleasebelieve that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and— She paused.There's one question. He knew what the question was. It had been the first asked him byeveryone from the president of the United States on down. I saw nothing, he said. It was as if I slept those six and a halfmonths—slept without dreaming. She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he wassatisfied. Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories ofhow they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered andpulled the covers closer to him and luxuriated in being safe in his ownhome. THE END <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who’s Edith and what happens to her throughout the story?

Edith is the wife of Henry Devers - the first man to have been saved by regenerative technologies. While he was healing, she managed to renovate their house and buy a new bed for her husband. Together with their son Ralphie Edith meets Henry at the porch after he leaves the hospital and goes on a tour around their town. She seems nervous and scared around her husband while trying to talk to him about their son’s academic achievements at school. Later she dines with Devers and his relatives, still feeling very hesitant and unsure about how she has to interact with him. Edith tries to placate her husband after he angrily screams at the guests because of how scared they are and the fact that they avoided his gaze during the entire evening. Soon, she goes to wake him up after his close friends come to see him. Four of them go to bowling alleys and then to Manfred’s Tavern, but his friends - Phil and Rhona - behave as strangely as everybody else. Phil makes awkward remarks, Rhona looks sick. After an inappropriate joke made by one of the friends, Edith has to calm her husband again. She finally talks to him when they get back, admitting that everyone, including her, is terrified and they need more time to adapt. After reassuring her, her husband goes to sleep in the guest room.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> DOUBLECROSS by JAMES Mac CREIGH Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the descendant of the first Earthmen to land. Svan was the leader making the final plans—plotting them a bit too well. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The Officer of the Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock.There was no reason why everything shouldn't have been functioningperfectly, of course, but he was pleased to have it confirmed, all thesame. The Executive Officer was moodily smoking a cigarette in the openlock, staring out over the dank Venusian terrain at the native town. Heturned. Everything shipshape, I take it! he commented. The OD nodded. I'll have a blank log if this keeps up, he said.Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, driversready to lift as soon as they come back. The Exec tossed away his cigarette. If they come back. Is there any question? The Exec shrugged. I don't know, Lowry, he said. This is a funnyplace. I don't trust the natives. Lowry lifted his eyebrows. Oh? But after all, they're human beings,just like us— Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don'teven look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them. Acclimation, Lowry said scientifically. They had to acclimatethemselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough. The Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were theoutskirts of the native city, dimly visible through the ever-presentVenusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards fromthe Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashionedproton-rifles slung over their backs. A few natives were gazingwonderingly at the great ship, but made no move to pass the line ofguards. Of course, Lowry said suddenly, there's a minority who are afraidof us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives.They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that weknow Venus is habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry undergroundgroup that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive thenative Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, thatis—right down into the mud. Well— he laughed—maybe they will.After all, the fittest survive. That's a basic law of— The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallicvoice rasped: Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instrumentsreports a spy ray focused on the main lock! Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back andstared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sureenough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. Hesnatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it.Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party! Buteven while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenlyand went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to the Exec. The Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, You see! <doc-sep>You see? Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The fiveothers in the room looked apprehensive. You see? Svan repeated. Fromtheir own mouths you have heard it. The Council was right. The younger of the two women sighed. She might have been beautiful, inspite of her dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on herhead. Svan, I'm afraid, she said. Who are we to decide if thisis a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will betrouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood. Svan laughed harshly. They don't think so. You heard them. We arenot human any more. The officer said it. The other woman spoke unexpectedly. The Council was right, sheagreed. Svan, what must we do? Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. One moment. Ingra, do you stillobject? The younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She lookedaround at the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visiblyconvinced by Svan. No, she said slowly. I do not object. And the rest of us? Does any of us object? Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture ofassent. Good, said Svan. Then we must act. The Council has told us that wealone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if theEarth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must notreturn. An old man shifted restlessly. But they are strong, Svan, hecomplained. They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay. Svan nodded. No. They will leave. But they will never get back toEarth. Never get back to Earth? the old man gasped. Has the Councilauthorized—murder? Svan shrugged. The Council did not know what we would face. TheCouncilmen could not come to the city and see what strength theEarth-ship has. He paused dangerously. Toller, he said, do youobject? Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice wasdull. What is your plan? he asked. Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at hisfeet, held up a shiny metal globe. One of us will plant this in theship. It will be set by means of this dial— he touched a spot on thesurface of the globe with a pallid finger—to do nothing for fortyhours. Then—it will explode. Atomite. He grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grinfaded uncertainly as he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty,irresolution. Abruptly he set the bomb down, savagely ripped six leavesoff a writing tablet on the table next him. He took a pencil and made amark on one of them, held it up. We will let chance decide who is to do the work, he said angrily. Isthere anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think.... No answer. Svan jerked his head. Good, he said. Ingra, bring me thatbowl. Silently the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad armof her chair. It had held Venus-tobacco cigarettes; there were a fewleft. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidlycreasing the six fatal slips. He dropped them in the bowl, stirred itwith his hand, offered it to the girl. You first, Ingra, he said. She reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slipand held it without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svanhimself took the last. All eyes were on him. No one had looked at theirslips. Svan, too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them.This is the plan, he said. We will go, all six of us, in my groundcar, to look at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole cityhas been to see it already. One will get out, at the best point we canfind. It is almost dusk now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation.The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with thecar—perhaps it will run off the road, start to sink in the swamp. Theguards will be called. There will be commotion—that is easy enough,after all; a hysterical woman, a few screams, that's all there is toit. And the sixth person will have his chance to steal to the sideof the ship. The bomb is magnetic. It will not be noticed in thedark—they will take off before sunrise, because they must travel awayfrom the sun to return—in forty hours the danger is removed. There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still thatuncertainty. Impatiently, he crackled: Look at the slips! Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled.Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over,striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing.... And his eyes saw nothing. The slip was blank. He gave it but a second'sglance, then looked up to see who had won the lethal game of chance.Almost he was disappointed. Each of the others had looked in that same second. And each was lookingup now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosenone to announce it—a second, ten seconds.... Then gray understanding came to him. A traitor! his subconsciouswhispered. A coward! He stared at them in a new light, saw theirindecision magnified, became opposition. Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was acoward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any mightbe the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspectingevery one, but—suppose the coward, cornered, fought back? In fractionsof a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision.Masked by the table, his hand, still holding the pencil, moved swiftlybeneath the table, marked his own slip. In the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked insecret. His voice was very tired as he said, I will plant the bomb. <doc-sep>The six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along themain street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed exceptfor deceptively flimsy-looking pistols at their hips, stood before theentrance to the town's Hall of Justice. Good, said Svan, observing them. The delegation is still here. Wehave ample time. He half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searchingthe faces of the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered.Ingra? Her aunt? One of the men? The right answer leaped up at him. They all are , he thought. Not oneof them understands what this means. They're afraid. He clamped his lips. Go faster, Ingra, he ordered the girl who wasdriving. Let's get this done with. She looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in hereyes. Silently she nodded, advanced the fuel-handle so that the clumsycar jolted a trace more rapidly over the corduroy road. It was quitedark now. The car's driving light flared yellowishly in front of them,illuminating the narrow road and the pale, distorted vegetation of thejungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. Thepresent shower would deepen and intensify until midnight, then fall offagain, to halt before morning. But before then they would be done. A proton-bolt lanced across the road in front of them. In the silencethat followed its thunderous crash, a man's voice bellowed: Halt! The girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on thebrakes. A Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on themfrom the side of the road, proton-rifle held ready to fire again. Where are you going? he growled. Svan spoke up. We want to look at the Earth-ship, he said. He openedthe door beside him and stepped out, careless of the drizzle. We heardit was leaving tonight, he continued, and we have not seen it. Isthat not permitted? The guard shook his head sourly. No one is allowed near the ship. Theorder was just issued. It is thought there is danger. Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. Itis urgent, he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in acomplicated gesture. Do you understand? Confusion furrowed the guard's hairless brows, then was replaced bya sudden flare of understanding—and fear. The Council! he roared.By heaven, yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this—He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan wasfaster. His gamble had failed; there was only one course remaining.He hurled his gross white bulk at the guard, bowled him over againstthe splintery logs of the road. The proton-rifle went flying, and Svansavagely tore at the throat of the guard. Knees, elbows and claw-likenails—Svan battered at the astonished man with every ounce of strengthin his body. The guard was as big as Svan, but Svan had the initialadvantage ... and it was only a matter of seconds before the guardlay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan hadruthlessly pounded it against the road. Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally. Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save thepetrified five and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously,then reached down and heaved on the senseless body of the guard. Overthe shoulder of the road the body went, onto the damp swampland of thejungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would beno trace. Svan strode back to the car. Hurry up, he gasped to the girl. Nowthere is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keepa watch for other guards. <doc-sep>Venus has no moon, and no star can shine through its vast cloud layer.Ensign Lowry, staring anxiously out through the astro-dome in the bowof the Earth-ship, cursed the blackness. Can't see a thing, he complained to the Exec, steadily writing awayat the computer's table. Look—are those lights over there? The Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. Probably the guards. Ofcourse, you can't tell. Might be a raiding party. Lowry, stung, looked to see if the Exec was smiling, but found noanswer in his stolid face. Don't joke about it, he said. Supposesomething happens to the delegation? Then we're in the soup, the Exec said philosophically. I told youthe natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for thelast three hundred years. It isn't all the natives, Lowry said. Look how they've doubled theguard around us. The administration is co-operating every way theyknow how. You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's thissecret group they call the Council. And how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it? theExec retorted. They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's goneout now. Must have been the guard. They're on the wrong side to becoming from the town, anyhow.... <doc-sep>Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned thelights out and stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartmentunder the seat. If he took a little longer than seemed necessary to getthe atomite bomb out of the compartment, none of the others noticed.Certainly it did not occur to them that there had been two bombs inthe compartment, though Svan's hand emerged with only one. He got out of the car, holding the sphere. This will do for me, hesaid. They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—wewere wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do? Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. We must circle backagain, she parroted. We are to wait five minutes, then drive the carinto the swamp. We will create a commotion, attract the guards. Svan, listening, thought: It's not much of a plan. The guards wouldnot be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. Ifthey must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve apurpose. Aloud, he said, You understand. If I get through, I will return to thecity on foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, becausethe bomb will not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember,you are in no danger from the guards. From the guards , his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they wouldfeel no pain, never know what happened. With the amount of atomite inthat bomb in the compartment, they would merely be obliterated in aground-shaking crash. Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently countingoff the seconds. Go ahead, he ordered. I will wait here. Svan. The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reachedfor him, kissed him. Good luck to you, Svan, she said. Good luck, repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor ofthe car took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around,sent it lumbering back down the road. Only after she had traveled a fewhundred feet by the feel of the road did she turn the lights on again. Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean?Was it an error that the girl should die with the others? There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it wasdriven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. Andsince he could not know which was the one who had received the markedslip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die. He advanced along the midnight road to where the ground rose and thejungle plants thinned out. Ahead, on an elevation, were the rain-dimmedlights of the Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made byits own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circlingfigures of sentries, and knew that these would be the ship's own.They would not be as easily overcome as the natives, not with thoseslim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to theside of the ship. Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance.He had perhaps three minutes to wait; he reckoned. His fingers wentabsently to the pouch in his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. Heturned it over without looking at it, wondering who had drawn the firstcross, and been a coward. Ingra? One of the men? <doc-sep>He became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground carwas racing along the road. He spun around and was caught in the glareof its blinding driving-light, as it bumped to a slithering stop. Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. Svan! They're coming! They foundthe guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan,with those frightful guns. They fired at us, but we got away and camefor you. We must flee! He stared unseeingly at the light. Go away! he croaked unbelievingly.Then his muscles jerked into action. The time was almost up—the bombin the car— Go away! he shrieked, and turned to run. His fists clenched andswinging at his side, he made a dozen floundering steps beforesomething immense pounded at him from behind. He felt himself liftedfrom the road, sailing, swooping, dropping with annihilating forceonto the hard, charred earth of the clearing. Only then did he hear thesound of the explosion, and as the immense echoes died away he began tofeel the pain seeping into him from his hideously racked body.... The Flight Surgeon rose from beside him. He's still alive, he saidcallously to Lowry, who had just come up. It won't last long, though.What've you got there? Lowry, a bewildered expression on his beardless face, held out the twohalves of a metallic sphere. Dangling ends of wires showed where aconnection had been broken. He had a bomb, he said. A magnetic-type,delayed-action atomite bomb. There must have been another in the car,and it went off. They—they were planning to bomb us. Amazing, the surgeon said dryly. Well, they won't do any bombingnow. Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.The surgeon, seeing the shudder, grasped his shoulder. Better them than us, he said. It's poetic justice if I ever saw it.They had it coming.... He paused thoughtfully, staring at a piece ofpaper between his fingers. This is the only part I don't get, he said. What's that? Lowry craned his neck. A piece of paper with a cross onit? What about it? The surgeon shrugged. He had it clenched in his hand, he said. Hadthe devil of a time getting it loose from him. He turned it overslowly, displayed the other side. Now what in the world would he bedoing carrying a scrap of paper with a cross marked on both sides? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Svan, a leader of members in the Council on Venus, plots to revolt against the Earthman delegations who are going to bring back the news of the habitability of Venus. Initially, he eavesdrops on the conversation between the Office of the Deck and the Executive Officer, which is about the untrustworthiness of Venusians, the descendants of the first generation of Earthman who migrated to Venus. Svan then initiates a revolting plan against the Earthman.By showing this conversation to the group, Svan convinces the members to conduct his plan of not letting the Earthman ship go back to the Earth. In his plan, they will drive near the ship, five people will cause some chaos to attract the guards, and one person will put the delayed-action atomite bomb on the ship. They draw lots to determine when they decide who will put the bomb. However, Svan finds that no one admits to being the one, so he draws a cross on his slip, pretending to be the one who has terrible luck. After assigning the tasks to each person, Svan and his members drive to cross the border, where Svan brings down a native guard. When they separate to let one group cause the commotion and let Svan put the bomb, Svan takes out one bomb and leaves another one in the car. He knows that the bomb on the car will explode and attract the Earthman guards, which is unknown by the other members. He sees the car leave and turns to wait for the explosion. But the car comes back because the native guards found the rifle left by the murdered guard. The members in the car try to pick up Svan to flee from the search of the Earthman when Svan tries his best to run away. The explosion happens. Svan is on the verge of death when the Office of the Deck and the Executive Officer come to see him. They find a slip with a cross drawn on both sides in his hand.

Who is Ingra? What happens to her throughout the story? [SEP] <s> DOUBLECROSS by JAMES Mac CREIGH Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the descendant of the first Earthmen to land. Svan was the leader making the final plans—plotting them a bit too well. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The Officer of the Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock.There was no reason why everything shouldn't have been functioningperfectly, of course, but he was pleased to have it confirmed, all thesame. The Executive Officer was moodily smoking a cigarette in the openlock, staring out over the dank Venusian terrain at the native town. Heturned. Everything shipshape, I take it! he commented. The OD nodded. I'll have a blank log if this keeps up, he said.Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, driversready to lift as soon as they come back. The Exec tossed away his cigarette. If they come back. Is there any question? The Exec shrugged. I don't know, Lowry, he said. This is a funnyplace. I don't trust the natives. Lowry lifted his eyebrows. Oh? But after all, they're human beings,just like us— Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don'teven look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them. Acclimation, Lowry said scientifically. They had to acclimatethemselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough. The Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were theoutskirts of the native city, dimly visible through the ever-presentVenusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards fromthe Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashionedproton-rifles slung over their backs. A few natives were gazingwonderingly at the great ship, but made no move to pass the line ofguards. Of course, Lowry said suddenly, there's a minority who are afraidof us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives.They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that weknow Venus is habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry undergroundgroup that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive thenative Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, thatis—right down into the mud. Well— he laughed—maybe they will.After all, the fittest survive. That's a basic law of— The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallicvoice rasped: Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instrumentsreports a spy ray focused on the main lock! Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back andstared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sureenough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. Hesnatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it.Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party! Buteven while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenlyand went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to the Exec. The Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, You see! <doc-sep>You see? Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The fiveothers in the room looked apprehensive. You see? Svan repeated. Fromtheir own mouths you have heard it. The Council was right. The younger of the two women sighed. She might have been beautiful, inspite of her dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on herhead. Svan, I'm afraid, she said. Who are we to decide if thisis a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will betrouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood. Svan laughed harshly. They don't think so. You heard them. We arenot human any more. The officer said it. The other woman spoke unexpectedly. The Council was right, sheagreed. Svan, what must we do? Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. One moment. Ingra, do you stillobject? The younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She lookedaround at the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visiblyconvinced by Svan. No, she said slowly. I do not object. And the rest of us? Does any of us object? Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture ofassent. Good, said Svan. Then we must act. The Council has told us that wealone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if theEarth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must notreturn. An old man shifted restlessly. But they are strong, Svan, hecomplained. They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay. Svan nodded. No. They will leave. But they will never get back toEarth. Never get back to Earth? the old man gasped. Has the Councilauthorized—murder? Svan shrugged. The Council did not know what we would face. TheCouncilmen could not come to the city and see what strength theEarth-ship has. He paused dangerously. Toller, he said, do youobject? Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice wasdull. What is your plan? he asked. Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at hisfeet, held up a shiny metal globe. One of us will plant this in theship. It will be set by means of this dial— he touched a spot on thesurface of the globe with a pallid finger—to do nothing for fortyhours. Then—it will explode. Atomite. He grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grinfaded uncertainly as he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty,irresolution. Abruptly he set the bomb down, savagely ripped six leavesoff a writing tablet on the table next him. He took a pencil and made amark on one of them, held it up. We will let chance decide who is to do the work, he said angrily. Isthere anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think.... No answer. Svan jerked his head. Good, he said. Ingra, bring me thatbowl. Silently the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad armof her chair. It had held Venus-tobacco cigarettes; there were a fewleft. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidlycreasing the six fatal slips. He dropped them in the bowl, stirred itwith his hand, offered it to the girl. You first, Ingra, he said. She reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slipand held it without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svanhimself took the last. All eyes were on him. No one had looked at theirslips. Svan, too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them.This is the plan, he said. We will go, all six of us, in my groundcar, to look at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole cityhas been to see it already. One will get out, at the best point we canfind. It is almost dusk now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation.The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with thecar—perhaps it will run off the road, start to sink in the swamp. Theguards will be called. There will be commotion—that is easy enough,after all; a hysterical woman, a few screams, that's all there is toit. And the sixth person will have his chance to steal to the sideof the ship. The bomb is magnetic. It will not be noticed in thedark—they will take off before sunrise, because they must travel awayfrom the sun to return—in forty hours the danger is removed. There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still thatuncertainty. Impatiently, he crackled: Look at the slips! Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled.Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over,striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing.... And his eyes saw nothing. The slip was blank. He gave it but a second'sglance, then looked up to see who had won the lethal game of chance.Almost he was disappointed. Each of the others had looked in that same second. And each was lookingup now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosenone to announce it—a second, ten seconds.... Then gray understanding came to him. A traitor! his subconsciouswhispered. A coward! He stared at them in a new light, saw theirindecision magnified, became opposition. Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was acoward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any mightbe the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspectingevery one, but—suppose the coward, cornered, fought back? In fractionsof a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision.Masked by the table, his hand, still holding the pencil, moved swiftlybeneath the table, marked his own slip. In the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked insecret. His voice was very tired as he said, I will plant the bomb. <doc-sep>The six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along themain street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed exceptfor deceptively flimsy-looking pistols at their hips, stood before theentrance to the town's Hall of Justice. Good, said Svan, observing them. The delegation is still here. Wehave ample time. He half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searchingthe faces of the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered.Ingra? Her aunt? One of the men? The right answer leaped up at him. They all are , he thought. Not oneof them understands what this means. They're afraid. He clamped his lips. Go faster, Ingra, he ordered the girl who wasdriving. Let's get this done with. She looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in hereyes. Silently she nodded, advanced the fuel-handle so that the clumsycar jolted a trace more rapidly over the corduroy road. It was quitedark now. The car's driving light flared yellowishly in front of them,illuminating the narrow road and the pale, distorted vegetation of thejungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. Thepresent shower would deepen and intensify until midnight, then fall offagain, to halt before morning. But before then they would be done. A proton-bolt lanced across the road in front of them. In the silencethat followed its thunderous crash, a man's voice bellowed: Halt! The girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on thebrakes. A Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on themfrom the side of the road, proton-rifle held ready to fire again. Where are you going? he growled. Svan spoke up. We want to look at the Earth-ship, he said. He openedthe door beside him and stepped out, careless of the drizzle. We heardit was leaving tonight, he continued, and we have not seen it. Isthat not permitted? The guard shook his head sourly. No one is allowed near the ship. Theorder was just issued. It is thought there is danger. Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. Itis urgent, he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in acomplicated gesture. Do you understand? Confusion furrowed the guard's hairless brows, then was replaced bya sudden flare of understanding—and fear. The Council! he roared.By heaven, yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this—He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan wasfaster. His gamble had failed; there was only one course remaining.He hurled his gross white bulk at the guard, bowled him over againstthe splintery logs of the road. The proton-rifle went flying, and Svansavagely tore at the throat of the guard. Knees, elbows and claw-likenails—Svan battered at the astonished man with every ounce of strengthin his body. The guard was as big as Svan, but Svan had the initialadvantage ... and it was only a matter of seconds before the guardlay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan hadruthlessly pounded it against the road. Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally. Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save thepetrified five and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously,then reached down and heaved on the senseless body of the guard. Overthe shoulder of the road the body went, onto the damp swampland of thejungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would beno trace. Svan strode back to the car. Hurry up, he gasped to the girl. Nowthere is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keepa watch for other guards. <doc-sep>Venus has no moon, and no star can shine through its vast cloud layer.Ensign Lowry, staring anxiously out through the astro-dome in the bowof the Earth-ship, cursed the blackness. Can't see a thing, he complained to the Exec, steadily writing awayat the computer's table. Look—are those lights over there? The Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. Probably the guards. Ofcourse, you can't tell. Might be a raiding party. Lowry, stung, looked to see if the Exec was smiling, but found noanswer in his stolid face. Don't joke about it, he said. Supposesomething happens to the delegation? Then we're in the soup, the Exec said philosophically. I told youthe natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for thelast three hundred years. It isn't all the natives, Lowry said. Look how they've doubled theguard around us. The administration is co-operating every way theyknow how. You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's thissecret group they call the Council. And how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it? theExec retorted. They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's goneout now. Must have been the guard. They're on the wrong side to becoming from the town, anyhow.... <doc-sep>Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned thelights out and stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartmentunder the seat. If he took a little longer than seemed necessary to getthe atomite bomb out of the compartment, none of the others noticed.Certainly it did not occur to them that there had been two bombs inthe compartment, though Svan's hand emerged with only one. He got out of the car, holding the sphere. This will do for me, hesaid. They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—wewere wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do? Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. We must circle backagain, she parroted. We are to wait five minutes, then drive the carinto the swamp. We will create a commotion, attract the guards. Svan, listening, thought: It's not much of a plan. The guards wouldnot be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. Ifthey must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve apurpose. Aloud, he said, You understand. If I get through, I will return to thecity on foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, becausethe bomb will not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember,you are in no danger from the guards. From the guards , his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they wouldfeel no pain, never know what happened. With the amount of atomite inthat bomb in the compartment, they would merely be obliterated in aground-shaking crash. Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently countingoff the seconds. Go ahead, he ordered. I will wait here. Svan. The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reachedfor him, kissed him. Good luck to you, Svan, she said. Good luck, repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor ofthe car took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around,sent it lumbering back down the road. Only after she had traveled a fewhundred feet by the feel of the road did she turn the lights on again. Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean?Was it an error that the girl should die with the others? There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it wasdriven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. Andsince he could not know which was the one who had received the markedslip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die. He advanced along the midnight road to where the ground rose and thejungle plants thinned out. Ahead, on an elevation, were the rain-dimmedlights of the Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made byits own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circlingfigures of sentries, and knew that these would be the ship's own.They would not be as easily overcome as the natives, not with thoseslim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to theside of the ship. Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance.He had perhaps three minutes to wait; he reckoned. His fingers wentabsently to the pouch in his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. Heturned it over without looking at it, wondering who had drawn the firstcross, and been a coward. Ingra? One of the men? <doc-sep>He became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground carwas racing along the road. He spun around and was caught in the glareof its blinding driving-light, as it bumped to a slithering stop. Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. Svan! They're coming! They foundthe guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan,with those frightful guns. They fired at us, but we got away and camefor you. We must flee! He stared unseeingly at the light. Go away! he croaked unbelievingly.Then his muscles jerked into action. The time was almost up—the bombin the car— Go away! he shrieked, and turned to run. His fists clenched andswinging at his side, he made a dozen floundering steps beforesomething immense pounded at him from behind. He felt himself liftedfrom the road, sailing, swooping, dropping with annihilating forceonto the hard, charred earth of the clearing. Only then did he hear thesound of the explosion, and as the immense echoes died away he began tofeel the pain seeping into him from his hideously racked body.... The Flight Surgeon rose from beside him. He's still alive, he saidcallously to Lowry, who had just come up. It won't last long, though.What've you got there? Lowry, a bewildered expression on his beardless face, held out the twohalves of a metallic sphere. Dangling ends of wires showed where aconnection had been broken. He had a bomb, he said. A magnetic-type,delayed-action atomite bomb. There must have been another in the car,and it went off. They—they were planning to bomb us. Amazing, the surgeon said dryly. Well, they won't do any bombingnow. Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.The surgeon, seeing the shudder, grasped his shoulder. Better them than us, he said. It's poetic justice if I ever saw it.They had it coming.... He paused thoughtfully, staring at a piece ofpaper between his fingers. This is the only part I don't get, he said. What's that? Lowry craned his neck. A piece of paper with a cross onit? What about it? The surgeon shrugged. He had it clenched in his hand, he said. Hadthe devil of a time getting it loose from him. He turned it overslowly, displayed the other side. Now what in the world would he bedoing carrying a scrap of paper with a cross marked on both sides? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Ingra? What happens to her throughout the story?

Ingra is one of the members in the room where Svan plans his revolt against the Earthman. She initially objects to Svan’s plan, a plan to destroy the Earthman ship with an atomite bomb, but when she sees other people agree with Svan, who is the leader of the revolting group, she takes back her objection. She hands the bowl to Svan, letting him put six slips inside to determine their futures, which is that one of them will put the bomb on the ship. She is also the first one to pick a slip. When the conspirators conduct their plans, she is the one who drives the car. She listens to Svan whenever he orders her to do something, and she kisses him when they separate to conduct different missions. After leaving Svan alone, she drives the car in the opposite direction to Svan, trying to cause a commotion. However, the Earthman guards are searching for them due to the discovery of the left rifle from the murdered Venusian, the native guard Svan killed. With no weapons to fight against the guards, Ingra drives the car back to pick up Svan, wanting to flee with him, but dies in the explosion of the vehicle.

Who is Lowry? What happens to him throughout the story? [SEP] <s> DOUBLECROSS by JAMES Mac CREIGH Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the descendant of the first Earthmen to land. Svan was the leader making the final plans—plotting them a bit too well. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The Officer of the Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock.There was no reason why everything shouldn't have been functioningperfectly, of course, but he was pleased to have it confirmed, all thesame. The Executive Officer was moodily smoking a cigarette in the openlock, staring out over the dank Venusian terrain at the native town. Heturned. Everything shipshape, I take it! he commented. The OD nodded. I'll have a blank log if this keeps up, he said.Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, driversready to lift as soon as they come back. The Exec tossed away his cigarette. If they come back. Is there any question? The Exec shrugged. I don't know, Lowry, he said. This is a funnyplace. I don't trust the natives. Lowry lifted his eyebrows. Oh? But after all, they're human beings,just like us— Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don'teven look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them. Acclimation, Lowry said scientifically. They had to acclimatethemselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough. The Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were theoutskirts of the native city, dimly visible through the ever-presentVenusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards fromthe Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashionedproton-rifles slung over their backs. A few natives were gazingwonderingly at the great ship, but made no move to pass the line ofguards. Of course, Lowry said suddenly, there's a minority who are afraidof us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives.They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that weknow Venus is habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry undergroundgroup that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive thenative Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, thatis—right down into the mud. Well— he laughed—maybe they will.After all, the fittest survive. That's a basic law of— The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallicvoice rasped: Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instrumentsreports a spy ray focused on the main lock! Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back andstared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sureenough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. Hesnatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it.Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party! Buteven while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenlyand went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to the Exec. The Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, You see! <doc-sep>You see? Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The fiveothers in the room looked apprehensive. You see? Svan repeated. Fromtheir own mouths you have heard it. The Council was right. The younger of the two women sighed. She might have been beautiful, inspite of her dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on herhead. Svan, I'm afraid, she said. Who are we to decide if thisis a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will betrouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood. Svan laughed harshly. They don't think so. You heard them. We arenot human any more. The officer said it. The other woman spoke unexpectedly. The Council was right, sheagreed. Svan, what must we do? Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. One moment. Ingra, do you stillobject? The younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She lookedaround at the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visiblyconvinced by Svan. No, she said slowly. I do not object. And the rest of us? Does any of us object? Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture ofassent. Good, said Svan. Then we must act. The Council has told us that wealone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if theEarth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must notreturn. An old man shifted restlessly. But they are strong, Svan, hecomplained. They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay. Svan nodded. No. They will leave. But they will never get back toEarth. Never get back to Earth? the old man gasped. Has the Councilauthorized—murder? Svan shrugged. The Council did not know what we would face. TheCouncilmen could not come to the city and see what strength theEarth-ship has. He paused dangerously. Toller, he said, do youobject? Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice wasdull. What is your plan? he asked. Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at hisfeet, held up a shiny metal globe. One of us will plant this in theship. It will be set by means of this dial— he touched a spot on thesurface of the globe with a pallid finger—to do nothing for fortyhours. Then—it will explode. Atomite. He grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grinfaded uncertainly as he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty,irresolution. Abruptly he set the bomb down, savagely ripped six leavesoff a writing tablet on the table next him. He took a pencil and made amark on one of them, held it up. We will let chance decide who is to do the work, he said angrily. Isthere anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think.... No answer. Svan jerked his head. Good, he said. Ingra, bring me thatbowl. Silently the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad armof her chair. It had held Venus-tobacco cigarettes; there were a fewleft. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidlycreasing the six fatal slips. He dropped them in the bowl, stirred itwith his hand, offered it to the girl. You first, Ingra, he said. She reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slipand held it without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svanhimself took the last. All eyes were on him. No one had looked at theirslips. Svan, too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them.This is the plan, he said. We will go, all six of us, in my groundcar, to look at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole cityhas been to see it already. One will get out, at the best point we canfind. It is almost dusk now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation.The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with thecar—perhaps it will run off the road, start to sink in the swamp. Theguards will be called. There will be commotion—that is easy enough,after all; a hysterical woman, a few screams, that's all there is toit. And the sixth person will have his chance to steal to the sideof the ship. The bomb is magnetic. It will not be noticed in thedark—they will take off before sunrise, because they must travel awayfrom the sun to return—in forty hours the danger is removed. There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still thatuncertainty. Impatiently, he crackled: Look at the slips! Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled.Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over,striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing.... And his eyes saw nothing. The slip was blank. He gave it but a second'sglance, then looked up to see who had won the lethal game of chance.Almost he was disappointed. Each of the others had looked in that same second. And each was lookingup now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosenone to announce it—a second, ten seconds.... Then gray understanding came to him. A traitor! his subconsciouswhispered. A coward! He stared at them in a new light, saw theirindecision magnified, became opposition. Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was acoward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any mightbe the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspectingevery one, but—suppose the coward, cornered, fought back? In fractionsof a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision.Masked by the table, his hand, still holding the pencil, moved swiftlybeneath the table, marked his own slip. In the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked insecret. His voice was very tired as he said, I will plant the bomb. <doc-sep>The six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along themain street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed exceptfor deceptively flimsy-looking pistols at their hips, stood before theentrance to the town's Hall of Justice. Good, said Svan, observing them. The delegation is still here. Wehave ample time. He half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searchingthe faces of the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered.Ingra? Her aunt? One of the men? The right answer leaped up at him. They all are , he thought. Not oneof them understands what this means. They're afraid. He clamped his lips. Go faster, Ingra, he ordered the girl who wasdriving. Let's get this done with. She looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in hereyes. Silently she nodded, advanced the fuel-handle so that the clumsycar jolted a trace more rapidly over the corduroy road. It was quitedark now. The car's driving light flared yellowishly in front of them,illuminating the narrow road and the pale, distorted vegetation of thejungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. Thepresent shower would deepen and intensify until midnight, then fall offagain, to halt before morning. But before then they would be done. A proton-bolt lanced across the road in front of them. In the silencethat followed its thunderous crash, a man's voice bellowed: Halt! The girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on thebrakes. A Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on themfrom the side of the road, proton-rifle held ready to fire again. Where are you going? he growled. Svan spoke up. We want to look at the Earth-ship, he said. He openedthe door beside him and stepped out, careless of the drizzle. We heardit was leaving tonight, he continued, and we have not seen it. Isthat not permitted? The guard shook his head sourly. No one is allowed near the ship. Theorder was just issued. It is thought there is danger. Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. Itis urgent, he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in acomplicated gesture. Do you understand? Confusion furrowed the guard's hairless brows, then was replaced bya sudden flare of understanding—and fear. The Council! he roared.By heaven, yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this—He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan wasfaster. His gamble had failed; there was only one course remaining.He hurled his gross white bulk at the guard, bowled him over againstthe splintery logs of the road. The proton-rifle went flying, and Svansavagely tore at the throat of the guard. Knees, elbows and claw-likenails—Svan battered at the astonished man with every ounce of strengthin his body. The guard was as big as Svan, but Svan had the initialadvantage ... and it was only a matter of seconds before the guardlay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan hadruthlessly pounded it against the road. Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally. Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save thepetrified five and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously,then reached down and heaved on the senseless body of the guard. Overthe shoulder of the road the body went, onto the damp swampland of thejungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would beno trace. Svan strode back to the car. Hurry up, he gasped to the girl. Nowthere is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keepa watch for other guards. <doc-sep>Venus has no moon, and no star can shine through its vast cloud layer.Ensign Lowry, staring anxiously out through the astro-dome in the bowof the Earth-ship, cursed the blackness. Can't see a thing, he complained to the Exec, steadily writing awayat the computer's table. Look—are those lights over there? The Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. Probably the guards. Ofcourse, you can't tell. Might be a raiding party. Lowry, stung, looked to see if the Exec was smiling, but found noanswer in his stolid face. Don't joke about it, he said. Supposesomething happens to the delegation? Then we're in the soup, the Exec said philosophically. I told youthe natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for thelast three hundred years. It isn't all the natives, Lowry said. Look how they've doubled theguard around us. The administration is co-operating every way theyknow how. You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's thissecret group they call the Council. And how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it? theExec retorted. They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's goneout now. Must have been the guard. They're on the wrong side to becoming from the town, anyhow.... <doc-sep>Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned thelights out and stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartmentunder the seat. If he took a little longer than seemed necessary to getthe atomite bomb out of the compartment, none of the others noticed.Certainly it did not occur to them that there had been two bombs inthe compartment, though Svan's hand emerged with only one. He got out of the car, holding the sphere. This will do for me, hesaid. They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—wewere wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do? Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. We must circle backagain, she parroted. We are to wait five minutes, then drive the carinto the swamp. We will create a commotion, attract the guards. Svan, listening, thought: It's not much of a plan. The guards wouldnot be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. Ifthey must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve apurpose. Aloud, he said, You understand. If I get through, I will return to thecity on foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, becausethe bomb will not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember,you are in no danger from the guards. From the guards , his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they wouldfeel no pain, never know what happened. With the amount of atomite inthat bomb in the compartment, they would merely be obliterated in aground-shaking crash. Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently countingoff the seconds. Go ahead, he ordered. I will wait here. Svan. The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reachedfor him, kissed him. Good luck to you, Svan, she said. Good luck, repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor ofthe car took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around,sent it lumbering back down the road. Only after she had traveled a fewhundred feet by the feel of the road did she turn the lights on again. Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean?Was it an error that the girl should die with the others? There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it wasdriven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. Andsince he could not know which was the one who had received the markedslip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die. He advanced along the midnight road to where the ground rose and thejungle plants thinned out. Ahead, on an elevation, were the rain-dimmedlights of the Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made byits own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circlingfigures of sentries, and knew that these would be the ship's own.They would not be as easily overcome as the natives, not with thoseslim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to theside of the ship. Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance.He had perhaps three minutes to wait; he reckoned. His fingers wentabsently to the pouch in his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. Heturned it over without looking at it, wondering who had drawn the firstcross, and been a coward. Ingra? One of the men? <doc-sep>He became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground carwas racing along the road. He spun around and was caught in the glareof its blinding driving-light, as it bumped to a slithering stop. Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. Svan! They're coming! They foundthe guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan,with those frightful guns. They fired at us, but we got away and camefor you. We must flee! He stared unseeingly at the light. Go away! he croaked unbelievingly.Then his muscles jerked into action. The time was almost up—the bombin the car— Go away! he shrieked, and turned to run. His fists clenched andswinging at his side, he made a dozen floundering steps beforesomething immense pounded at him from behind. He felt himself liftedfrom the road, sailing, swooping, dropping with annihilating forceonto the hard, charred earth of the clearing. Only then did he hear thesound of the explosion, and as the immense echoes died away he began tofeel the pain seeping into him from his hideously racked body.... The Flight Surgeon rose from beside him. He's still alive, he saidcallously to Lowry, who had just come up. It won't last long, though.What've you got there? Lowry, a bewildered expression on his beardless face, held out the twohalves of a metallic sphere. Dangling ends of wires showed where aconnection had been broken. He had a bomb, he said. A magnetic-type,delayed-action atomite bomb. There must have been another in the car,and it went off. They—they were planning to bomb us. Amazing, the surgeon said dryly. Well, they won't do any bombingnow. Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.The surgeon, seeing the shudder, grasped his shoulder. Better them than us, he said. It's poetic justice if I ever saw it.They had it coming.... He paused thoughtfully, staring at a piece ofpaper between his fingers. This is the only part I don't get, he said. What's that? Lowry craned his neck. A piece of paper with a cross onit? What about it? The surgeon shrugged. He had it clenched in his hand, he said. Hadthe devil of a time getting it loose from him. He turned it overslowly, displayed the other side. Now what in the world would he bedoing carrying a scrap of paper with a cross marked on both sides? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Lowry? What happens to him throughout the story?

Lowry is the Officer of the Deck on the Earthman ship. He has a conversation with the Executive Officer on the main lock, which is eavesdropped on by Svan, the leader of a revolting group. Lowry believes that the Venusians are trustworthy since they are humans with different appearances. Still, he also believes that there may be some fights between Earthmen and Venusians when Earthmen land more colonists on Venus.When Svan, the leader of a rebellious group, and his members drive the car coming towards the ship to plant the bomb, Lowry sees the car light. He is talking to the Executive Officer by then about this secret group called the Council against the Earthman colonies. Even though the Executive Officer highly doubts the loyalty of the Venusians, Lowry still believes that Venusians can be trusted.After Svan is blown away by the explosion of the car, Lowry and a surgeon come to inspect his body. They find the pieces of the bomb. They also find a piece of paper with both sides marked with a cross in his hand. Lowery is confused about the paper's purpose, but he is sure that Svan intended to explode the Earthman ship.

What is the setting of the story? [SEP] <s> DOUBLECROSS by JAMES Mac CREIGH Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the descendant of the first Earthmen to land. Svan was the leader making the final plans—plotting them a bit too well. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The Officer of the Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock.There was no reason why everything shouldn't have been functioningperfectly, of course, but he was pleased to have it confirmed, all thesame. The Executive Officer was moodily smoking a cigarette in the openlock, staring out over the dank Venusian terrain at the native town. Heturned. Everything shipshape, I take it! he commented. The OD nodded. I'll have a blank log if this keeps up, he said.Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, driversready to lift as soon as they come back. The Exec tossed away his cigarette. If they come back. Is there any question? The Exec shrugged. I don't know, Lowry, he said. This is a funnyplace. I don't trust the natives. Lowry lifted his eyebrows. Oh? But after all, they're human beings,just like us— Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don'teven look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them. Acclimation, Lowry said scientifically. They had to acclimatethemselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough. The Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were theoutskirts of the native city, dimly visible through the ever-presentVenusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards fromthe Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashionedproton-rifles slung over their backs. A few natives were gazingwonderingly at the great ship, but made no move to pass the line ofguards. Of course, Lowry said suddenly, there's a minority who are afraidof us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives.They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that weknow Venus is habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry undergroundgroup that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive thenative Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, thatis—right down into the mud. Well— he laughed—maybe they will.After all, the fittest survive. That's a basic law of— The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallicvoice rasped: Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instrumentsreports a spy ray focused on the main lock! Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back andstared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sureenough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. Hesnatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it.Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party! Buteven while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenlyand went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to the Exec. The Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, You see! <doc-sep>You see? Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The fiveothers in the room looked apprehensive. You see? Svan repeated. Fromtheir own mouths you have heard it. The Council was right. The younger of the two women sighed. She might have been beautiful, inspite of her dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on herhead. Svan, I'm afraid, she said. Who are we to decide if thisis a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will betrouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood. Svan laughed harshly. They don't think so. You heard them. We arenot human any more. The officer said it. The other woman spoke unexpectedly. The Council was right, sheagreed. Svan, what must we do? Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. One moment. Ingra, do you stillobject? The younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She lookedaround at the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visiblyconvinced by Svan. No, she said slowly. I do not object. And the rest of us? Does any of us object? Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture ofassent. Good, said Svan. Then we must act. The Council has told us that wealone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if theEarth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must notreturn. An old man shifted restlessly. But they are strong, Svan, hecomplained. They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay. Svan nodded. No. They will leave. But they will never get back toEarth. Never get back to Earth? the old man gasped. Has the Councilauthorized—murder? Svan shrugged. The Council did not know what we would face. TheCouncilmen could not come to the city and see what strength theEarth-ship has. He paused dangerously. Toller, he said, do youobject? Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice wasdull. What is your plan? he asked. Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at hisfeet, held up a shiny metal globe. One of us will plant this in theship. It will be set by means of this dial— he touched a spot on thesurface of the globe with a pallid finger—to do nothing for fortyhours. Then—it will explode. Atomite. He grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grinfaded uncertainly as he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty,irresolution. Abruptly he set the bomb down, savagely ripped six leavesoff a writing tablet on the table next him. He took a pencil and made amark on one of them, held it up. We will let chance decide who is to do the work, he said angrily. Isthere anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think.... No answer. Svan jerked his head. Good, he said. Ingra, bring me thatbowl. Silently the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad armof her chair. It had held Venus-tobacco cigarettes; there were a fewleft. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidlycreasing the six fatal slips. He dropped them in the bowl, stirred itwith his hand, offered it to the girl. You first, Ingra, he said. She reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slipand held it without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svanhimself took the last. All eyes were on him. No one had looked at theirslips. Svan, too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them.This is the plan, he said. We will go, all six of us, in my groundcar, to look at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole cityhas been to see it already. One will get out, at the best point we canfind. It is almost dusk now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation.The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with thecar—perhaps it will run off the road, start to sink in the swamp. Theguards will be called. There will be commotion—that is easy enough,after all; a hysterical woman, a few screams, that's all there is toit. And the sixth person will have his chance to steal to the sideof the ship. The bomb is magnetic. It will not be noticed in thedark—they will take off before sunrise, because they must travel awayfrom the sun to return—in forty hours the danger is removed. There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still thatuncertainty. Impatiently, he crackled: Look at the slips! Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled.Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over,striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing.... And his eyes saw nothing. The slip was blank. He gave it but a second'sglance, then looked up to see who had won the lethal game of chance.Almost he was disappointed. Each of the others had looked in that same second. And each was lookingup now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosenone to announce it—a second, ten seconds.... Then gray understanding came to him. A traitor! his subconsciouswhispered. A coward! He stared at them in a new light, saw theirindecision magnified, became opposition. Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was acoward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any mightbe the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspectingevery one, but—suppose the coward, cornered, fought back? In fractionsof a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision.Masked by the table, his hand, still holding the pencil, moved swiftlybeneath the table, marked his own slip. In the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked insecret. His voice was very tired as he said, I will plant the bomb. <doc-sep>The six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along themain street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed exceptfor deceptively flimsy-looking pistols at their hips, stood before theentrance to the town's Hall of Justice. Good, said Svan, observing them. The delegation is still here. Wehave ample time. He half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searchingthe faces of the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered.Ingra? Her aunt? One of the men? The right answer leaped up at him. They all are , he thought. Not oneof them understands what this means. They're afraid. He clamped his lips. Go faster, Ingra, he ordered the girl who wasdriving. Let's get this done with. She looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in hereyes. Silently she nodded, advanced the fuel-handle so that the clumsycar jolted a trace more rapidly over the corduroy road. It was quitedark now. The car's driving light flared yellowishly in front of them,illuminating the narrow road and the pale, distorted vegetation of thejungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. Thepresent shower would deepen and intensify until midnight, then fall offagain, to halt before morning. But before then they would be done. A proton-bolt lanced across the road in front of them. In the silencethat followed its thunderous crash, a man's voice bellowed: Halt! The girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on thebrakes. A Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on themfrom the side of the road, proton-rifle held ready to fire again. Where are you going? he growled. Svan spoke up. We want to look at the Earth-ship, he said. He openedthe door beside him and stepped out, careless of the drizzle. We heardit was leaving tonight, he continued, and we have not seen it. Isthat not permitted? The guard shook his head sourly. No one is allowed near the ship. Theorder was just issued. It is thought there is danger. Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. Itis urgent, he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in acomplicated gesture. Do you understand? Confusion furrowed the guard's hairless brows, then was replaced bya sudden flare of understanding—and fear. The Council! he roared.By heaven, yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this—He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan wasfaster. His gamble had failed; there was only one course remaining.He hurled his gross white bulk at the guard, bowled him over againstthe splintery logs of the road. The proton-rifle went flying, and Svansavagely tore at the throat of the guard. Knees, elbows and claw-likenails—Svan battered at the astonished man with every ounce of strengthin his body. The guard was as big as Svan, but Svan had the initialadvantage ... and it was only a matter of seconds before the guardlay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan hadruthlessly pounded it against the road. Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally. Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save thepetrified five and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously,then reached down and heaved on the senseless body of the guard. Overthe shoulder of the road the body went, onto the damp swampland of thejungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would beno trace. Svan strode back to the car. Hurry up, he gasped to the girl. Nowthere is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keepa watch for other guards. <doc-sep>Venus has no moon, and no star can shine through its vast cloud layer.Ensign Lowry, staring anxiously out through the astro-dome in the bowof the Earth-ship, cursed the blackness. Can't see a thing, he complained to the Exec, steadily writing awayat the computer's table. Look—are those lights over there? The Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. Probably the guards. Ofcourse, you can't tell. Might be a raiding party. Lowry, stung, looked to see if the Exec was smiling, but found noanswer in his stolid face. Don't joke about it, he said. Supposesomething happens to the delegation? Then we're in the soup, the Exec said philosophically. I told youthe natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for thelast three hundred years. It isn't all the natives, Lowry said. Look how they've doubled theguard around us. The administration is co-operating every way theyknow how. You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's thissecret group they call the Council. And how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it? theExec retorted. They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's goneout now. Must have been the guard. They're on the wrong side to becoming from the town, anyhow.... <doc-sep>Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned thelights out and stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartmentunder the seat. If he took a little longer than seemed necessary to getthe atomite bomb out of the compartment, none of the others noticed.Certainly it did not occur to them that there had been two bombs inthe compartment, though Svan's hand emerged with only one. He got out of the car, holding the sphere. This will do for me, hesaid. They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—wewere wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do? Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. We must circle backagain, she parroted. We are to wait five minutes, then drive the carinto the swamp. We will create a commotion, attract the guards. Svan, listening, thought: It's not much of a plan. The guards wouldnot be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. Ifthey must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve apurpose. Aloud, he said, You understand. If I get through, I will return to thecity on foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, becausethe bomb will not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember,you are in no danger from the guards. From the guards , his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they wouldfeel no pain, never know what happened. With the amount of atomite inthat bomb in the compartment, they would merely be obliterated in aground-shaking crash. Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently countingoff the seconds. Go ahead, he ordered. I will wait here. Svan. The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reachedfor him, kissed him. Good luck to you, Svan, she said. Good luck, repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor ofthe car took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around,sent it lumbering back down the road. Only after she had traveled a fewhundred feet by the feel of the road did she turn the lights on again. Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean?Was it an error that the girl should die with the others? There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it wasdriven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. Andsince he could not know which was the one who had received the markedslip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die. He advanced along the midnight road to where the ground rose and thejungle plants thinned out. Ahead, on an elevation, were the rain-dimmedlights of the Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made byits own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circlingfigures of sentries, and knew that these would be the ship's own.They would not be as easily overcome as the natives, not with thoseslim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to theside of the ship. Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance.He had perhaps three minutes to wait; he reckoned. His fingers wentabsently to the pouch in his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. Heturned it over without looking at it, wondering who had drawn the firstcross, and been a coward. Ingra? One of the men? <doc-sep>He became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground carwas racing along the road. He spun around and was caught in the glareof its blinding driving-light, as it bumped to a slithering stop. Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. Svan! They're coming! They foundthe guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan,with those frightful guns. They fired at us, but we got away and camefor you. We must flee! He stared unseeingly at the light. Go away! he croaked unbelievingly.Then his muscles jerked into action. The time was almost up—the bombin the car— Go away! he shrieked, and turned to run. His fists clenched andswinging at his side, he made a dozen floundering steps beforesomething immense pounded at him from behind. He felt himself liftedfrom the road, sailing, swooping, dropping with annihilating forceonto the hard, charred earth of the clearing. Only then did he hear thesound of the explosion, and as the immense echoes died away he began tofeel the pain seeping into him from his hideously racked body.... The Flight Surgeon rose from beside him. He's still alive, he saidcallously to Lowry, who had just come up. It won't last long, though.What've you got there? Lowry, a bewildered expression on his beardless face, held out the twohalves of a metallic sphere. Dangling ends of wires showed where aconnection had been broken. He had a bomb, he said. A magnetic-type,delayed-action atomite bomb. There must have been another in the car,and it went off. They—they were planning to bomb us. Amazing, the surgeon said dryly. Well, they won't do any bombingnow. Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.The surgeon, seeing the shudder, grasped his shoulder. Better them than us, he said. It's poetic justice if I ever saw it.They had it coming.... He paused thoughtfully, staring at a piece ofpaper between his fingers. This is the only part I don't get, he said. What's that? Lowry craned his neck. A piece of paper with a cross onit? What about it? The surgeon shrugged. He had it clenched in his hand, he said. Hadthe devil of a time getting it loose from him. He turned it overslowly, displayed the other side. Now what in the world would he bedoing carrying a scrap of paper with a cross marked on both sides? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the setting of the story?

The story happens on Venus. Venus is a habitable planet with a thick layer of clouds. There are two species on Venus, one is Venusians, who are the descendants of the first generation Earthmen coming to Venus, and the other is Earthmen, who come later as a delegation to collaborate with Venusians for the future colonies. The story happens in the background of the disharmony between Earthmen and part of the Venusians. There is a secret Venusian group called the Council, where the members fear that the future Earthmen colonies will harm them and deprive them of their living spaces. Therefore, to not let the Earthmen ship bring back the news of the habitability of Venus, the Council orders Svan as a leader to conduct some rebellious plan, which starts the story.

What is the importance of the slip with a cross? [SEP] <s> DOUBLECROSS by JAMES Mac CREIGH Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the descendant of the first Earthmen to land. Svan was the leader making the final plans—plotting them a bit too well. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The Officer of the Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock.There was no reason why everything shouldn't have been functioningperfectly, of course, but he was pleased to have it confirmed, all thesame. The Executive Officer was moodily smoking a cigarette in the openlock, staring out over the dank Venusian terrain at the native town. Heturned. Everything shipshape, I take it! he commented. The OD nodded. I'll have a blank log if this keeps up, he said.Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, driversready to lift as soon as they come back. The Exec tossed away his cigarette. If they come back. Is there any question? The Exec shrugged. I don't know, Lowry, he said. This is a funnyplace. I don't trust the natives. Lowry lifted his eyebrows. Oh? But after all, they're human beings,just like us— Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don'teven look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them. Acclimation, Lowry said scientifically. They had to acclimatethemselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough. The Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were theoutskirts of the native city, dimly visible through the ever-presentVenusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards fromthe Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashionedproton-rifles slung over their backs. A few natives were gazingwonderingly at the great ship, but made no move to pass the line ofguards. Of course, Lowry said suddenly, there's a minority who are afraidof us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives.They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that weknow Venus is habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry undergroundgroup that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive thenative Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, thatis—right down into the mud. Well— he laughed—maybe they will.After all, the fittest survive. That's a basic law of— The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallicvoice rasped: Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instrumentsreports a spy ray focused on the main lock! Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back andstared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sureenough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. Hesnatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it.Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party! Buteven while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenlyand went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to the Exec. The Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, You see! <doc-sep>You see? Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The fiveothers in the room looked apprehensive. You see? Svan repeated. Fromtheir own mouths you have heard it. The Council was right. The younger of the two women sighed. She might have been beautiful, inspite of her dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on herhead. Svan, I'm afraid, she said. Who are we to decide if thisis a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will betrouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood. Svan laughed harshly. They don't think so. You heard them. We arenot human any more. The officer said it. The other woman spoke unexpectedly. The Council was right, sheagreed. Svan, what must we do? Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. One moment. Ingra, do you stillobject? The younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She lookedaround at the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visiblyconvinced by Svan. No, she said slowly. I do not object. And the rest of us? Does any of us object? Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture ofassent. Good, said Svan. Then we must act. The Council has told us that wealone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if theEarth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must notreturn. An old man shifted restlessly. But they are strong, Svan, hecomplained. They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay. Svan nodded. No. They will leave. But they will never get back toEarth. Never get back to Earth? the old man gasped. Has the Councilauthorized—murder? Svan shrugged. The Council did not know what we would face. TheCouncilmen could not come to the city and see what strength theEarth-ship has. He paused dangerously. Toller, he said, do youobject? Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice wasdull. What is your plan? he asked. Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at hisfeet, held up a shiny metal globe. One of us will plant this in theship. It will be set by means of this dial— he touched a spot on thesurface of the globe with a pallid finger—to do nothing for fortyhours. Then—it will explode. Atomite. He grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grinfaded uncertainly as he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty,irresolution. Abruptly he set the bomb down, savagely ripped six leavesoff a writing tablet on the table next him. He took a pencil and made amark on one of them, held it up. We will let chance decide who is to do the work, he said angrily. Isthere anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think.... No answer. Svan jerked his head. Good, he said. Ingra, bring me thatbowl. Silently the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad armof her chair. It had held Venus-tobacco cigarettes; there were a fewleft. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidlycreasing the six fatal slips. He dropped them in the bowl, stirred itwith his hand, offered it to the girl. You first, Ingra, he said. She reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slipand held it without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svanhimself took the last. All eyes were on him. No one had looked at theirslips. Svan, too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them.This is the plan, he said. We will go, all six of us, in my groundcar, to look at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole cityhas been to see it already. One will get out, at the best point we canfind. It is almost dusk now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation.The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with thecar—perhaps it will run off the road, start to sink in the swamp. Theguards will be called. There will be commotion—that is easy enough,after all; a hysterical woman, a few screams, that's all there is toit. And the sixth person will have his chance to steal to the sideof the ship. The bomb is magnetic. It will not be noticed in thedark—they will take off before sunrise, because they must travel awayfrom the sun to return—in forty hours the danger is removed. There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still thatuncertainty. Impatiently, he crackled: Look at the slips! Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled.Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over,striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing.... And his eyes saw nothing. The slip was blank. He gave it but a second'sglance, then looked up to see who had won the lethal game of chance.Almost he was disappointed. Each of the others had looked in that same second. And each was lookingup now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosenone to announce it—a second, ten seconds.... Then gray understanding came to him. A traitor! his subconsciouswhispered. A coward! He stared at them in a new light, saw theirindecision magnified, became opposition. Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was acoward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any mightbe the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspectingevery one, but—suppose the coward, cornered, fought back? In fractionsof a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision.Masked by the table, his hand, still holding the pencil, moved swiftlybeneath the table, marked his own slip. In the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked insecret. His voice was very tired as he said, I will plant the bomb. <doc-sep>The six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along themain street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed exceptfor deceptively flimsy-looking pistols at their hips, stood before theentrance to the town's Hall of Justice. Good, said Svan, observing them. The delegation is still here. Wehave ample time. He half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searchingthe faces of the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered.Ingra? Her aunt? One of the men? The right answer leaped up at him. They all are , he thought. Not oneof them understands what this means. They're afraid. He clamped his lips. Go faster, Ingra, he ordered the girl who wasdriving. Let's get this done with. She looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in hereyes. Silently she nodded, advanced the fuel-handle so that the clumsycar jolted a trace more rapidly over the corduroy road. It was quitedark now. The car's driving light flared yellowishly in front of them,illuminating the narrow road and the pale, distorted vegetation of thejungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. Thepresent shower would deepen and intensify until midnight, then fall offagain, to halt before morning. But before then they would be done. A proton-bolt lanced across the road in front of them. In the silencethat followed its thunderous crash, a man's voice bellowed: Halt! The girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on thebrakes. A Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on themfrom the side of the road, proton-rifle held ready to fire again. Where are you going? he growled. Svan spoke up. We want to look at the Earth-ship, he said. He openedthe door beside him and stepped out, careless of the drizzle. We heardit was leaving tonight, he continued, and we have not seen it. Isthat not permitted? The guard shook his head sourly. No one is allowed near the ship. Theorder was just issued. It is thought there is danger. Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. Itis urgent, he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in acomplicated gesture. Do you understand? Confusion furrowed the guard's hairless brows, then was replaced bya sudden flare of understanding—and fear. The Council! he roared.By heaven, yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this—He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan wasfaster. His gamble had failed; there was only one course remaining.He hurled his gross white bulk at the guard, bowled him over againstthe splintery logs of the road. The proton-rifle went flying, and Svansavagely tore at the throat of the guard. Knees, elbows and claw-likenails—Svan battered at the astonished man with every ounce of strengthin his body. The guard was as big as Svan, but Svan had the initialadvantage ... and it was only a matter of seconds before the guardlay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan hadruthlessly pounded it against the road. Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally. Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save thepetrified five and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously,then reached down and heaved on the senseless body of the guard. Overthe shoulder of the road the body went, onto the damp swampland of thejungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would beno trace. Svan strode back to the car. Hurry up, he gasped to the girl. Nowthere is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keepa watch for other guards. <doc-sep>Venus has no moon, and no star can shine through its vast cloud layer.Ensign Lowry, staring anxiously out through the astro-dome in the bowof the Earth-ship, cursed the blackness. Can't see a thing, he complained to the Exec, steadily writing awayat the computer's table. Look—are those lights over there? The Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. Probably the guards. Ofcourse, you can't tell. Might be a raiding party. Lowry, stung, looked to see if the Exec was smiling, but found noanswer in his stolid face. Don't joke about it, he said. Supposesomething happens to the delegation? Then we're in the soup, the Exec said philosophically. I told youthe natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for thelast three hundred years. It isn't all the natives, Lowry said. Look how they've doubled theguard around us. The administration is co-operating every way theyknow how. You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's thissecret group they call the Council. And how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it? theExec retorted. They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's goneout now. Must have been the guard. They're on the wrong side to becoming from the town, anyhow.... <doc-sep>Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned thelights out and stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartmentunder the seat. If he took a little longer than seemed necessary to getthe atomite bomb out of the compartment, none of the others noticed.Certainly it did not occur to them that there had been two bombs inthe compartment, though Svan's hand emerged with only one. He got out of the car, holding the sphere. This will do for me, hesaid. They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—wewere wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do? Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. We must circle backagain, she parroted. We are to wait five minutes, then drive the carinto the swamp. We will create a commotion, attract the guards. Svan, listening, thought: It's not much of a plan. The guards wouldnot be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. Ifthey must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve apurpose. Aloud, he said, You understand. If I get through, I will return to thecity on foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, becausethe bomb will not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember,you are in no danger from the guards. From the guards , his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they wouldfeel no pain, never know what happened. With the amount of atomite inthat bomb in the compartment, they would merely be obliterated in aground-shaking crash. Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently countingoff the seconds. Go ahead, he ordered. I will wait here. Svan. The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reachedfor him, kissed him. Good luck to you, Svan, she said. Good luck, repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor ofthe car took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around,sent it lumbering back down the road. Only after she had traveled a fewhundred feet by the feel of the road did she turn the lights on again. Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean?Was it an error that the girl should die with the others? There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it wasdriven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. Andsince he could not know which was the one who had received the markedslip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die. He advanced along the midnight road to where the ground rose and thejungle plants thinned out. Ahead, on an elevation, were the rain-dimmedlights of the Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made byits own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circlingfigures of sentries, and knew that these would be the ship's own.They would not be as easily overcome as the natives, not with thoseslim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to theside of the ship. Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance.He had perhaps three minutes to wait; he reckoned. His fingers wentabsently to the pouch in his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. Heturned it over without looking at it, wondering who had drawn the firstcross, and been a coward. Ingra? One of the men? <doc-sep>He became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground carwas racing along the road. He spun around and was caught in the glareof its blinding driving-light, as it bumped to a slithering stop. Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. Svan! They're coming! They foundthe guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan,with those frightful guns. They fired at us, but we got away and camefor you. We must flee! He stared unseeingly at the light. Go away! he croaked unbelievingly.Then his muscles jerked into action. The time was almost up—the bombin the car— Go away! he shrieked, and turned to run. His fists clenched andswinging at his side, he made a dozen floundering steps beforesomething immense pounded at him from behind. He felt himself liftedfrom the road, sailing, swooping, dropping with annihilating forceonto the hard, charred earth of the clearing. Only then did he hear thesound of the explosion, and as the immense echoes died away he began tofeel the pain seeping into him from his hideously racked body.... The Flight Surgeon rose from beside him. He's still alive, he saidcallously to Lowry, who had just come up. It won't last long, though.What've you got there? Lowry, a bewildered expression on his beardless face, held out the twohalves of a metallic sphere. Dangling ends of wires showed where aconnection had been broken. He had a bomb, he said. A magnetic-type,delayed-action atomite bomb. There must have been another in the car,and it went off. They—they were planning to bomb us. Amazing, the surgeon said dryly. Well, they won't do any bombingnow. Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.The surgeon, seeing the shudder, grasped his shoulder. Better them than us, he said. It's poetic justice if I ever saw it.They had it coming.... He paused thoughtfully, staring at a piece ofpaper between his fingers. This is the only part I don't get, he said. What's that? Lowry craned his neck. A piece of paper with a cross onit? What about it? The surgeon shrugged. He had it clenched in his hand, he said. Hadthe devil of a time getting it loose from him. He turned it overslowly, displayed the other side. Now what in the world would he bedoing carrying a scrap of paper with a cross marked on both sides? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the importance of the slip with a cross?

The slip with a cross is used to determine who will be the one to plant the bomb on the ship when Svan, the leader of a rebellious group, assign tasks to each person. However, during the process of drawing lots, when the person who gets the slip with a cross on it should reveal oneself to accept the task, no one admits because Svan, who receives the slip, didn’t see the cross on the other side of the paper. As a result, he mistakenly thinks that the person who received the slip is a coward that does not want to do the task, so he secretly marks another cross on his paper and accepts the mission.This misunderstanding of no one accepting the task drives Svan to suspect all the other members as disloyal and cowardly, leading him to decide to put one bomb on the car. He is so furious that he wants them to die for their disloyalty and cowardice while serving as an attraction to the guards. However, when the plan does not go well, and the members come back to seek him, he unavoidably suffers from his deed. The paper is later found to have a cross on both sides, which forms an irony of Svan's behaviors. Ironically, Svan’s suspicion of other people causes their death when he is the real traitor.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> GOURMET By ALLEN KIM LANG [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine April 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This was the endless problem of all spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men tomorrow on what they had eaten today! Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It'strue that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussioncan never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is achallenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughtsthat a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list. In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearingseals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. TheLimey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed intohis diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated ageonly as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmenare called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the Chlorella and Scenedesmus algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open theroad to the larger Space without. Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture inhistory—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilisto the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral withcross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to thehundred-and-first chapter of Moby Dick , a book spooled in theamusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, thatno Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment morethan a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads ofLeyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for aman condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space. The Pequod's crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men wontheir war on canned pork and beans. The Triton made her underwaterperiplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza andconcentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for theskies, a decline set in. The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decentfood. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezingsfrom aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to thegroundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes. <doc-sep>Long before I was a boy in Med School, itching to look at black skythrough a view-port, galley science had fulfilled the disgustingexordium of Isaiah 36:12, to feed the Slimeheads for breakfast todaywhat was day-before-yesterday's table-scraps and jakes-water. The Ship's Cook, the man who accomplishes the daily miracle of turningoffal into eatables, is in many ways the most vital man aboard aspacer. He can make morale or foment a mutiny. His power is paramount.Slimeheads remember the H. M. S. Ajax fiasco, for example, in which agalleyman leveled his Chlorella tanks with heavy water from the ship'sshielding. Four officers and twenty-one Other Ranks were rescued fromthe Ajax in deep space, half dead from deuterium poisoning. We thinkof the Benjo Maru incident, too, caused by a Ship's Cook who allowedhis algaeal staff-of-life to become contaminated with a fast-growing Saccharomycodes yeast. The Japanese vessel staggered to her pad atPiano West after a twenty-week drunk: the alien yeast had got intothe stomach of every man aboard, where it fermented each subsequentbite he ate to a superior grade of sake . And for a third footnote tothe ancient observation, God sends food, and the Devil sends cooks,Marsmen will recall what happened aboard my ship the Charles PartlowSale . The Sale blasted off from Brady Station in the middle of August, duein at Piano West in early May. In no special hurry, we were takingthe low-energy route to Mars, a pathway about as long in time as thehuman period of gestation. Our cargo consisted mostly of Tien-Shen firseedlings and some tons of an arctic grass-seed—these to be plantedin the maria to squeeze out the native blue bugberry vines. We hadaboard the Registry minimum of six men and three officers. Ship'sSurgeon was myself, Paul Vilanova. Our Captain was Willy Winkelmann,the hardest man in space and very likely the fattest. Ship's Cook wasRobert Bailey. Cooking aboard a spacer is a job combining the more frustratingtensions of biochemistry, applied mycology, high-speed farming,dietetics and sewage engineering. It's the Cook's responsibility tosee that each man aboard gets each day no less than five pounds ofwater, two pounds of oxygen, and one-and-a-half pounds of dry food.This isn't just a paragraph from the Spacer Union Contract. It's astatement of the least fuel a man can run on. Twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the cargocompartments to bursting, and left a small ship like the C. P. Sale no reason to reach for Mars. By allowing a colony of Chlorella algae towork over our used air, water and other effluvia, though, three tonsof metabolites would see us through from Brady Station to Piano Westand back. Recycling was the answer. The molecule of carbohydrate, fat,protein or mineral that didn't feed the crew fed the algae. And thealgae fed us. All waste was used to fertilize our liquid fields. Even the stubblefrom our 2,680 shaves and the clippings from our 666 haircuts en routeand back would be fed into the Chlorella tanks. Human hair is rich inessential amino acids. The algae—dried by the Cook, bleached with methyl alcohol to kill thesmell and make the residue more digestible, disguised and seasoned in ahundred ways—served as a sort of meat-and-potatoes that never quitewore out. Our air and water were equally immortal. Each molecule ofoxygen would be conversant with the alveoli of every man aboard by theend of our trip. Every drop of water would have been intimate with theglomeruli of each kidney on the ship before we grounded in. Groundlingpoliticians are right enough when they say that we spacers are abreed apart. We're the one race of men who can't afford the luxury ofsqueamishness. <doc-sep>Though I'm signed aboard as Ship's Surgeon, I seldom lift a knifein space. My employment is more in the nature of TS-card-puncherextraordinary. My duties are to serve as wailing-wall, morale officer,guardian of the medicinal whiskey and frustrator of mutual murder.Generally the man aboard who'd serve as the most popular murder-victimis the Cook. This trip, the-man-you-love-to-hate was our Captain. If the Cook hadn't problems enough with the chemical and psychic dutiesof his office, Winkelmann supplied the want. Captain Willy Winkelmannwas the sort of man who, if he had to go into space at all, had best doso alone. If the Prussians had a Marine Corps, Winkelmann would havedone splendidly as Drill Instructor for their boot camp. His heartwas a chip of helium ice, his voice dripped sarcastic acid. The planetEarth was hardly large enough to accommodate a wart as annoying asWilly Winkelmann. Cheek-by-jowl every day in a nacelle the size of aPullman car, our Captain quickly established himself as a major socialhemorrhoid. The Captain's particular patsy was, of course, young Bailey the Cook.It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, Bailey,Robert, on Ship's Articles. He at once renamed our unfortunateshipmate Belly-Robber. It was Winkelmann who discussed hautcuisine and the properties of the nobler wines while we munched ouralgaeburgers and sipped coffee that tasted of utility water. And it wasCaptain Willy Winkelmann who never referred to the ship's head by anyother name than The Kitchen Cabinet. Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the tasteof synthetic methionine—an essential amino acid not synthesized byChlorella—by seasoning our algaeal repasts with pinches of oreganoand thyme. He tinted the pale-green dollops of pressed Chlorella pink,textured the mass to the consistency of hamburger and toasted theslabs to a delicate brown in a forlorn attempt to make mock-meat.For dessert, he served a fudge compounded from the dextrose-paste ofthe carbohydrate recycler. The crew thanked him. The Captain did not.Belly-Robber, he said, his tone icy as winter wind off the North Sea,you had best cycle this mess through the tanks again. There is a punin my home country: Mensch ist was er isst. It means, you are whatyou eat. I think you are impertinent to suggest I should become this Schweinerei you are feeding me. Captain Winkelmann blotted his chinwith his napkin, heaved his bulk up from the table, and climbed up theladder from the dining-cubby. <doc-sep>Doc, do you like Winkelmann? the Cook asked me. Not much, I said. I suspect that the finest gift our Captain cangive his mother is to be absent from her on Mother's Day. But we've gotto live with him. He's a good man at driving a ship. I wish he'd leave off driving this Cook, Bailey said. The fat swine! His plumpness is an unwitting tribute to your cooking, Bailey, Isaid. He eats well. We all do. I've dined aboard a lot of spacers inmy time, and I'll testify that you set a table second to none. Bailey took a handful of dried Chlorella from a bin and fingered it. Itwas green, smelled of swamp, and looked appetizing as a bedsore. Thisis what I have to work with, he said. He tossed the stuff back intoits bin. In Ohio, which is my home country, in the presence of ladies,we'd call such garbage Horse-Leavings. You'll never make Winkelmann happy, I said. Even the simultaneousdeath of all other human beings could hardly make him smile. Keep upthe good work, though, and you'll keep our Captain fat. Bailey nodded from his one-man cloud of gloom. I got a bottle of ryefrom Medical Stores and offered him a therapeutic draught. The Cookwaved my gift aside. Not now, Doc, he said. I'm thinking abouttomorrow's menu. The product of Bailey's cerebrations was on the mess table at noon thenext day. We were each served an individual head of lettuce, dressedwith something very like vinegar and oil, spiced with tiny leaves ofburnet. How Bailey had constructed those synthetic lettuces I can onlyguess: the hours spent preparing a green Chlorella paste, rolling anddrying and shaping each artificial leaf, the fitting together of nineheads like crisp, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. The pièce derésistance was again a hamburger steak; but this time the algaealmass that made it up was buried in a rich, meaty gravy that was onlyfaintly green. The essence-of-steak used in these Chlorella cutlets hadbeen sprinkled with a lavish hand. Garlic was richly in evidence. It'sso tender, the radioman joked, that I can hardly believe it's reallysteak. Bailey stared across the dining-cubby toward Winkelmann, silentlyimploring the Captain's ratification of his masterpiece. The bigman's pink cheeks bulged and jumped with his chewing. He swallowed.Belly-Robber, Winkelmann said, I had almost rather you served methis pond-scum raw than have it all mucked-up with synthetic onions andcycler-salt. <doc-sep>You seem able enough to choke down Bailey's chow, Captain, I said. Igazed at Winkelmann's form, bulbous from a lifetime of surfeit feeding. Yes, I eat it, the Captain said, taking and talking through anotherbite. But I eat only as a man in the desert will eat worms andgrasshoppers, to stay alive. Sir, what in heaven's name do you expect from me? Bailey pleaded. Only good food, Winkelmann mumbled through his mouthful of disguisedalgae. He tapped his head with a finger. This—the brain that guidesthe ship—cannot be coaxed to work on hog-slop. You understand me,Belly-Robber? Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. Yes, sir. But I reallydon't know what I can do to please you. You are a spacer and a Ship's Cook, not a suburban Hausfrau with thevapors, Winkelmann said. I do not expect from you hysterics, tantrumsor weeping. Only—can you understand this, so simple?—food that willkeep my belly content and my brain alive. Yes, sir, Bailey said, his face a picture of that offense the Britishterm Dumb Insolence. Winkelmann got up and climbed the ladder to the pilot-cubicle. Ifollowed him. Captain, I said, you're driving Bailey too hard.You're asking him to make bricks without straw. Winkelmann regarded me with his pale-blue stare. You think, Doctor,that my cruelty to the Belly-Robber is the biliousness of a middle-agedman? Frankly, I can't understand your attitude at all, I said. You accuse me of driving a man to make bricks without straw,Winkelmann said. Very well, Doctor. It is my belief that if thePharaoh's taskmaster had had my firmness of purpose, the Children ofIsrael would have made bricks with stubble. Necessity, Doctor, is themother of invention. I am Bailey's necessity. My unkindnesses make himuncomfortable, I doubt that not. But I am forcing him to experiment,to improvise, to widen the horizons of his ingenuity. He will learnsomehow to bring good food from Chlorella tanks. You're driving him too hard, Sir, I said. He'll crack. Bailey will have some fifty thousand dollars' salary waiting when weground at Brady Station, Captain Winkelmann said. So much money buysmany discomforts. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova. Crew morale on the ship.... I began. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova, Captain Winkelmann repeated. <doc-sep>Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the ellipticalpath to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiatethe appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemnedby that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain atmealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. Convey mycompliments to the Chef, please, the Captain would instruct one ofthe crew, and ask him to step down here a moment. And the Cook wouldcheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary geniusacidly called in question again. I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to gointo Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark inbrilliant galleymanship. We were served, for instance, an ersatz hotturkey supreme. The cheese-sauce was almost believable, the Chlorellaturkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacya grainy and delicious cornbread, and had extracted from his algaea lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot bread with agenuinely dairy smell. Splendid, Bailey, I said. We are not amused, said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a secondhelping of the pseudo-turkey. You are improving, Belly-Robber, butonly arithmetically. Your first efforts were so hideous as to requirea geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mereedibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you willhave learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economicsstudent. That will be all, Bailey. The crew and my fellow-officers were amused by Winkelmann's riding ofBailey; they were in addition gratified that the battle between theirCaptain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embarkon an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their lastfew days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and manymemories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men hadlost weight during the first four months in space. Winkelmann, indeed,seemed to have gained. His uniform was taut over his plump backside,and he puffed a bit up the ladders. I was considering suggesting to ourCaptain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advicethat would have stood unique in the annals of space medicine, whenWinkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook. <doc-sep>Each man aboard a spacer is allowed ten kilograms of personal effectsbesides his uniforms, these being considered Ship's Furnishing. Ashis rank and responsibility merit, the Captain is allowed double thisration. He may thus bring aboard with him some forty-five pounds ofbooks, playing-cards, knitting-wool, whiskey or what have you to helphim while away the hours between the planets. Bailey, I knew for afact, had used up his weight-allowance in bringing aboard a case ofspices: marjoram and mint, costmary, file powder, basil and allspice,and a dozen others. Captain Winkelmann was not a reader, and had brought no books. Cardsinterested him not at all, as card-playing implies a sociability aliento his nature. He never drank aboard ship. I had supposed that he'dexercised his option of returning his personal-effects weight allowanceto the owners for the consideration of one hundred dollars a kilogram.To collect the maximum allowance, spacers have been known to comeaboard their ship mother-naked. But this was not the case with Winkelmann. His personal-effectsbaggage, an unlabeled cardboard box, appeared under the table at noonmess some hundred days out from Piano West. Winkelmann rested his feeton the mysterious box as he sat to eat. What disgusting form does the ship's garbage appear in today,Belly-Robber? he asked the Cook. Bailey frowned, but kept his temper, an asceticism in which by now he'dhad much practice. I've been working on the problem of steak, Sir,he said. I think I've whipped the taste; what was left was to get thetexture steak-like. Do you understand, Sir? I understand, Winkelmann growled. You intend that your latest messshould feel like steak to the mouth, and not like baby-food. Right? Yes, Sir, Bailey said. Well, I squeezed thesteak-substrate—Chlorella, of course, with all sorts of specialseasonings—through a sieve, and blanched the strands in hot algaealoil. Then I chopped those strands to bits and rolled them out. Voila! I had something very close in texture to the muscle-fibers of genuinemeat. Remarkable, Bailey, I said. It rather throws me off my appetite to hear how you muddle about withour food, the Captain said, his jowls settling into an expression ofdistaste. It's quite all right to eat lobster, for example, but Inever cared to see the ugly beast boiled before my eyes. Detail spoilsthe meal. Bailey lifted the cover off the electric warming-pan at the center ofthe table and tenderly lifted a small steak onto each of our plates.Try it, he urged the Captain. <doc-sep>Captain Winkelmann sliced off a corner of his algaeal steak. Thecolor was an excellent medium-rare, the odor was the rich smellof fresh-broiled beef. Winkelmann bit down, chewed, swallowed. Nottoo bad, Belly-Robber, he said, nodding. Bailey grinned and bobbedhis head, his hands folded before him in an ecstasy of pleasure. Akind word from the Captain bettered the ruffles-and-flourishes of amore reasonable man. But it still needs something ... something,Winkelmann went on, slicing off another portion of the tasty Chlorella.Aha! I have it! Yes, Sir? Bailey asked. This, Belly-Robber! Winkelmann reached beneath the mess-table andripped open his cardboard carton. He brought out a bottle and unscrewedthe cap. Ketchup, he said, splattering the red juice over Bailey'smasterpiece. The scarlet burial-shroud for the failures of Cooks.Lifting a hunk of the steak, streaming ketchup, to his mouth,Winkelmann chewed. Just the thing, he smiled. Damn you! Bailey shouted. Winkelmann's smile flicked off, and his blue eyes pierced the Cook. ... Sir, Bailey added. That's better, Winkelmann said, and took another bite. He saidmeditatively, Used with caution, and only by myself, I believe I havesufficient ketchup here to see me through to Mars. Please keep abottle on the table for all my future meals, Belly-Robber. But, Sir.... Bailey began. You must realize, Belly-Robber, that a dyspeptic Captain is a threatto the welfare of his ship. Were I to continue eating your surrealisticslops for another hundred days, without the small consolation ofthis sauce I had the foresight to bring with me, I'd likely be inno condition to jet us safely down to the Piano West pad. Do youunderstand, Belly-Robber? he demanded. I understand that you're an ungrateful, impossible, square-headed,slave-driving.... Watch your noun, Winkelmann cautioned the Cook. Your adjectives areinsubordinate; your noun might prove mutinous. Captain, you've gone too far, I said. Bailey, his fists knotted, wasscarlet, his chest heaving with emotion. Doctor, I must point out to you that it ill behooves the Ship'sSurgeon to side with the Cook against the Captain, Winkelmann said. Sir, Bailey has tried hard to please you, I said. The other officersand the men have been more than satisfied with his work. That only suggests atrophy of their taste buds, Winkelmann said.Doctor, you are excused. As are you, Belly-Robber, he added. <doc-sep>Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered himto my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on mybunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metalbulkhead. You'll have that drink now, I said. No, dammit! he shouted. Orders, I said. I poured us each some fifty cc's of rye. This istherapy, Bailey, I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throatlike water and silently held out his glass for a second. I provided it. After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. Sorry, Doc, he said. You've taken more pressure than most men would, I said. Nothing tobe ashamed of. He's crazy. What sane man would expect me to dip Wiener schnitzeland sauerkraut and Backhahndl nach suddeutscher Art out of an algaetank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-outmolecules reclaimed from the head; packaged amino acid additives. Andhe expects meals that would take the blue ribbon at the annual banquetof the Friends of Escoffier! Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey, I said. You've worked yourfingers to the bone, slaving over a hot stove, and you're notappreciated. But you're not married to Winkelmann, remember. A yearfrom now you'll be home in Ohio, fifty grand richer, set to start thatrestaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman. I hate him, Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. Hereached for the bottle. I let him have it. Sometimes alcohol can bean apt confederate of vis medicatrix naturae , the healing power ofnature. Half an hour later I strapped Bailey into his bunk to sleep itoff. That therapeutic drunk seemed to be just what he'd needed. For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable inhorribleness, a pottage or boiled Chlorella vulgaris that lookedand tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey,red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann asthough daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of thedisgusting stuff to his lips, smacked and said, Belly-Robber, you'reimproving a little at last. Bailey nodded and smiled. Thank you, Sir, he said. I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses werenow strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults ofirony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that wasa price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmanntheory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captainhad pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, Ithought. Noon mess was nearly as awful as breakfast had been. The coffee tastedof salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment werevehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, forthe decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He servedthe algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galleyoblivious of the taunts of his crewmates. <doc-sep>There being only three seats in the Sale's mess compartment, we ateour meals in three shifts. That evening, going down the ladder tosupper, my nose was met with a spine-tingling barbecue tang, a smellto make a man think of gray charcoal glowing in a picnic brazier,of cicadas chirping and green grass underfoot, of the pop and hissof canned beer being church-keyed. He's done it, Doc! one of thefirst-shift diners said. It actually tastes of food! Then he's beat the Captain at his game, I said. The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks, the crewmansaid. I sat, unfolded my napkin, and looked with hope to the electricwarming-pan at the center of the table. Bailey served the three ofus with the small steaks. Each contained about a pound of driedChlorella, I judged, teasing mine with my fork. But they were drenchedin a gravy rich as the stuff grandma used to make in her black ironskillet, peppery and seasoned with courageous bits of garlic. I cuta bit from my steak and chewed it. Too tender, of course; there arelimits to art. But the pond-scum taste was gone. Bailey appeared in thegalley door. I gestured for him to join me. You've done it, Bailey,I said. Every Slimehead in orbit will thank you for this. This isactually good . Thanks, Doc, Bailey said. I smiled and took another bite. You may not realize it, Bailey; butthis is a victory for the Captain, too. He drove you to this triumph;you couldn't have done it without him. You mean he was just whipping me on, trying to make me do better?Bailey asked. He was driving you to do the impossible, I said; and you did it. OurCaptain may be a hard man, Bailey; but he did know how to coax maximumperformance out of his Ship's Cook. Bailey stood up. Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor? he asked. I thought about his question a moment. Winkelmann was good at his job.He persuaded his men by foul means, true; but it was all for the goodof the ship and his crew. Do I like Captain Winkelmann? I asked,spearing another piece of my artificial steak. Bailey, I'm afraid I'llhave to admit that I do. Bailey smiled and lifted a second steak from the warming-pan onto myplate. Then have another piece, he said. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The story first begins discussing how food is a central topic for men on ships. The Marsmen are called Slimeheads, honoring in their title the Chlorella and Scenedesmus algae that open the road to the wider space without by filling the spaces within. The Ship’s Cook is described to be the most vital man on a spacer because he is the one who turns offal into eatables. There are also instances described where the cooks have messed up and created disasters for fellow crew members, such as poisoning them. Paul Vilanova, the narrator, goes on to tell what happened on the Charles Partlow Sale. The ship is to take a low-energy route and carries various seeds of plantlife. There are the Registry minimum of six men and three officers aboard, including Paul the surgeon, Willy Winkelmann the captain, and Robert Bailey the cook. The cook is responsible for the livelihood of all the men on the ship, and the algae also helped feed the men in a way where they cannot afford the luxury of squeamishness. Although Paul is the surgeon, he rarely lifts a knife in space because his duties are more in line with serving as a morale officer and wailing-wall. Captain Winkelman is described to have a heart of helium ice and is extremely unpopular. Bailey is often his target, but he tries his best as the Ship Cook to feed everybody in a way that makes the algae somewhat appetizing. Paul admits that he does not like the Captain much, but he tells Bailey that his cooking is what keeps the captain retaining his plump figure. Bailey cooks them a luxurious meal the next day, but the captain only criticizes him. Bailey tries to ask what Captain Winkelman wants from him, and even Paul says that he is going to crack from being driven so hard. The Captain tells him that he is simply trying to widen Bailey’s horizons in terms of cooking. Bailey tries to avoid the Captain during meal time after, and Paul believes that he is the finest cook to go into the Hohmann orbit. Even though everybody is impressed by his dishes, Winkelmann still refuses to compliment him despite gaining weight from eating. When Bailey tries to convince the Captain of his food again, Winkelmann takes out a bottle of ketchup to eat with his meal. Bailey is furious, while Paul tries to cheer him up over some fifty cc’s of rye. After the therapeutic drinking, Bailey begins to cook awful looking and tasting dishes. Winkelman, ironically, tells Bailey that he is improving even though the other crew members complain. When Paul goes to visit Bailey again later, one of the crew members exclaims that the cook has managed to make the algae taste similar to real food. Paul tells him that this is the result of the Captain’s continuous pushing; he answers that he does like the Captain when Bailey asks him again.

What are some of the dishes that Bailey cooks for the crew? [SEP] <s> GOURMET By ALLEN KIM LANG [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine April 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This was the endless problem of all spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men tomorrow on what they had eaten today! Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It'strue that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussioncan never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is achallenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughtsthat a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list. In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearingseals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. TheLimey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed intohis diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated ageonly as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmenare called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the Chlorella and Scenedesmus algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open theroad to the larger Space without. Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture inhistory—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilisto the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral withcross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to thehundred-and-first chapter of Moby Dick , a book spooled in theamusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, thatno Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment morethan a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads ofLeyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for aman condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space. The Pequod's crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men wontheir war on canned pork and beans. The Triton made her underwaterperiplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza andconcentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for theskies, a decline set in. The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decentfood. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezingsfrom aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to thegroundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes. <doc-sep>Long before I was a boy in Med School, itching to look at black skythrough a view-port, galley science had fulfilled the disgustingexordium of Isaiah 36:12, to feed the Slimeheads for breakfast todaywhat was day-before-yesterday's table-scraps and jakes-water. The Ship's Cook, the man who accomplishes the daily miracle of turningoffal into eatables, is in many ways the most vital man aboard aspacer. He can make morale or foment a mutiny. His power is paramount.Slimeheads remember the H. M. S. Ajax fiasco, for example, in which agalleyman leveled his Chlorella tanks with heavy water from the ship'sshielding. Four officers and twenty-one Other Ranks were rescued fromthe Ajax in deep space, half dead from deuterium poisoning. We thinkof the Benjo Maru incident, too, caused by a Ship's Cook who allowedhis algaeal staff-of-life to become contaminated with a fast-growing Saccharomycodes yeast. The Japanese vessel staggered to her pad atPiano West after a twenty-week drunk: the alien yeast had got intothe stomach of every man aboard, where it fermented each subsequentbite he ate to a superior grade of sake . And for a third footnote tothe ancient observation, God sends food, and the Devil sends cooks,Marsmen will recall what happened aboard my ship the Charles PartlowSale . The Sale blasted off from Brady Station in the middle of August, duein at Piano West in early May. In no special hurry, we were takingthe low-energy route to Mars, a pathway about as long in time as thehuman period of gestation. Our cargo consisted mostly of Tien-Shen firseedlings and some tons of an arctic grass-seed—these to be plantedin the maria to squeeze out the native blue bugberry vines. We hadaboard the Registry minimum of six men and three officers. Ship'sSurgeon was myself, Paul Vilanova. Our Captain was Willy Winkelmann,the hardest man in space and very likely the fattest. Ship's Cook wasRobert Bailey. Cooking aboard a spacer is a job combining the more frustratingtensions of biochemistry, applied mycology, high-speed farming,dietetics and sewage engineering. It's the Cook's responsibility tosee that each man aboard gets each day no less than five pounds ofwater, two pounds of oxygen, and one-and-a-half pounds of dry food.This isn't just a paragraph from the Spacer Union Contract. It's astatement of the least fuel a man can run on. Twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the cargocompartments to bursting, and left a small ship like the C. P. Sale no reason to reach for Mars. By allowing a colony of Chlorella algae towork over our used air, water and other effluvia, though, three tonsof metabolites would see us through from Brady Station to Piano Westand back. Recycling was the answer. The molecule of carbohydrate, fat,protein or mineral that didn't feed the crew fed the algae. And thealgae fed us. All waste was used to fertilize our liquid fields. Even the stubblefrom our 2,680 shaves and the clippings from our 666 haircuts en routeand back would be fed into the Chlorella tanks. Human hair is rich inessential amino acids. The algae—dried by the Cook, bleached with methyl alcohol to kill thesmell and make the residue more digestible, disguised and seasoned in ahundred ways—served as a sort of meat-and-potatoes that never quitewore out. Our air and water were equally immortal. Each molecule ofoxygen would be conversant with the alveoli of every man aboard by theend of our trip. Every drop of water would have been intimate with theglomeruli of each kidney on the ship before we grounded in. Groundlingpoliticians are right enough when they say that we spacers are abreed apart. We're the one race of men who can't afford the luxury ofsqueamishness. <doc-sep>Though I'm signed aboard as Ship's Surgeon, I seldom lift a knifein space. My employment is more in the nature of TS-card-puncherextraordinary. My duties are to serve as wailing-wall, morale officer,guardian of the medicinal whiskey and frustrator of mutual murder.Generally the man aboard who'd serve as the most popular murder-victimis the Cook. This trip, the-man-you-love-to-hate was our Captain. If the Cook hadn't problems enough with the chemical and psychic dutiesof his office, Winkelmann supplied the want. Captain Willy Winkelmannwas the sort of man who, if he had to go into space at all, had best doso alone. If the Prussians had a Marine Corps, Winkelmann would havedone splendidly as Drill Instructor for their boot camp. His heartwas a chip of helium ice, his voice dripped sarcastic acid. The planetEarth was hardly large enough to accommodate a wart as annoying asWilly Winkelmann. Cheek-by-jowl every day in a nacelle the size of aPullman car, our Captain quickly established himself as a major socialhemorrhoid. The Captain's particular patsy was, of course, young Bailey the Cook.It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, Bailey,Robert, on Ship's Articles. He at once renamed our unfortunateshipmate Belly-Robber. It was Winkelmann who discussed hautcuisine and the properties of the nobler wines while we munched ouralgaeburgers and sipped coffee that tasted of utility water. And it wasCaptain Willy Winkelmann who never referred to the ship's head by anyother name than The Kitchen Cabinet. Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the tasteof synthetic methionine—an essential amino acid not synthesized byChlorella—by seasoning our algaeal repasts with pinches of oreganoand thyme. He tinted the pale-green dollops of pressed Chlorella pink,textured the mass to the consistency of hamburger and toasted theslabs to a delicate brown in a forlorn attempt to make mock-meat.For dessert, he served a fudge compounded from the dextrose-paste ofthe carbohydrate recycler. The crew thanked him. The Captain did not.Belly-Robber, he said, his tone icy as winter wind off the North Sea,you had best cycle this mess through the tanks again. There is a punin my home country: Mensch ist was er isst. It means, you are whatyou eat. I think you are impertinent to suggest I should become this Schweinerei you are feeding me. Captain Winkelmann blotted his chinwith his napkin, heaved his bulk up from the table, and climbed up theladder from the dining-cubby. <doc-sep>Doc, do you like Winkelmann? the Cook asked me. Not much, I said. I suspect that the finest gift our Captain cangive his mother is to be absent from her on Mother's Day. But we've gotto live with him. He's a good man at driving a ship. I wish he'd leave off driving this Cook, Bailey said. The fat swine! His plumpness is an unwitting tribute to your cooking, Bailey, Isaid. He eats well. We all do. I've dined aboard a lot of spacers inmy time, and I'll testify that you set a table second to none. Bailey took a handful of dried Chlorella from a bin and fingered it. Itwas green, smelled of swamp, and looked appetizing as a bedsore. Thisis what I have to work with, he said. He tossed the stuff back intoits bin. In Ohio, which is my home country, in the presence of ladies,we'd call such garbage Horse-Leavings. You'll never make Winkelmann happy, I said. Even the simultaneousdeath of all other human beings could hardly make him smile. Keep upthe good work, though, and you'll keep our Captain fat. Bailey nodded from his one-man cloud of gloom. I got a bottle of ryefrom Medical Stores and offered him a therapeutic draught. The Cookwaved my gift aside. Not now, Doc, he said. I'm thinking abouttomorrow's menu. The product of Bailey's cerebrations was on the mess table at noon thenext day. We were each served an individual head of lettuce, dressedwith something very like vinegar and oil, spiced with tiny leaves ofburnet. How Bailey had constructed those synthetic lettuces I can onlyguess: the hours spent preparing a green Chlorella paste, rolling anddrying and shaping each artificial leaf, the fitting together of nineheads like crisp, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. The pièce derésistance was again a hamburger steak; but this time the algaealmass that made it up was buried in a rich, meaty gravy that was onlyfaintly green. The essence-of-steak used in these Chlorella cutlets hadbeen sprinkled with a lavish hand. Garlic was richly in evidence. It'sso tender, the radioman joked, that I can hardly believe it's reallysteak. Bailey stared across the dining-cubby toward Winkelmann, silentlyimploring the Captain's ratification of his masterpiece. The bigman's pink cheeks bulged and jumped with his chewing. He swallowed.Belly-Robber, Winkelmann said, I had almost rather you served methis pond-scum raw than have it all mucked-up with synthetic onions andcycler-salt. <doc-sep>You seem able enough to choke down Bailey's chow, Captain, I said. Igazed at Winkelmann's form, bulbous from a lifetime of surfeit feeding. Yes, I eat it, the Captain said, taking and talking through anotherbite. But I eat only as a man in the desert will eat worms andgrasshoppers, to stay alive. Sir, what in heaven's name do you expect from me? Bailey pleaded. Only good food, Winkelmann mumbled through his mouthful of disguisedalgae. He tapped his head with a finger. This—the brain that guidesthe ship—cannot be coaxed to work on hog-slop. You understand me,Belly-Robber? Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. Yes, sir. But I reallydon't know what I can do to please you. You are a spacer and a Ship's Cook, not a suburban Hausfrau with thevapors, Winkelmann said. I do not expect from you hysterics, tantrumsor weeping. Only—can you understand this, so simple?—food that willkeep my belly content and my brain alive. Yes, sir, Bailey said, his face a picture of that offense the Britishterm Dumb Insolence. Winkelmann got up and climbed the ladder to the pilot-cubicle. Ifollowed him. Captain, I said, you're driving Bailey too hard.You're asking him to make bricks without straw. Winkelmann regarded me with his pale-blue stare. You think, Doctor,that my cruelty to the Belly-Robber is the biliousness of a middle-agedman? Frankly, I can't understand your attitude at all, I said. You accuse me of driving a man to make bricks without straw,Winkelmann said. Very well, Doctor. It is my belief that if thePharaoh's taskmaster had had my firmness of purpose, the Children ofIsrael would have made bricks with stubble. Necessity, Doctor, is themother of invention. I am Bailey's necessity. My unkindnesses make himuncomfortable, I doubt that not. But I am forcing him to experiment,to improvise, to widen the horizons of his ingenuity. He will learnsomehow to bring good food from Chlorella tanks. You're driving him too hard, Sir, I said. He'll crack. Bailey will have some fifty thousand dollars' salary waiting when weground at Brady Station, Captain Winkelmann said. So much money buysmany discomforts. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova. Crew morale on the ship.... I began. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova, Captain Winkelmann repeated. <doc-sep>Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the ellipticalpath to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiatethe appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemnedby that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain atmealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. Convey mycompliments to the Chef, please, the Captain would instruct one ofthe crew, and ask him to step down here a moment. And the Cook wouldcheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary geniusacidly called in question again. I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to gointo Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark inbrilliant galleymanship. We were served, for instance, an ersatz hotturkey supreme. The cheese-sauce was almost believable, the Chlorellaturkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacya grainy and delicious cornbread, and had extracted from his algaea lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot bread with agenuinely dairy smell. Splendid, Bailey, I said. We are not amused, said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a secondhelping of the pseudo-turkey. You are improving, Belly-Robber, butonly arithmetically. Your first efforts were so hideous as to requirea geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mereedibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you willhave learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economicsstudent. That will be all, Bailey. The crew and my fellow-officers were amused by Winkelmann's riding ofBailey; they were in addition gratified that the battle between theirCaptain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embarkon an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their lastfew days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and manymemories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men hadlost weight during the first four months in space. Winkelmann, indeed,seemed to have gained. His uniform was taut over his plump backside,and he puffed a bit up the ladders. I was considering suggesting to ourCaptain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advicethat would have stood unique in the annals of space medicine, whenWinkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook. <doc-sep>Each man aboard a spacer is allowed ten kilograms of personal effectsbesides his uniforms, these being considered Ship's Furnishing. Ashis rank and responsibility merit, the Captain is allowed double thisration. He may thus bring aboard with him some forty-five pounds ofbooks, playing-cards, knitting-wool, whiskey or what have you to helphim while away the hours between the planets. Bailey, I knew for afact, had used up his weight-allowance in bringing aboard a case ofspices: marjoram and mint, costmary, file powder, basil and allspice,and a dozen others. Captain Winkelmann was not a reader, and had brought no books. Cardsinterested him not at all, as card-playing implies a sociability aliento his nature. He never drank aboard ship. I had supposed that he'dexercised his option of returning his personal-effects weight allowanceto the owners for the consideration of one hundred dollars a kilogram.To collect the maximum allowance, spacers have been known to comeaboard their ship mother-naked. But this was not the case with Winkelmann. His personal-effectsbaggage, an unlabeled cardboard box, appeared under the table at noonmess some hundred days out from Piano West. Winkelmann rested his feeton the mysterious box as he sat to eat. What disgusting form does the ship's garbage appear in today,Belly-Robber? he asked the Cook. Bailey frowned, but kept his temper, an asceticism in which by now he'dhad much practice. I've been working on the problem of steak, Sir,he said. I think I've whipped the taste; what was left was to get thetexture steak-like. Do you understand, Sir? I understand, Winkelmann growled. You intend that your latest messshould feel like steak to the mouth, and not like baby-food. Right? Yes, Sir, Bailey said. Well, I squeezed thesteak-substrate—Chlorella, of course, with all sorts of specialseasonings—through a sieve, and blanched the strands in hot algaealoil. Then I chopped those strands to bits and rolled them out. Voila! I had something very close in texture to the muscle-fibers of genuinemeat. Remarkable, Bailey, I said. It rather throws me off my appetite to hear how you muddle about withour food, the Captain said, his jowls settling into an expression ofdistaste. It's quite all right to eat lobster, for example, but Inever cared to see the ugly beast boiled before my eyes. Detail spoilsthe meal. Bailey lifted the cover off the electric warming-pan at the center ofthe table and tenderly lifted a small steak onto each of our plates.Try it, he urged the Captain. <doc-sep>Captain Winkelmann sliced off a corner of his algaeal steak. Thecolor was an excellent medium-rare, the odor was the rich smellof fresh-broiled beef. Winkelmann bit down, chewed, swallowed. Nottoo bad, Belly-Robber, he said, nodding. Bailey grinned and bobbedhis head, his hands folded before him in an ecstasy of pleasure. Akind word from the Captain bettered the ruffles-and-flourishes of amore reasonable man. But it still needs something ... something,Winkelmann went on, slicing off another portion of the tasty Chlorella.Aha! I have it! Yes, Sir? Bailey asked. This, Belly-Robber! Winkelmann reached beneath the mess-table andripped open his cardboard carton. He brought out a bottle and unscrewedthe cap. Ketchup, he said, splattering the red juice over Bailey'smasterpiece. The scarlet burial-shroud for the failures of Cooks.Lifting a hunk of the steak, streaming ketchup, to his mouth,Winkelmann chewed. Just the thing, he smiled. Damn you! Bailey shouted. Winkelmann's smile flicked off, and his blue eyes pierced the Cook. ... Sir, Bailey added. That's better, Winkelmann said, and took another bite. He saidmeditatively, Used with caution, and only by myself, I believe I havesufficient ketchup here to see me through to Mars. Please keep abottle on the table for all my future meals, Belly-Robber. But, Sir.... Bailey began. You must realize, Belly-Robber, that a dyspeptic Captain is a threatto the welfare of his ship. Were I to continue eating your surrealisticslops for another hundred days, without the small consolation ofthis sauce I had the foresight to bring with me, I'd likely be inno condition to jet us safely down to the Piano West pad. Do youunderstand, Belly-Robber? he demanded. I understand that you're an ungrateful, impossible, square-headed,slave-driving.... Watch your noun, Winkelmann cautioned the Cook. Your adjectives areinsubordinate; your noun might prove mutinous. Captain, you've gone too far, I said. Bailey, his fists knotted, wasscarlet, his chest heaving with emotion. Doctor, I must point out to you that it ill behooves the Ship'sSurgeon to side with the Cook against the Captain, Winkelmann said. Sir, Bailey has tried hard to please you, I said. The other officersand the men have been more than satisfied with his work. That only suggests atrophy of their taste buds, Winkelmann said.Doctor, you are excused. As are you, Belly-Robber, he added. <doc-sep>Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered himto my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on mybunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metalbulkhead. You'll have that drink now, I said. No, dammit! he shouted. Orders, I said. I poured us each some fifty cc's of rye. This istherapy, Bailey, I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throatlike water and silently held out his glass for a second. I provided it. After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. Sorry, Doc, he said. You've taken more pressure than most men would, I said. Nothing tobe ashamed of. He's crazy. What sane man would expect me to dip Wiener schnitzeland sauerkraut and Backhahndl nach suddeutscher Art out of an algaetank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-outmolecules reclaimed from the head; packaged amino acid additives. Andhe expects meals that would take the blue ribbon at the annual banquetof the Friends of Escoffier! Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey, I said. You've worked yourfingers to the bone, slaving over a hot stove, and you're notappreciated. But you're not married to Winkelmann, remember. A yearfrom now you'll be home in Ohio, fifty grand richer, set to start thatrestaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman. I hate him, Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. Hereached for the bottle. I let him have it. Sometimes alcohol can bean apt confederate of vis medicatrix naturae , the healing power ofnature. Half an hour later I strapped Bailey into his bunk to sleep itoff. That therapeutic drunk seemed to be just what he'd needed. For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable inhorribleness, a pottage or boiled Chlorella vulgaris that lookedand tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey,red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann asthough daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of thedisgusting stuff to his lips, smacked and said, Belly-Robber, you'reimproving a little at last. Bailey nodded and smiled. Thank you, Sir, he said. I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses werenow strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults ofirony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that wasa price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmanntheory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captainhad pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, Ithought. Noon mess was nearly as awful as breakfast had been. The coffee tastedof salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment werevehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, forthe decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He servedthe algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galleyoblivious of the taunts of his crewmates. <doc-sep>There being only three seats in the Sale's mess compartment, we ateour meals in three shifts. That evening, going down the ladder tosupper, my nose was met with a spine-tingling barbecue tang, a smellto make a man think of gray charcoal glowing in a picnic brazier,of cicadas chirping and green grass underfoot, of the pop and hissof canned beer being church-keyed. He's done it, Doc! one of thefirst-shift diners said. It actually tastes of food! Then he's beat the Captain at his game, I said. The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks, the crewmansaid. I sat, unfolded my napkin, and looked with hope to the electricwarming-pan at the center of the table. Bailey served the three ofus with the small steaks. Each contained about a pound of driedChlorella, I judged, teasing mine with my fork. But they were drenchedin a gravy rich as the stuff grandma used to make in her black ironskillet, peppery and seasoned with courageous bits of garlic. I cuta bit from my steak and chewed it. Too tender, of course; there arelimits to art. But the pond-scum taste was gone. Bailey appeared in thegalley door. I gestured for him to join me. You've done it, Bailey,I said. Every Slimehead in orbit will thank you for this. This isactually good . Thanks, Doc, Bailey said. I smiled and took another bite. You may not realize it, Bailey; butthis is a victory for the Captain, too. He drove you to this triumph;you couldn't have done it without him. You mean he was just whipping me on, trying to make me do better?Bailey asked. He was driving you to do the impossible, I said; and you did it. OurCaptain may be a hard man, Bailey; but he did know how to coax maximumperformance out of his Ship's Cook. Bailey stood up. Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor? he asked. I thought about his question a moment. Winkelmann was good at his job.He persuaded his men by foul means, true; but it was all for the goodof the ship and his crew. Do I like Captain Winkelmann? I asked,spearing another piece of my artificial steak. Bailey, I'm afraid I'llhave to admit that I do. Bailey smiled and lifted a second steak from the warming-pan onto myplate. Then have another piece, he said. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are some of the dishes that Bailey cooks for the crew?

One of the first-mentioned dishes that Bailey cooks is hamburger. He tries to create this out of the algae, seasoning the food to hide the flavors. He also serves a fudge for dessert that is compounded from the dextrose-paste of the carbohydrate recycler. After speaking with Paul initially, Bailey serves a dish of hamburger steak again. There is an individual head of lettuce served, along with a steak drenched in gravy. Later, he serves them a hot turkey supreme. The cheese-sauce is very believable, whereas the turkey is white and tender even though it is made from Chlorella. When Captain Winkelmann pushes Bailey too far, he begins to create disgusting foods. One of the first dishes he serves is boiled Chlorella vulgaris that resembles vomit. The coffee at noon also tastes of salt. However, at the very end of the story, Bailey succeeds in making his Chlorella steak actually taste like food.

Who is Robert Bailey, and what are his characteristics? [SEP] <s> GOURMET By ALLEN KIM LANG [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine April 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This was the endless problem of all spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men tomorrow on what they had eaten today! Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It'strue that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussioncan never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is achallenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughtsthat a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list. In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearingseals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. TheLimey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed intohis diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated ageonly as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmenare called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the Chlorella and Scenedesmus algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open theroad to the larger Space without. Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture inhistory—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilisto the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral withcross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to thehundred-and-first chapter of Moby Dick , a book spooled in theamusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, thatno Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment morethan a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads ofLeyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for aman condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space. The Pequod's crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men wontheir war on canned pork and beans. The Triton made her underwaterperiplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza andconcentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for theskies, a decline set in. The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decentfood. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezingsfrom aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to thegroundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes. <doc-sep>Long before I was a boy in Med School, itching to look at black skythrough a view-port, galley science had fulfilled the disgustingexordium of Isaiah 36:12, to feed the Slimeheads for breakfast todaywhat was day-before-yesterday's table-scraps and jakes-water. The Ship's Cook, the man who accomplishes the daily miracle of turningoffal into eatables, is in many ways the most vital man aboard aspacer. He can make morale or foment a mutiny. His power is paramount.Slimeheads remember the H. M. S. Ajax fiasco, for example, in which agalleyman leveled his Chlorella tanks with heavy water from the ship'sshielding. Four officers and twenty-one Other Ranks were rescued fromthe Ajax in deep space, half dead from deuterium poisoning. We thinkof the Benjo Maru incident, too, caused by a Ship's Cook who allowedhis algaeal staff-of-life to become contaminated with a fast-growing Saccharomycodes yeast. The Japanese vessel staggered to her pad atPiano West after a twenty-week drunk: the alien yeast had got intothe stomach of every man aboard, where it fermented each subsequentbite he ate to a superior grade of sake . And for a third footnote tothe ancient observation, God sends food, and the Devil sends cooks,Marsmen will recall what happened aboard my ship the Charles PartlowSale . The Sale blasted off from Brady Station in the middle of August, duein at Piano West in early May. In no special hurry, we were takingthe low-energy route to Mars, a pathway about as long in time as thehuman period of gestation. Our cargo consisted mostly of Tien-Shen firseedlings and some tons of an arctic grass-seed—these to be plantedin the maria to squeeze out the native blue bugberry vines. We hadaboard the Registry minimum of six men and three officers. Ship'sSurgeon was myself, Paul Vilanova. Our Captain was Willy Winkelmann,the hardest man in space and very likely the fattest. Ship's Cook wasRobert Bailey. Cooking aboard a spacer is a job combining the more frustratingtensions of biochemistry, applied mycology, high-speed farming,dietetics and sewage engineering. It's the Cook's responsibility tosee that each man aboard gets each day no less than five pounds ofwater, two pounds of oxygen, and one-and-a-half pounds of dry food.This isn't just a paragraph from the Spacer Union Contract. It's astatement of the least fuel a man can run on. Twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the cargocompartments to bursting, and left a small ship like the C. P. Sale no reason to reach for Mars. By allowing a colony of Chlorella algae towork over our used air, water and other effluvia, though, three tonsof metabolites would see us through from Brady Station to Piano Westand back. Recycling was the answer. The molecule of carbohydrate, fat,protein or mineral that didn't feed the crew fed the algae. And thealgae fed us. All waste was used to fertilize our liquid fields. Even the stubblefrom our 2,680 shaves and the clippings from our 666 haircuts en routeand back would be fed into the Chlorella tanks. Human hair is rich inessential amino acids. The algae—dried by the Cook, bleached with methyl alcohol to kill thesmell and make the residue more digestible, disguised and seasoned in ahundred ways—served as a sort of meat-and-potatoes that never quitewore out. Our air and water were equally immortal. Each molecule ofoxygen would be conversant with the alveoli of every man aboard by theend of our trip. Every drop of water would have been intimate with theglomeruli of each kidney on the ship before we grounded in. Groundlingpoliticians are right enough when they say that we spacers are abreed apart. We're the one race of men who can't afford the luxury ofsqueamishness. <doc-sep>Though I'm signed aboard as Ship's Surgeon, I seldom lift a knifein space. My employment is more in the nature of TS-card-puncherextraordinary. My duties are to serve as wailing-wall, morale officer,guardian of the medicinal whiskey and frustrator of mutual murder.Generally the man aboard who'd serve as the most popular murder-victimis the Cook. This trip, the-man-you-love-to-hate was our Captain. If the Cook hadn't problems enough with the chemical and psychic dutiesof his office, Winkelmann supplied the want. Captain Willy Winkelmannwas the sort of man who, if he had to go into space at all, had best doso alone. If the Prussians had a Marine Corps, Winkelmann would havedone splendidly as Drill Instructor for their boot camp. His heartwas a chip of helium ice, his voice dripped sarcastic acid. The planetEarth was hardly large enough to accommodate a wart as annoying asWilly Winkelmann. Cheek-by-jowl every day in a nacelle the size of aPullman car, our Captain quickly established himself as a major socialhemorrhoid. The Captain's particular patsy was, of course, young Bailey the Cook.It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, Bailey,Robert, on Ship's Articles. He at once renamed our unfortunateshipmate Belly-Robber. It was Winkelmann who discussed hautcuisine and the properties of the nobler wines while we munched ouralgaeburgers and sipped coffee that tasted of utility water. And it wasCaptain Willy Winkelmann who never referred to the ship's head by anyother name than The Kitchen Cabinet. Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the tasteof synthetic methionine—an essential amino acid not synthesized byChlorella—by seasoning our algaeal repasts with pinches of oreganoand thyme. He tinted the pale-green dollops of pressed Chlorella pink,textured the mass to the consistency of hamburger and toasted theslabs to a delicate brown in a forlorn attempt to make mock-meat.For dessert, he served a fudge compounded from the dextrose-paste ofthe carbohydrate recycler. The crew thanked him. The Captain did not.Belly-Robber, he said, his tone icy as winter wind off the North Sea,you had best cycle this mess through the tanks again. There is a punin my home country: Mensch ist was er isst. It means, you are whatyou eat. I think you are impertinent to suggest I should become this Schweinerei you are feeding me. Captain Winkelmann blotted his chinwith his napkin, heaved his bulk up from the table, and climbed up theladder from the dining-cubby. <doc-sep>Doc, do you like Winkelmann? the Cook asked me. Not much, I said. I suspect that the finest gift our Captain cangive his mother is to be absent from her on Mother's Day. But we've gotto live with him. He's a good man at driving a ship. I wish he'd leave off driving this Cook, Bailey said. The fat swine! His plumpness is an unwitting tribute to your cooking, Bailey, Isaid. He eats well. We all do. I've dined aboard a lot of spacers inmy time, and I'll testify that you set a table second to none. Bailey took a handful of dried Chlorella from a bin and fingered it. Itwas green, smelled of swamp, and looked appetizing as a bedsore. Thisis what I have to work with, he said. He tossed the stuff back intoits bin. In Ohio, which is my home country, in the presence of ladies,we'd call such garbage Horse-Leavings. You'll never make Winkelmann happy, I said. Even the simultaneousdeath of all other human beings could hardly make him smile. Keep upthe good work, though, and you'll keep our Captain fat. Bailey nodded from his one-man cloud of gloom. I got a bottle of ryefrom Medical Stores and offered him a therapeutic draught. The Cookwaved my gift aside. Not now, Doc, he said. I'm thinking abouttomorrow's menu. The product of Bailey's cerebrations was on the mess table at noon thenext day. We were each served an individual head of lettuce, dressedwith something very like vinegar and oil, spiced with tiny leaves ofburnet. How Bailey had constructed those synthetic lettuces I can onlyguess: the hours spent preparing a green Chlorella paste, rolling anddrying and shaping each artificial leaf, the fitting together of nineheads like crisp, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. The pièce derésistance was again a hamburger steak; but this time the algaealmass that made it up was buried in a rich, meaty gravy that was onlyfaintly green. The essence-of-steak used in these Chlorella cutlets hadbeen sprinkled with a lavish hand. Garlic was richly in evidence. It'sso tender, the radioman joked, that I can hardly believe it's reallysteak. Bailey stared across the dining-cubby toward Winkelmann, silentlyimploring the Captain's ratification of his masterpiece. The bigman's pink cheeks bulged and jumped with his chewing. He swallowed.Belly-Robber, Winkelmann said, I had almost rather you served methis pond-scum raw than have it all mucked-up with synthetic onions andcycler-salt. <doc-sep>You seem able enough to choke down Bailey's chow, Captain, I said. Igazed at Winkelmann's form, bulbous from a lifetime of surfeit feeding. Yes, I eat it, the Captain said, taking and talking through anotherbite. But I eat only as a man in the desert will eat worms andgrasshoppers, to stay alive. Sir, what in heaven's name do you expect from me? Bailey pleaded. Only good food, Winkelmann mumbled through his mouthful of disguisedalgae. He tapped his head with a finger. This—the brain that guidesthe ship—cannot be coaxed to work on hog-slop. You understand me,Belly-Robber? Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. Yes, sir. But I reallydon't know what I can do to please you. You are a spacer and a Ship's Cook, not a suburban Hausfrau with thevapors, Winkelmann said. I do not expect from you hysterics, tantrumsor weeping. Only—can you understand this, so simple?—food that willkeep my belly content and my brain alive. Yes, sir, Bailey said, his face a picture of that offense the Britishterm Dumb Insolence. Winkelmann got up and climbed the ladder to the pilot-cubicle. Ifollowed him. Captain, I said, you're driving Bailey too hard.You're asking him to make bricks without straw. Winkelmann regarded me with his pale-blue stare. You think, Doctor,that my cruelty to the Belly-Robber is the biliousness of a middle-agedman? Frankly, I can't understand your attitude at all, I said. You accuse me of driving a man to make bricks without straw,Winkelmann said. Very well, Doctor. It is my belief that if thePharaoh's taskmaster had had my firmness of purpose, the Children ofIsrael would have made bricks with stubble. Necessity, Doctor, is themother of invention. I am Bailey's necessity. My unkindnesses make himuncomfortable, I doubt that not. But I am forcing him to experiment,to improvise, to widen the horizons of his ingenuity. He will learnsomehow to bring good food from Chlorella tanks. You're driving him too hard, Sir, I said. He'll crack. Bailey will have some fifty thousand dollars' salary waiting when weground at Brady Station, Captain Winkelmann said. So much money buysmany discomforts. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova. Crew morale on the ship.... I began. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova, Captain Winkelmann repeated. <doc-sep>Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the ellipticalpath to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiatethe appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemnedby that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain atmealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. Convey mycompliments to the Chef, please, the Captain would instruct one ofthe crew, and ask him to step down here a moment. And the Cook wouldcheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary geniusacidly called in question again. I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to gointo Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark inbrilliant galleymanship. We were served, for instance, an ersatz hotturkey supreme. The cheese-sauce was almost believable, the Chlorellaturkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacya grainy and delicious cornbread, and had extracted from his algaea lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot bread with agenuinely dairy smell. Splendid, Bailey, I said. We are not amused, said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a secondhelping of the pseudo-turkey. You are improving, Belly-Robber, butonly arithmetically. Your first efforts were so hideous as to requirea geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mereedibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you willhave learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economicsstudent. That will be all, Bailey. The crew and my fellow-officers were amused by Winkelmann's riding ofBailey; they were in addition gratified that the battle between theirCaptain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embarkon an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their lastfew days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and manymemories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men hadlost weight during the first four months in space. Winkelmann, indeed,seemed to have gained. His uniform was taut over his plump backside,and he puffed a bit up the ladders. I was considering suggesting to ourCaptain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advicethat would have stood unique in the annals of space medicine, whenWinkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook. <doc-sep>Each man aboard a spacer is allowed ten kilograms of personal effectsbesides his uniforms, these being considered Ship's Furnishing. Ashis rank and responsibility merit, the Captain is allowed double thisration. He may thus bring aboard with him some forty-five pounds ofbooks, playing-cards, knitting-wool, whiskey or what have you to helphim while away the hours between the planets. Bailey, I knew for afact, had used up his weight-allowance in bringing aboard a case ofspices: marjoram and mint, costmary, file powder, basil and allspice,and a dozen others. Captain Winkelmann was not a reader, and had brought no books. Cardsinterested him not at all, as card-playing implies a sociability aliento his nature. He never drank aboard ship. I had supposed that he'dexercised his option of returning his personal-effects weight allowanceto the owners for the consideration of one hundred dollars a kilogram.To collect the maximum allowance, spacers have been known to comeaboard their ship mother-naked. But this was not the case with Winkelmann. His personal-effectsbaggage, an unlabeled cardboard box, appeared under the table at noonmess some hundred days out from Piano West. Winkelmann rested his feeton the mysterious box as he sat to eat. What disgusting form does the ship's garbage appear in today,Belly-Robber? he asked the Cook. Bailey frowned, but kept his temper, an asceticism in which by now he'dhad much practice. I've been working on the problem of steak, Sir,he said. I think I've whipped the taste; what was left was to get thetexture steak-like. Do you understand, Sir? I understand, Winkelmann growled. You intend that your latest messshould feel like steak to the mouth, and not like baby-food. Right? Yes, Sir, Bailey said. Well, I squeezed thesteak-substrate—Chlorella, of course, with all sorts of specialseasonings—through a sieve, and blanched the strands in hot algaealoil. Then I chopped those strands to bits and rolled them out. Voila! I had something very close in texture to the muscle-fibers of genuinemeat. Remarkable, Bailey, I said. It rather throws me off my appetite to hear how you muddle about withour food, the Captain said, his jowls settling into an expression ofdistaste. It's quite all right to eat lobster, for example, but Inever cared to see the ugly beast boiled before my eyes. Detail spoilsthe meal. Bailey lifted the cover off the electric warming-pan at the center ofthe table and tenderly lifted a small steak onto each of our plates.Try it, he urged the Captain. <doc-sep>Captain Winkelmann sliced off a corner of his algaeal steak. Thecolor was an excellent medium-rare, the odor was the rich smellof fresh-broiled beef. Winkelmann bit down, chewed, swallowed. Nottoo bad, Belly-Robber, he said, nodding. Bailey grinned and bobbedhis head, his hands folded before him in an ecstasy of pleasure. Akind word from the Captain bettered the ruffles-and-flourishes of amore reasonable man. But it still needs something ... something,Winkelmann went on, slicing off another portion of the tasty Chlorella.Aha! I have it! Yes, Sir? Bailey asked. This, Belly-Robber! Winkelmann reached beneath the mess-table andripped open his cardboard carton. He brought out a bottle and unscrewedthe cap. Ketchup, he said, splattering the red juice over Bailey'smasterpiece. The scarlet burial-shroud for the failures of Cooks.Lifting a hunk of the steak, streaming ketchup, to his mouth,Winkelmann chewed. Just the thing, he smiled. Damn you! Bailey shouted. Winkelmann's smile flicked off, and his blue eyes pierced the Cook. ... Sir, Bailey added. That's better, Winkelmann said, and took another bite. He saidmeditatively, Used with caution, and only by myself, I believe I havesufficient ketchup here to see me through to Mars. Please keep abottle on the table for all my future meals, Belly-Robber. But, Sir.... Bailey began. You must realize, Belly-Robber, that a dyspeptic Captain is a threatto the welfare of his ship. Were I to continue eating your surrealisticslops for another hundred days, without the small consolation ofthis sauce I had the foresight to bring with me, I'd likely be inno condition to jet us safely down to the Piano West pad. Do youunderstand, Belly-Robber? he demanded. I understand that you're an ungrateful, impossible, square-headed,slave-driving.... Watch your noun, Winkelmann cautioned the Cook. Your adjectives areinsubordinate; your noun might prove mutinous. Captain, you've gone too far, I said. Bailey, his fists knotted, wasscarlet, his chest heaving with emotion. Doctor, I must point out to you that it ill behooves the Ship'sSurgeon to side with the Cook against the Captain, Winkelmann said. Sir, Bailey has tried hard to please you, I said. The other officersand the men have been more than satisfied with his work. That only suggests atrophy of their taste buds, Winkelmann said.Doctor, you are excused. As are you, Belly-Robber, he added. <doc-sep>Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered himto my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on mybunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metalbulkhead. You'll have that drink now, I said. No, dammit! he shouted. Orders, I said. I poured us each some fifty cc's of rye. This istherapy, Bailey, I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throatlike water and silently held out his glass for a second. I provided it. After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. Sorry, Doc, he said. You've taken more pressure than most men would, I said. Nothing tobe ashamed of. He's crazy. What sane man would expect me to dip Wiener schnitzeland sauerkraut and Backhahndl nach suddeutscher Art out of an algaetank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-outmolecules reclaimed from the head; packaged amino acid additives. Andhe expects meals that would take the blue ribbon at the annual banquetof the Friends of Escoffier! Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey, I said. You've worked yourfingers to the bone, slaving over a hot stove, and you're notappreciated. But you're not married to Winkelmann, remember. A yearfrom now you'll be home in Ohio, fifty grand richer, set to start thatrestaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman. I hate him, Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. Hereached for the bottle. I let him have it. Sometimes alcohol can bean apt confederate of vis medicatrix naturae , the healing power ofnature. Half an hour later I strapped Bailey into his bunk to sleep itoff. That therapeutic drunk seemed to be just what he'd needed. For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable inhorribleness, a pottage or boiled Chlorella vulgaris that lookedand tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey,red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann asthough daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of thedisgusting stuff to his lips, smacked and said, Belly-Robber, you'reimproving a little at last. Bailey nodded and smiled. Thank you, Sir, he said. I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses werenow strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults ofirony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that wasa price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmanntheory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captainhad pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, Ithought. Noon mess was nearly as awful as breakfast had been. The coffee tastedof salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment werevehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, forthe decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He servedthe algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galleyoblivious of the taunts of his crewmates. <doc-sep>There being only three seats in the Sale's mess compartment, we ateour meals in three shifts. That evening, going down the ladder tosupper, my nose was met with a spine-tingling barbecue tang, a smellto make a man think of gray charcoal glowing in a picnic brazier,of cicadas chirping and green grass underfoot, of the pop and hissof canned beer being church-keyed. He's done it, Doc! one of thefirst-shift diners said. It actually tastes of food! Then he's beat the Captain at his game, I said. The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks, the crewmansaid. I sat, unfolded my napkin, and looked with hope to the electricwarming-pan at the center of the table. Bailey served the three ofus with the small steaks. Each contained about a pound of driedChlorella, I judged, teasing mine with my fork. But they were drenchedin a gravy rich as the stuff grandma used to make in her black ironskillet, peppery and seasoned with courageous bits of garlic. I cuta bit from my steak and chewed it. Too tender, of course; there arelimits to art. But the pond-scum taste was gone. Bailey appeared in thegalley door. I gestured for him to join me. You've done it, Bailey,I said. Every Slimehead in orbit will thank you for this. This isactually good . Thanks, Doc, Bailey said. I smiled and took another bite. You may not realize it, Bailey; butthis is a victory for the Captain, too. He drove you to this triumph;you couldn't have done it without him. You mean he was just whipping me on, trying to make me do better?Bailey asked. He was driving you to do the impossible, I said; and you did it. OurCaptain may be a hard man, Bailey; but he did know how to coax maximumperformance out of his Ship's Cook. Bailey stood up. Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor? he asked. I thought about his question a moment. Winkelmann was good at his job.He persuaded his men by foul means, true; but it was all for the goodof the ship and his crew. Do I like Captain Winkelmann? I asked,spearing another piece of my artificial steak. Bailey, I'm afraid I'llhave to admit that I do. Bailey smiled and lifted a second steak from the warming-pan onto myplate. Then have another piece, he said. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Robert Bailey, and what are his characteristics?

Robert Bailey is the cook of the ship; he is considered to have one of the most important roles on the ship because he is the one who must feed all of the crew members. Bailey works very hard to try and please Captain Winkelmann, even though the captain constantly berates him on his efforts. He takes pride in his cooking, which is why he constantly tries to improve in order to gain the Captain’s approval. Paul considers him to be the best cook in the entire orbit, especially when he is shown to be capable of creating algae food that tastes realistic at the end of the story. Apart from the Captain, Bailey is very respectful towards his fellow crew members, especially Paul. Bailey dedicates himself to his food entirely, trying to cook up the best meal he can out of the Chlorella algae. He also plans to open a restaurant once he returns to Ohio.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> GOURMET By ALLEN KIM LANG [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine April 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This was the endless problem of all spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men tomorrow on what they had eaten today! Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It'strue that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussioncan never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is achallenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughtsthat a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list. In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearingseals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. TheLimey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed intohis diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated ageonly as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmenare called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the Chlorella and Scenedesmus algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open theroad to the larger Space without. Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture inhistory—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilisto the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral withcross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to thehundred-and-first chapter of Moby Dick , a book spooled in theamusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, thatno Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment morethan a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads ofLeyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for aman condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space. The Pequod's crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men wontheir war on canned pork and beans. The Triton made her underwaterperiplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza andconcentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for theskies, a decline set in. The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decentfood. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezingsfrom aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to thegroundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes. <doc-sep>Long before I was a boy in Med School, itching to look at black skythrough a view-port, galley science had fulfilled the disgustingexordium of Isaiah 36:12, to feed the Slimeheads for breakfast todaywhat was day-before-yesterday's table-scraps and jakes-water. The Ship's Cook, the man who accomplishes the daily miracle of turningoffal into eatables, is in many ways the most vital man aboard aspacer. He can make morale or foment a mutiny. His power is paramount.Slimeheads remember the H. M. S. Ajax fiasco, for example, in which agalleyman leveled his Chlorella tanks with heavy water from the ship'sshielding. Four officers and twenty-one Other Ranks were rescued fromthe Ajax in deep space, half dead from deuterium poisoning. We thinkof the Benjo Maru incident, too, caused by a Ship's Cook who allowedhis algaeal staff-of-life to become contaminated with a fast-growing Saccharomycodes yeast. The Japanese vessel staggered to her pad atPiano West after a twenty-week drunk: the alien yeast had got intothe stomach of every man aboard, where it fermented each subsequentbite he ate to a superior grade of sake . And for a third footnote tothe ancient observation, God sends food, and the Devil sends cooks,Marsmen will recall what happened aboard my ship the Charles PartlowSale . The Sale blasted off from Brady Station in the middle of August, duein at Piano West in early May. In no special hurry, we were takingthe low-energy route to Mars, a pathway about as long in time as thehuman period of gestation. Our cargo consisted mostly of Tien-Shen firseedlings and some tons of an arctic grass-seed—these to be plantedin the maria to squeeze out the native blue bugberry vines. We hadaboard the Registry minimum of six men and three officers. Ship'sSurgeon was myself, Paul Vilanova. Our Captain was Willy Winkelmann,the hardest man in space and very likely the fattest. Ship's Cook wasRobert Bailey. Cooking aboard a spacer is a job combining the more frustratingtensions of biochemistry, applied mycology, high-speed farming,dietetics and sewage engineering. It's the Cook's responsibility tosee that each man aboard gets each day no less than five pounds ofwater, two pounds of oxygen, and one-and-a-half pounds of dry food.This isn't just a paragraph from the Spacer Union Contract. It's astatement of the least fuel a man can run on. Twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the cargocompartments to bursting, and left a small ship like the C. P. Sale no reason to reach for Mars. By allowing a colony of Chlorella algae towork over our used air, water and other effluvia, though, three tonsof metabolites would see us through from Brady Station to Piano Westand back. Recycling was the answer. The molecule of carbohydrate, fat,protein or mineral that didn't feed the crew fed the algae. And thealgae fed us. All waste was used to fertilize our liquid fields. Even the stubblefrom our 2,680 shaves and the clippings from our 666 haircuts en routeand back would be fed into the Chlorella tanks. Human hair is rich inessential amino acids. The algae—dried by the Cook, bleached with methyl alcohol to kill thesmell and make the residue more digestible, disguised and seasoned in ahundred ways—served as a sort of meat-and-potatoes that never quitewore out. Our air and water were equally immortal. Each molecule ofoxygen would be conversant with the alveoli of every man aboard by theend of our trip. Every drop of water would have been intimate with theglomeruli of each kidney on the ship before we grounded in. Groundlingpoliticians are right enough when they say that we spacers are abreed apart. We're the one race of men who can't afford the luxury ofsqueamishness. <doc-sep>Though I'm signed aboard as Ship's Surgeon, I seldom lift a knifein space. My employment is more in the nature of TS-card-puncherextraordinary. My duties are to serve as wailing-wall, morale officer,guardian of the medicinal whiskey and frustrator of mutual murder.Generally the man aboard who'd serve as the most popular murder-victimis the Cook. This trip, the-man-you-love-to-hate was our Captain. If the Cook hadn't problems enough with the chemical and psychic dutiesof his office, Winkelmann supplied the want. Captain Willy Winkelmannwas the sort of man who, if he had to go into space at all, had best doso alone. If the Prussians had a Marine Corps, Winkelmann would havedone splendidly as Drill Instructor for their boot camp. His heartwas a chip of helium ice, his voice dripped sarcastic acid. The planetEarth was hardly large enough to accommodate a wart as annoying asWilly Winkelmann. Cheek-by-jowl every day in a nacelle the size of aPullman car, our Captain quickly established himself as a major socialhemorrhoid. The Captain's particular patsy was, of course, young Bailey the Cook.It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, Bailey,Robert, on Ship's Articles. He at once renamed our unfortunateshipmate Belly-Robber. It was Winkelmann who discussed hautcuisine and the properties of the nobler wines while we munched ouralgaeburgers and sipped coffee that tasted of utility water. And it wasCaptain Willy Winkelmann who never referred to the ship's head by anyother name than The Kitchen Cabinet. Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the tasteof synthetic methionine—an essential amino acid not synthesized byChlorella—by seasoning our algaeal repasts with pinches of oreganoand thyme. He tinted the pale-green dollops of pressed Chlorella pink,textured the mass to the consistency of hamburger and toasted theslabs to a delicate brown in a forlorn attempt to make mock-meat.For dessert, he served a fudge compounded from the dextrose-paste ofthe carbohydrate recycler. The crew thanked him. The Captain did not.Belly-Robber, he said, his tone icy as winter wind off the North Sea,you had best cycle this mess through the tanks again. There is a punin my home country: Mensch ist was er isst. It means, you are whatyou eat. I think you are impertinent to suggest I should become this Schweinerei you are feeding me. Captain Winkelmann blotted his chinwith his napkin, heaved his bulk up from the table, and climbed up theladder from the dining-cubby. <doc-sep>Doc, do you like Winkelmann? the Cook asked me. Not much, I said. I suspect that the finest gift our Captain cangive his mother is to be absent from her on Mother's Day. But we've gotto live with him. He's a good man at driving a ship. I wish he'd leave off driving this Cook, Bailey said. The fat swine! His plumpness is an unwitting tribute to your cooking, Bailey, Isaid. He eats well. We all do. I've dined aboard a lot of spacers inmy time, and I'll testify that you set a table second to none. Bailey took a handful of dried Chlorella from a bin and fingered it. Itwas green, smelled of swamp, and looked appetizing as a bedsore. Thisis what I have to work with, he said. He tossed the stuff back intoits bin. In Ohio, which is my home country, in the presence of ladies,we'd call such garbage Horse-Leavings. You'll never make Winkelmann happy, I said. Even the simultaneousdeath of all other human beings could hardly make him smile. Keep upthe good work, though, and you'll keep our Captain fat. Bailey nodded from his one-man cloud of gloom. I got a bottle of ryefrom Medical Stores and offered him a therapeutic draught. The Cookwaved my gift aside. Not now, Doc, he said. I'm thinking abouttomorrow's menu. The product of Bailey's cerebrations was on the mess table at noon thenext day. We were each served an individual head of lettuce, dressedwith something very like vinegar and oil, spiced with tiny leaves ofburnet. How Bailey had constructed those synthetic lettuces I can onlyguess: the hours spent preparing a green Chlorella paste, rolling anddrying and shaping each artificial leaf, the fitting together of nineheads like crisp, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. The pièce derésistance was again a hamburger steak; but this time the algaealmass that made it up was buried in a rich, meaty gravy that was onlyfaintly green. The essence-of-steak used in these Chlorella cutlets hadbeen sprinkled with a lavish hand. Garlic was richly in evidence. It'sso tender, the radioman joked, that I can hardly believe it's reallysteak. Bailey stared across the dining-cubby toward Winkelmann, silentlyimploring the Captain's ratification of his masterpiece. The bigman's pink cheeks bulged and jumped with his chewing. He swallowed.Belly-Robber, Winkelmann said, I had almost rather you served methis pond-scum raw than have it all mucked-up with synthetic onions andcycler-salt. <doc-sep>You seem able enough to choke down Bailey's chow, Captain, I said. Igazed at Winkelmann's form, bulbous from a lifetime of surfeit feeding. Yes, I eat it, the Captain said, taking and talking through anotherbite. But I eat only as a man in the desert will eat worms andgrasshoppers, to stay alive. Sir, what in heaven's name do you expect from me? Bailey pleaded. Only good food, Winkelmann mumbled through his mouthful of disguisedalgae. He tapped his head with a finger. This—the brain that guidesthe ship—cannot be coaxed to work on hog-slop. You understand me,Belly-Robber? Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. Yes, sir. But I reallydon't know what I can do to please you. You are a spacer and a Ship's Cook, not a suburban Hausfrau with thevapors, Winkelmann said. I do not expect from you hysterics, tantrumsor weeping. Only—can you understand this, so simple?—food that willkeep my belly content and my brain alive. Yes, sir, Bailey said, his face a picture of that offense the Britishterm Dumb Insolence. Winkelmann got up and climbed the ladder to the pilot-cubicle. Ifollowed him. Captain, I said, you're driving Bailey too hard.You're asking him to make bricks without straw. Winkelmann regarded me with his pale-blue stare. You think, Doctor,that my cruelty to the Belly-Robber is the biliousness of a middle-agedman? Frankly, I can't understand your attitude at all, I said. You accuse me of driving a man to make bricks without straw,Winkelmann said. Very well, Doctor. It is my belief that if thePharaoh's taskmaster had had my firmness of purpose, the Children ofIsrael would have made bricks with stubble. Necessity, Doctor, is themother of invention. I am Bailey's necessity. My unkindnesses make himuncomfortable, I doubt that not. But I am forcing him to experiment,to improvise, to widen the horizons of his ingenuity. He will learnsomehow to bring good food from Chlorella tanks. You're driving him too hard, Sir, I said. He'll crack. Bailey will have some fifty thousand dollars' salary waiting when weground at Brady Station, Captain Winkelmann said. So much money buysmany discomforts. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova. Crew morale on the ship.... I began. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova, Captain Winkelmann repeated. <doc-sep>Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the ellipticalpath to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiatethe appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemnedby that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain atmealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. Convey mycompliments to the Chef, please, the Captain would instruct one ofthe crew, and ask him to step down here a moment. And the Cook wouldcheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary geniusacidly called in question again. I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to gointo Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark inbrilliant galleymanship. We were served, for instance, an ersatz hotturkey supreme. The cheese-sauce was almost believable, the Chlorellaturkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacya grainy and delicious cornbread, and had extracted from his algaea lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot bread with agenuinely dairy smell. Splendid, Bailey, I said. We are not amused, said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a secondhelping of the pseudo-turkey. You are improving, Belly-Robber, butonly arithmetically. Your first efforts were so hideous as to requirea geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mereedibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you willhave learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economicsstudent. That will be all, Bailey. The crew and my fellow-officers were amused by Winkelmann's riding ofBailey; they were in addition gratified that the battle between theirCaptain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embarkon an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their lastfew days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and manymemories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men hadlost weight during the first four months in space. Winkelmann, indeed,seemed to have gained. His uniform was taut over his plump backside,and he puffed a bit up the ladders. I was considering suggesting to ourCaptain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advicethat would have stood unique in the annals of space medicine, whenWinkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook. <doc-sep>Each man aboard a spacer is allowed ten kilograms of personal effectsbesides his uniforms, these being considered Ship's Furnishing. Ashis rank and responsibility merit, the Captain is allowed double thisration. He may thus bring aboard with him some forty-five pounds ofbooks, playing-cards, knitting-wool, whiskey or what have you to helphim while away the hours between the planets. Bailey, I knew for afact, had used up his weight-allowance in bringing aboard a case ofspices: marjoram and mint, costmary, file powder, basil and allspice,and a dozen others. Captain Winkelmann was not a reader, and had brought no books. Cardsinterested him not at all, as card-playing implies a sociability aliento his nature. He never drank aboard ship. I had supposed that he'dexercised his option of returning his personal-effects weight allowanceto the owners for the consideration of one hundred dollars a kilogram.To collect the maximum allowance, spacers have been known to comeaboard their ship mother-naked. But this was not the case with Winkelmann. His personal-effectsbaggage, an unlabeled cardboard box, appeared under the table at noonmess some hundred days out from Piano West. Winkelmann rested his feeton the mysterious box as he sat to eat. What disgusting form does the ship's garbage appear in today,Belly-Robber? he asked the Cook. Bailey frowned, but kept his temper, an asceticism in which by now he'dhad much practice. I've been working on the problem of steak, Sir,he said. I think I've whipped the taste; what was left was to get thetexture steak-like. Do you understand, Sir? I understand, Winkelmann growled. You intend that your latest messshould feel like steak to the mouth, and not like baby-food. Right? Yes, Sir, Bailey said. Well, I squeezed thesteak-substrate—Chlorella, of course, with all sorts of specialseasonings—through a sieve, and blanched the strands in hot algaealoil. Then I chopped those strands to bits and rolled them out. Voila! I had something very close in texture to the muscle-fibers of genuinemeat. Remarkable, Bailey, I said. It rather throws me off my appetite to hear how you muddle about withour food, the Captain said, his jowls settling into an expression ofdistaste. It's quite all right to eat lobster, for example, but Inever cared to see the ugly beast boiled before my eyes. Detail spoilsthe meal. Bailey lifted the cover off the electric warming-pan at the center ofthe table and tenderly lifted a small steak onto each of our plates.Try it, he urged the Captain. <doc-sep>Captain Winkelmann sliced off a corner of his algaeal steak. Thecolor was an excellent medium-rare, the odor was the rich smellof fresh-broiled beef. Winkelmann bit down, chewed, swallowed. Nottoo bad, Belly-Robber, he said, nodding. Bailey grinned and bobbedhis head, his hands folded before him in an ecstasy of pleasure. Akind word from the Captain bettered the ruffles-and-flourishes of amore reasonable man. But it still needs something ... something,Winkelmann went on, slicing off another portion of the tasty Chlorella.Aha! I have it! Yes, Sir? Bailey asked. This, Belly-Robber! Winkelmann reached beneath the mess-table andripped open his cardboard carton. He brought out a bottle and unscrewedthe cap. Ketchup, he said, splattering the red juice over Bailey'smasterpiece. The scarlet burial-shroud for the failures of Cooks.Lifting a hunk of the steak, streaming ketchup, to his mouth,Winkelmann chewed. Just the thing, he smiled. Damn you! Bailey shouted. Winkelmann's smile flicked off, and his blue eyes pierced the Cook. ... Sir, Bailey added. That's better, Winkelmann said, and took another bite. He saidmeditatively, Used with caution, and only by myself, I believe I havesufficient ketchup here to see me through to Mars. Please keep abottle on the table for all my future meals, Belly-Robber. But, Sir.... Bailey began. You must realize, Belly-Robber, that a dyspeptic Captain is a threatto the welfare of his ship. Were I to continue eating your surrealisticslops for another hundred days, without the small consolation ofthis sauce I had the foresight to bring with me, I'd likely be inno condition to jet us safely down to the Piano West pad. Do youunderstand, Belly-Robber? he demanded. I understand that you're an ungrateful, impossible, square-headed,slave-driving.... Watch your noun, Winkelmann cautioned the Cook. Your adjectives areinsubordinate; your noun might prove mutinous. Captain, you've gone too far, I said. Bailey, his fists knotted, wasscarlet, his chest heaving with emotion. Doctor, I must point out to you that it ill behooves the Ship'sSurgeon to side with the Cook against the Captain, Winkelmann said. Sir, Bailey has tried hard to please you, I said. The other officersand the men have been more than satisfied with his work. That only suggests atrophy of their taste buds, Winkelmann said.Doctor, you are excused. As are you, Belly-Robber, he added. <doc-sep>Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered himto my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on mybunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metalbulkhead. You'll have that drink now, I said. No, dammit! he shouted. Orders, I said. I poured us each some fifty cc's of rye. This istherapy, Bailey, I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throatlike water and silently held out his glass for a second. I provided it. After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. Sorry, Doc, he said. You've taken more pressure than most men would, I said. Nothing tobe ashamed of. He's crazy. What sane man would expect me to dip Wiener schnitzeland sauerkraut and Backhahndl nach suddeutscher Art out of an algaetank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-outmolecules reclaimed from the head; packaged amino acid additives. Andhe expects meals that would take the blue ribbon at the annual banquetof the Friends of Escoffier! Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey, I said. You've worked yourfingers to the bone, slaving over a hot stove, and you're notappreciated. But you're not married to Winkelmann, remember. A yearfrom now you'll be home in Ohio, fifty grand richer, set to start thatrestaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman. I hate him, Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. Hereached for the bottle. I let him have it. Sometimes alcohol can bean apt confederate of vis medicatrix naturae , the healing power ofnature. Half an hour later I strapped Bailey into his bunk to sleep itoff. That therapeutic drunk seemed to be just what he'd needed. For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable inhorribleness, a pottage or boiled Chlorella vulgaris that lookedand tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey,red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann asthough daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of thedisgusting stuff to his lips, smacked and said, Belly-Robber, you'reimproving a little at last. Bailey nodded and smiled. Thank you, Sir, he said. I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses werenow strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults ofirony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that wasa price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmanntheory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captainhad pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, Ithought. Noon mess was nearly as awful as breakfast had been. The coffee tastedof salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment werevehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, forthe decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He servedthe algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galleyoblivious of the taunts of his crewmates. <doc-sep>There being only three seats in the Sale's mess compartment, we ateour meals in three shifts. That evening, going down the ladder tosupper, my nose was met with a spine-tingling barbecue tang, a smellto make a man think of gray charcoal glowing in a picnic brazier,of cicadas chirping and green grass underfoot, of the pop and hissof canned beer being church-keyed. He's done it, Doc! one of thefirst-shift diners said. It actually tastes of food! Then he's beat the Captain at his game, I said. The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks, the crewmansaid. I sat, unfolded my napkin, and looked with hope to the electricwarming-pan at the center of the table. Bailey served the three ofus with the small steaks. Each contained about a pound of driedChlorella, I judged, teasing mine with my fork. But they were drenchedin a gravy rich as the stuff grandma used to make in her black ironskillet, peppery and seasoned with courageous bits of garlic. I cuta bit from my steak and chewed it. Too tender, of course; there arelimits to art. But the pond-scum taste was gone. Bailey appeared in thegalley door. I gestured for him to join me. You've done it, Bailey,I said. Every Slimehead in orbit will thank you for this. This isactually good . Thanks, Doc, Bailey said. I smiled and took another bite. You may not realize it, Bailey; butthis is a victory for the Captain, too. He drove you to this triumph;you couldn't have done it without him. You mean he was just whipping me on, trying to make me do better?Bailey asked. He was driving you to do the impossible, I said; and you did it. OurCaptain may be a hard man, Bailey; but he did know how to coax maximumperformance out of his Ship's Cook. Bailey stood up. Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor? he asked. I thought about his question a moment. Winkelmann was good at his job.He persuaded his men by foul means, true; but it was all for the goodof the ship and his crew. Do I like Captain Winkelmann? I asked,spearing another piece of my artificial steak. Bailey, I'm afraid I'llhave to admit that I do. Bailey smiled and lifted a second steak from the warming-pan onto myplate. Then have another piece, he said. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The story is set on the Charles Partlow Sale in outer space. The ship left in the middle of August, and it is due at Piano West in early May. The path to Mars is considered to be as long in time as the human period of gestation. This is because the ship is taking a low-energy route. There are Chlorella tanks on the ship to grow the algae in. There is also a dining compartment with a mess table for the crew members to eat food on. The ship also has a cargo compartment, filled with the seeds of Tien-Shen fir and some tons of arctic grass. However, the ship itself is described to be quite small and cannot carry huge amounts of cargo.

What is the importance of the Chlorella algae? [SEP] <s> GOURMET By ALLEN KIM LANG [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine April 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This was the endless problem of all spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men tomorrow on what they had eaten today! Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It'strue that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussioncan never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is achallenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughtsthat a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list. In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearingseals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. TheLimey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed intohis diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated ageonly as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmenare called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the Chlorella and Scenedesmus algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open theroad to the larger Space without. Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture inhistory—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilisto the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral withcross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to thehundred-and-first chapter of Moby Dick , a book spooled in theamusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, thatno Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment morethan a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads ofLeyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for aman condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space. The Pequod's crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men wontheir war on canned pork and beans. The Triton made her underwaterperiplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza andconcentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for theskies, a decline set in. The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decentfood. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezingsfrom aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to thegroundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes. <doc-sep>Long before I was a boy in Med School, itching to look at black skythrough a view-port, galley science had fulfilled the disgustingexordium of Isaiah 36:12, to feed the Slimeheads for breakfast todaywhat was day-before-yesterday's table-scraps and jakes-water. The Ship's Cook, the man who accomplishes the daily miracle of turningoffal into eatables, is in many ways the most vital man aboard aspacer. He can make morale or foment a mutiny. His power is paramount.Slimeheads remember the H. M. S. Ajax fiasco, for example, in which agalleyman leveled his Chlorella tanks with heavy water from the ship'sshielding. Four officers and twenty-one Other Ranks were rescued fromthe Ajax in deep space, half dead from deuterium poisoning. We thinkof the Benjo Maru incident, too, caused by a Ship's Cook who allowedhis algaeal staff-of-life to become contaminated with a fast-growing Saccharomycodes yeast. The Japanese vessel staggered to her pad atPiano West after a twenty-week drunk: the alien yeast had got intothe stomach of every man aboard, where it fermented each subsequentbite he ate to a superior grade of sake . And for a third footnote tothe ancient observation, God sends food, and the Devil sends cooks,Marsmen will recall what happened aboard my ship the Charles PartlowSale . The Sale blasted off from Brady Station in the middle of August, duein at Piano West in early May. In no special hurry, we were takingthe low-energy route to Mars, a pathway about as long in time as thehuman period of gestation. Our cargo consisted mostly of Tien-Shen firseedlings and some tons of an arctic grass-seed—these to be plantedin the maria to squeeze out the native blue bugberry vines. We hadaboard the Registry minimum of six men and three officers. Ship'sSurgeon was myself, Paul Vilanova. Our Captain was Willy Winkelmann,the hardest man in space and very likely the fattest. Ship's Cook wasRobert Bailey. Cooking aboard a spacer is a job combining the more frustratingtensions of biochemistry, applied mycology, high-speed farming,dietetics and sewage engineering. It's the Cook's responsibility tosee that each man aboard gets each day no less than five pounds ofwater, two pounds of oxygen, and one-and-a-half pounds of dry food.This isn't just a paragraph from the Spacer Union Contract. It's astatement of the least fuel a man can run on. Twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the cargocompartments to bursting, and left a small ship like the C. P. Sale no reason to reach for Mars. By allowing a colony of Chlorella algae towork over our used air, water and other effluvia, though, three tonsof metabolites would see us through from Brady Station to Piano Westand back. Recycling was the answer. The molecule of carbohydrate, fat,protein or mineral that didn't feed the crew fed the algae. And thealgae fed us. All waste was used to fertilize our liquid fields. Even the stubblefrom our 2,680 shaves and the clippings from our 666 haircuts en routeand back would be fed into the Chlorella tanks. Human hair is rich inessential amino acids. The algae—dried by the Cook, bleached with methyl alcohol to kill thesmell and make the residue more digestible, disguised and seasoned in ahundred ways—served as a sort of meat-and-potatoes that never quitewore out. Our air and water were equally immortal. Each molecule ofoxygen would be conversant with the alveoli of every man aboard by theend of our trip. Every drop of water would have been intimate with theglomeruli of each kidney on the ship before we grounded in. Groundlingpoliticians are right enough when they say that we spacers are abreed apart. We're the one race of men who can't afford the luxury ofsqueamishness. <doc-sep>Though I'm signed aboard as Ship's Surgeon, I seldom lift a knifein space. My employment is more in the nature of TS-card-puncherextraordinary. My duties are to serve as wailing-wall, morale officer,guardian of the medicinal whiskey and frustrator of mutual murder.Generally the man aboard who'd serve as the most popular murder-victimis the Cook. This trip, the-man-you-love-to-hate was our Captain. If the Cook hadn't problems enough with the chemical and psychic dutiesof his office, Winkelmann supplied the want. Captain Willy Winkelmannwas the sort of man who, if he had to go into space at all, had best doso alone. If the Prussians had a Marine Corps, Winkelmann would havedone splendidly as Drill Instructor for their boot camp. His heartwas a chip of helium ice, his voice dripped sarcastic acid. The planetEarth was hardly large enough to accommodate a wart as annoying asWilly Winkelmann. Cheek-by-jowl every day in a nacelle the size of aPullman car, our Captain quickly established himself as a major socialhemorrhoid. The Captain's particular patsy was, of course, young Bailey the Cook.It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, Bailey,Robert, on Ship's Articles. He at once renamed our unfortunateshipmate Belly-Robber. It was Winkelmann who discussed hautcuisine and the properties of the nobler wines while we munched ouralgaeburgers and sipped coffee that tasted of utility water. And it wasCaptain Willy Winkelmann who never referred to the ship's head by anyother name than The Kitchen Cabinet. Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the tasteof synthetic methionine—an essential amino acid not synthesized byChlorella—by seasoning our algaeal repasts with pinches of oreganoand thyme. He tinted the pale-green dollops of pressed Chlorella pink,textured the mass to the consistency of hamburger and toasted theslabs to a delicate brown in a forlorn attempt to make mock-meat.For dessert, he served a fudge compounded from the dextrose-paste ofthe carbohydrate recycler. The crew thanked him. The Captain did not.Belly-Robber, he said, his tone icy as winter wind off the North Sea,you had best cycle this mess through the tanks again. There is a punin my home country: Mensch ist was er isst. It means, you are whatyou eat. I think you are impertinent to suggest I should become this Schweinerei you are feeding me. Captain Winkelmann blotted his chinwith his napkin, heaved his bulk up from the table, and climbed up theladder from the dining-cubby. <doc-sep>Doc, do you like Winkelmann? the Cook asked me. Not much, I said. I suspect that the finest gift our Captain cangive his mother is to be absent from her on Mother's Day. But we've gotto live with him. He's a good man at driving a ship. I wish he'd leave off driving this Cook, Bailey said. The fat swine! His plumpness is an unwitting tribute to your cooking, Bailey, Isaid. He eats well. We all do. I've dined aboard a lot of spacers inmy time, and I'll testify that you set a table second to none. Bailey took a handful of dried Chlorella from a bin and fingered it. Itwas green, smelled of swamp, and looked appetizing as a bedsore. Thisis what I have to work with, he said. He tossed the stuff back intoits bin. In Ohio, which is my home country, in the presence of ladies,we'd call such garbage Horse-Leavings. You'll never make Winkelmann happy, I said. Even the simultaneousdeath of all other human beings could hardly make him smile. Keep upthe good work, though, and you'll keep our Captain fat. Bailey nodded from his one-man cloud of gloom. I got a bottle of ryefrom Medical Stores and offered him a therapeutic draught. The Cookwaved my gift aside. Not now, Doc, he said. I'm thinking abouttomorrow's menu. The product of Bailey's cerebrations was on the mess table at noon thenext day. We were each served an individual head of lettuce, dressedwith something very like vinegar and oil, spiced with tiny leaves ofburnet. How Bailey had constructed those synthetic lettuces I can onlyguess: the hours spent preparing a green Chlorella paste, rolling anddrying and shaping each artificial leaf, the fitting together of nineheads like crisp, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. The pièce derésistance was again a hamburger steak; but this time the algaealmass that made it up was buried in a rich, meaty gravy that was onlyfaintly green. The essence-of-steak used in these Chlorella cutlets hadbeen sprinkled with a lavish hand. Garlic was richly in evidence. It'sso tender, the radioman joked, that I can hardly believe it's reallysteak. Bailey stared across the dining-cubby toward Winkelmann, silentlyimploring the Captain's ratification of his masterpiece. The bigman's pink cheeks bulged and jumped with his chewing. He swallowed.Belly-Robber, Winkelmann said, I had almost rather you served methis pond-scum raw than have it all mucked-up with synthetic onions andcycler-salt. <doc-sep>You seem able enough to choke down Bailey's chow, Captain, I said. Igazed at Winkelmann's form, bulbous from a lifetime of surfeit feeding. Yes, I eat it, the Captain said, taking and talking through anotherbite. But I eat only as a man in the desert will eat worms andgrasshoppers, to stay alive. Sir, what in heaven's name do you expect from me? Bailey pleaded. Only good food, Winkelmann mumbled through his mouthful of disguisedalgae. He tapped his head with a finger. This—the brain that guidesthe ship—cannot be coaxed to work on hog-slop. You understand me,Belly-Robber? Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. Yes, sir. But I reallydon't know what I can do to please you. You are a spacer and a Ship's Cook, not a suburban Hausfrau with thevapors, Winkelmann said. I do not expect from you hysterics, tantrumsor weeping. Only—can you understand this, so simple?—food that willkeep my belly content and my brain alive. Yes, sir, Bailey said, his face a picture of that offense the Britishterm Dumb Insolence. Winkelmann got up and climbed the ladder to the pilot-cubicle. Ifollowed him. Captain, I said, you're driving Bailey too hard.You're asking him to make bricks without straw. Winkelmann regarded me with his pale-blue stare. You think, Doctor,that my cruelty to the Belly-Robber is the biliousness of a middle-agedman? Frankly, I can't understand your attitude at all, I said. You accuse me of driving a man to make bricks without straw,Winkelmann said. Very well, Doctor. It is my belief that if thePharaoh's taskmaster had had my firmness of purpose, the Children ofIsrael would have made bricks with stubble. Necessity, Doctor, is themother of invention. I am Bailey's necessity. My unkindnesses make himuncomfortable, I doubt that not. But I am forcing him to experiment,to improvise, to widen the horizons of his ingenuity. He will learnsomehow to bring good food from Chlorella tanks. You're driving him too hard, Sir, I said. He'll crack. Bailey will have some fifty thousand dollars' salary waiting when weground at Brady Station, Captain Winkelmann said. So much money buysmany discomforts. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova. Crew morale on the ship.... I began. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova, Captain Winkelmann repeated. <doc-sep>Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the ellipticalpath to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiatethe appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemnedby that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain atmealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. Convey mycompliments to the Chef, please, the Captain would instruct one ofthe crew, and ask him to step down here a moment. And the Cook wouldcheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary geniusacidly called in question again. I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to gointo Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark inbrilliant galleymanship. We were served, for instance, an ersatz hotturkey supreme. The cheese-sauce was almost believable, the Chlorellaturkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacya grainy and delicious cornbread, and had extracted from his algaea lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot bread with agenuinely dairy smell. Splendid, Bailey, I said. We are not amused, said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a secondhelping of the pseudo-turkey. You are improving, Belly-Robber, butonly arithmetically. Your first efforts were so hideous as to requirea geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mereedibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you willhave learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economicsstudent. That will be all, Bailey. The crew and my fellow-officers were amused by Winkelmann's riding ofBailey; they were in addition gratified that the battle between theirCaptain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embarkon an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their lastfew days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and manymemories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men hadlost weight during the first four months in space. Winkelmann, indeed,seemed to have gained. His uniform was taut over his plump backside,and he puffed a bit up the ladders. I was considering suggesting to ourCaptain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advicethat would have stood unique in the annals of space medicine, whenWinkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook. <doc-sep>Each man aboard a spacer is allowed ten kilograms of personal effectsbesides his uniforms, these being considered Ship's Furnishing. Ashis rank and responsibility merit, the Captain is allowed double thisration. He may thus bring aboard with him some forty-five pounds ofbooks, playing-cards, knitting-wool, whiskey or what have you to helphim while away the hours between the planets. Bailey, I knew for afact, had used up his weight-allowance in bringing aboard a case ofspices: marjoram and mint, costmary, file powder, basil and allspice,and a dozen others. Captain Winkelmann was not a reader, and had brought no books. Cardsinterested him not at all, as card-playing implies a sociability aliento his nature. He never drank aboard ship. I had supposed that he'dexercised his option of returning his personal-effects weight allowanceto the owners for the consideration of one hundred dollars a kilogram.To collect the maximum allowance, spacers have been known to comeaboard their ship mother-naked. But this was not the case with Winkelmann. His personal-effectsbaggage, an unlabeled cardboard box, appeared under the table at noonmess some hundred days out from Piano West. Winkelmann rested his feeton the mysterious box as he sat to eat. What disgusting form does the ship's garbage appear in today,Belly-Robber? he asked the Cook. Bailey frowned, but kept his temper, an asceticism in which by now he'dhad much practice. I've been working on the problem of steak, Sir,he said. I think I've whipped the taste; what was left was to get thetexture steak-like. Do you understand, Sir? I understand, Winkelmann growled. You intend that your latest messshould feel like steak to the mouth, and not like baby-food. Right? Yes, Sir, Bailey said. Well, I squeezed thesteak-substrate—Chlorella, of course, with all sorts of specialseasonings—through a sieve, and blanched the strands in hot algaealoil. Then I chopped those strands to bits and rolled them out. Voila! I had something very close in texture to the muscle-fibers of genuinemeat. Remarkable, Bailey, I said. It rather throws me off my appetite to hear how you muddle about withour food, the Captain said, his jowls settling into an expression ofdistaste. It's quite all right to eat lobster, for example, but Inever cared to see the ugly beast boiled before my eyes. Detail spoilsthe meal. Bailey lifted the cover off the electric warming-pan at the center ofthe table and tenderly lifted a small steak onto each of our plates.Try it, he urged the Captain. <doc-sep>Captain Winkelmann sliced off a corner of his algaeal steak. Thecolor was an excellent medium-rare, the odor was the rich smellof fresh-broiled beef. Winkelmann bit down, chewed, swallowed. Nottoo bad, Belly-Robber, he said, nodding. Bailey grinned and bobbedhis head, his hands folded before him in an ecstasy of pleasure. Akind word from the Captain bettered the ruffles-and-flourishes of amore reasonable man. But it still needs something ... something,Winkelmann went on, slicing off another portion of the tasty Chlorella.Aha! I have it! Yes, Sir? Bailey asked. This, Belly-Robber! Winkelmann reached beneath the mess-table andripped open his cardboard carton. He brought out a bottle and unscrewedthe cap. Ketchup, he said, splattering the red juice over Bailey'smasterpiece. The scarlet burial-shroud for the failures of Cooks.Lifting a hunk of the steak, streaming ketchup, to his mouth,Winkelmann chewed. Just the thing, he smiled. Damn you! Bailey shouted. Winkelmann's smile flicked off, and his blue eyes pierced the Cook. ... Sir, Bailey added. That's better, Winkelmann said, and took another bite. He saidmeditatively, Used with caution, and only by myself, I believe I havesufficient ketchup here to see me through to Mars. Please keep abottle on the table for all my future meals, Belly-Robber. But, Sir.... Bailey began. You must realize, Belly-Robber, that a dyspeptic Captain is a threatto the welfare of his ship. Were I to continue eating your surrealisticslops for another hundred days, without the small consolation ofthis sauce I had the foresight to bring with me, I'd likely be inno condition to jet us safely down to the Piano West pad. Do youunderstand, Belly-Robber? he demanded. I understand that you're an ungrateful, impossible, square-headed,slave-driving.... Watch your noun, Winkelmann cautioned the Cook. Your adjectives areinsubordinate; your noun might prove mutinous. Captain, you've gone too far, I said. Bailey, his fists knotted, wasscarlet, his chest heaving with emotion. Doctor, I must point out to you that it ill behooves the Ship'sSurgeon to side with the Cook against the Captain, Winkelmann said. Sir, Bailey has tried hard to please you, I said. The other officersand the men have been more than satisfied with his work. That only suggests atrophy of their taste buds, Winkelmann said.Doctor, you are excused. As are you, Belly-Robber, he added. <doc-sep>Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered himto my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on mybunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metalbulkhead. You'll have that drink now, I said. No, dammit! he shouted. Orders, I said. I poured us each some fifty cc's of rye. This istherapy, Bailey, I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throatlike water and silently held out his glass for a second. I provided it. After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. Sorry, Doc, he said. You've taken more pressure than most men would, I said. Nothing tobe ashamed of. He's crazy. What sane man would expect me to dip Wiener schnitzeland sauerkraut and Backhahndl nach suddeutscher Art out of an algaetank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-outmolecules reclaimed from the head; packaged amino acid additives. Andhe expects meals that would take the blue ribbon at the annual banquetof the Friends of Escoffier! Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey, I said. You've worked yourfingers to the bone, slaving over a hot stove, and you're notappreciated. But you're not married to Winkelmann, remember. A yearfrom now you'll be home in Ohio, fifty grand richer, set to start thatrestaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman. I hate him, Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. Hereached for the bottle. I let him have it. Sometimes alcohol can bean apt confederate of vis medicatrix naturae , the healing power ofnature. Half an hour later I strapped Bailey into his bunk to sleep itoff. That therapeutic drunk seemed to be just what he'd needed. For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable inhorribleness, a pottage or boiled Chlorella vulgaris that lookedand tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey,red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann asthough daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of thedisgusting stuff to his lips, smacked and said, Belly-Robber, you'reimproving a little at last. Bailey nodded and smiled. Thank you, Sir, he said. I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses werenow strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults ofirony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that wasa price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmanntheory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captainhad pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, Ithought. Noon mess was nearly as awful as breakfast had been. The coffee tastedof salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment werevehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, forthe decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He servedthe algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galleyoblivious of the taunts of his crewmates. <doc-sep>There being only three seats in the Sale's mess compartment, we ateour meals in three shifts. That evening, going down the ladder tosupper, my nose was met with a spine-tingling barbecue tang, a smellto make a man think of gray charcoal glowing in a picnic brazier,of cicadas chirping and green grass underfoot, of the pop and hissof canned beer being church-keyed. He's done it, Doc! one of thefirst-shift diners said. It actually tastes of food! Then he's beat the Captain at his game, I said. The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks, the crewmansaid. I sat, unfolded my napkin, and looked with hope to the electricwarming-pan at the center of the table. Bailey served the three ofus with the small steaks. Each contained about a pound of driedChlorella, I judged, teasing mine with my fork. But they were drenchedin a gravy rich as the stuff grandma used to make in her black ironskillet, peppery and seasoned with courageous bits of garlic. I cuta bit from my steak and chewed it. Too tender, of course; there arelimits to art. But the pond-scum taste was gone. Bailey appeared in thegalley door. I gestured for him to join me. You've done it, Bailey,I said. Every Slimehead in orbit will thank you for this. This isactually good . Thanks, Doc, Bailey said. I smiled and took another bite. You may not realize it, Bailey; butthis is a victory for the Captain, too. He drove you to this triumph;you couldn't have done it without him. You mean he was just whipping me on, trying to make me do better?Bailey asked. He was driving you to do the impossible, I said; and you did it. OurCaptain may be a hard man, Bailey; but he did know how to coax maximumperformance out of his Ship's Cook. Bailey stood up. Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor? he asked. I thought about his question a moment. Winkelmann was good at his job.He persuaded his men by foul means, true; but it was all for the goodof the ship and his crew. Do I like Captain Winkelmann? I asked,spearing another piece of my artificial steak. Bailey, I'm afraid I'llhave to admit that I do. Bailey smiled and lifted a second steak from the warming-pan onto myplate. Then have another piece, he said. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the importance of the Chlorella algae?

The Chlorella algae is what keeps all of the crew members alive for the duration of the journey. Since twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the compartment to bursting, Chlorella algae is the solution to this. It can work over used food, air, and effluvia, three tons of metabolites that would see them through the entire round trip. Everything the crew recycles is fed to the algae, which feeds the crew members in return. The waste is used to fertilize the liquid fields. Even their stubble from 2,600 shaves and clipping from 666 haircuts is used to feed the algae because human hair is rich in essential amino acids. The algae is their food, as well as the water and air that keeps the crew members going.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep> There was a knock. Betty bounced up with Olympicagility and had the door swingingwide before the knocking was quitecompleted. He was old, little and had bugeyes behind pince-nez glasses. Hissuit was cut in the style of yesteryearbut when a suit costs two orthree hundred dollars you still retaincaste whatever the styling. Simon said unenthusiastically,Good morning, Mr. Oyster. He indicatedthe client's chair. Sit down,sir. The client fussed himself withBetty's assistance into the seat, bug-eyedSimon, said finally, You knowmy name, that's pretty good. Neversaw you before in my life. Stop fussingwith me, young lady. Your adin the phone book says you'll investigateanything. Anything, Simon said. Onlyone exception. Excellent. Do you believe in timetravel? Simon said nothing. Across theroom, where she had resumed herseat, Betty cleared her throat. WhenSimon continued to say nothing sheventured, Time travel is impossible. Why? Why? Yes, why? Betty looked to her boss for assistance.None was forthcoming. Thereought to be some very quick, positive,definite answer. She said, Well,for one thing, paradox. Suppose youhad a time machine and traveled backa hundred years or so and killed yourown great-grandfather. Then howcould you ever be born? Confound it if I know, the littlefellow growled. How? Simon said, Let's get to the point,what you wanted to see me about. I want to hire you to hunt me upsome time travelers, the old boysaid. Betty was too far in now to maintainher proper role of silent secretary.Time travelers, she said, notvery intelligently. The potential client sat more erect,obviously with intent to hold thefloor for a time. He removed thepince-nez glasses and pointed themat Betty. He said, Have you readmuch science fiction, Miss? Some, Betty admitted. Then you'll realize that there area dozen explanations of the paradoxesof time travel. Every writer inthe field worth his salt has explainedthem away. But to get on. It's mycontention that within a century orso man will have solved the problemsof immortality and eternal youth, andit's also my suspicion that he willeventually be able to travel in time.So convinced am I of these possibilitiesthat I am willing to gamble aportion of my fortune to investigatethe presence in our era of such timetravelers. Simon seemed incapable of carryingthe ball this morning, so Bettysaid, But ... Mr. Oyster, if thefuture has developed time travel whydon't we ever meet such travelers? Simon put in a word. The usualexplanation, Betty, is that they can'tafford to allow the space-time continuumtrack to be altered. If, say, atime traveler returned to a period oftwenty-five years ago and shot Hitler,then all subsequent history would bechanged. In that case, the time travelerhimself might never be born. Theyhave to tread mighty carefully. Mr. Oyster was pleased. I didn'texpect you to be so well informedon the subject, young man. Simon shrugged and fumbledagain with the aspirin bottle. <doc-sep> Mr. Oyster went on. I've beenconsidering the matter for some timeand— Simon held up a hand. There'sno use prolonging this. As I understandit, you're an elderly gentlemanwith a considerable fortune and yourealize that thus far nobody has succeededin taking it with him. Mr. Oyster returned his glasses totheir perch, bug-eyed Simon, but thennodded. Simon said, You want to hire meto find a time traveler and in somemanner or other—any manner willdo—exhort from him the secret ofeternal life and youth, which you figurethe future will have discovered.You're willing to pony up a part ofthis fortune of yours, if I can delivera bona fide time traveler. Right! Betty had been looking from oneto the other. Now she said, plaintively,But where are you going to findone of these characters—especially ifthey're interested in keeping hid? The old boy was the center again.I told you I'd been considering itfor some time. The Oktoberfest ,that's where they'd be! He seemedelated. Betty and Simon waited. The Oktoberfest , he repeated.The greatest festival the world hasever seen, the carnival, feria , fiesta to beat them all. Every year it's heldin Munich. Makes the New OrleansMardi gras look like a quiltingparty. He began to swing into thespirit of his description. It originallystarted in celebration of the weddingof some local prince a centuryand a half ago and the Bavarians hadsuch a bang-up time they've beenholding it every year since. TheMunich breweries do up a specialbeer, Marzenbräu they call it, andeach brewery opens a tremendous tenton the fair grounds which will holdfive thousand customers apiece. Millionsof liters of beer are put away,hundreds of thousands of barbecuedchickens, a small herd of oxen areroasted whole over spits, millions ofpair of weisswurst , a very specialsausage, millions upon millions ofpretzels— All right, Simon said. We'll acceptit. The Oktoberfest is one whaleof a wingding. <doc-sep> Well, the old boy pursued, intohis subject now, that's where they'dbe, places like the Oktoberfest . Forone thing, a time traveler wouldn'tbe conspicuous. At a festival like thissomebody with a strange accent, orwho didn't know exactly how to wearhis clothes correctly, or was off theordinary in any of a dozen otherways, wouldn't be noticed. You couldbe a four-armed space traveler fromMars, and you still wouldn't be conspicuousat the Oktoberfest . Peoplewould figure they had D.T.'s. But why would a time travelerwant to go to a— Betty began. Why not! What better opportunityto study a people than when theyare in their cups? If you could goback a few thousand years, the thingsyou would wish to see would be aRoman Triumph, perhaps the Ritesof Dionysus, or one of Alexander'sorgies. You wouldn't want to wanderup and down the streets of, say,Athens while nothing was going on,particularly when you might be revealedas a suspicious character notbeing able to speak the language, notknowing how to wear the clothes andnot familiar with the city's layout.He took a deep breath. No ma'am,you'd have to stick to some greatevent, both for the sake of actualinterest and for protection against beingunmasked. The old boy wound it up. Well,that's the story. What are your rates?The Oktoberfest starts on Friday andcontinues for sixteen days. You cantake the plane to Munich, spend aweek there and— Simon was shaking his head. Notinterested. As soon as Betty had got her jawback into place, she glared unbelievinglyat him. Mr. Oyster was taken aback himself.See here, young man, I realizethis isn't an ordinary assignment,however, as I said, I am willing torisk a considerable portion of myfortune— Sorry, Simon said. Can't bedone. A hundred dollars a day plus expenses,Mr. Oyster said quietly. Ilike the fact that you already seemto have some interest and knowledgeof the matter. I liked the way youknew my name when I walked in thedoor; my picture doesn't appear oftenin the papers. No go, Simon said, a sad qualityin his voice. A fifty thousand dollar bonus ifyou bring me a time traveler. Out of the question, Simonsaid. But why ? Betty wailed. Just for laughs, Simon told thetwo of them sourly, suppose I tellyou a funny story. It goes likethis: I got a thousand dollars from Mr.Oyster (Simon began) in the wayof an advance, and leaving him withBetty who was making out a receipt,I hustled back to the apartment andpacked a bag. Hell, I'd wanted a vacationanyway, this was a natural. Onthe way to Idlewild I stopped off atthe Germany Information Offices forsome tourist literature. It takes roughly three and a halfhours to get to Gander from Idlewild.I spent the time planning thefun I was going to have. It takes roughly seven and a halfhours from Gander to Shannon andI spent that time dreaming up materialI could put into my reports toMr. Oyster. I was going to have togive him some kind of report for hismoney. Time travel yet! What alaugh! Between Shannon and Munich afaint suspicion began to simmer inmy mind. These statistics I read onthe Oktoberfest in the Munich touristpamphlets. Five million peopleattended annually. Where did five million peoplecome from to attend an overgrownfestival in comparatively remoteSouthern Germany? The tourist seasonis over before September 21st,first day of the gigantic beer bust.Nor could the Germans account forany such number. Munich itself hasa population of less than a million,counting children. And those millions of gallons ofbeer, the hundreds of thousands ofchickens, the herds of oxen. Whoponied up all the money for such expenditures?How could the averageGerman, with his twenty-five dollarsa week salary? In Munich there was no hotelspace available. I went to the Bahnhofwhere they have a hotel serviceand applied. They put my namedown, pocketed the husky bribe,showed me where I could check mybag, told me they'd do what theycould, and to report back in a fewhours. I had another suspicious twinge.If five million people attended thisbeer bout, how were they accommodated? The Theresienwiese , the fairground, was only a few blocksaway. I was stiff from the plane rideso I walked. <doc-sep> There are seven major brewers inthe Munich area, each of them representedby one of the circuslike tentsthat Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tentcontained benches and tables forabout five thousand persons and fromsix to ten thousands pack themselvesin, competing for room. In the centeris a tremendous bandstand, themusicians all lederhosen clad, themusic as Bavarian as any to be foundin a Bavarian beer hall. Hundreds ofpeasant garbed fräuleins darted aboutthe tables with quart sized earthenwaremugs, platters of chicken, sausage,kraut and pretzels. I found a place finally at a tablewhich had space for twenty-odd beerbibbers. Odd is right. As weird anassortment of Germans and foreigntourists as could have been dreamedup, ranging from a seventy- oreighty-year-old couple in Bavariancostume, to the bald-headed drunkacross the table from me. A desperate waitress bearing sixmugs of beer in each hand scurriedpast. They call them masses , by theway, not mugs. The bald-headedcharacter and I both held up a fingerand she slid two of the masses overto us and then hustled on. Down the hatch, the other said,holding up his mass in toast. To the ladies, I told him. Beforesipping, I said, You know, thetourist pamphlets say this stuff iseighteen per cent. That's nonsense.No beer is that strong. I took a longpull. He looked at me, waiting. I came up. Mistaken, I admitted. A mass or two apiece later he lookedcarefully at the name engraved onhis earthenware mug. Löwenbräu,he said. He took a small notebookfrom his pocket and a pencil, noteddown the word and returned thethings. That's a queer looking pencil youhave there, I told him. German? Venusian, he said. Oops, sorry.Shouldn't have said that. I had never heard of the brand soI skipped it. Next is the Hofbräu, he said. Next what? Baldy's conversationdidn't seem to hang together verywell. My pilgrimage, he told me. Allmy life I've been wanting to go backto an Oktoberfest and sample everyone of the seven brands of the bestbeer the world has ever known. I'monly as far as Löwenbräu. I'm afraidI'll never make it. I finished my mass . I'll helpyou, I told him. Very noble endeavor.Name is Simon. Arth, he said. How could youhelp? I'm still fresh—comparatively.I'll navigate you around. There areseven beer tents. How many have yougot through, so far? Two, counting this one, Arthsaid. I looked at him. It's going to bea chore, I said. You've already gota nice edge on. Outside, as we made our way tothe next tent, the fair looked likeevery big State-Fair ever seen, exceptit was bigger. Games, souvenirstands, sausage stands, rides, sideshows, and people, people, people. The Hofbräu tent was as overflowingas the last but we managed tofind two seats. The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment. In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus! Eins, Zwei, G'sufa! At the G'sufa everybody uppedwith the mugs and drank each other'shealth. This is what I call a real beerbust, I said approvingly. Arth was waving to a waitress. Asin the Löwenbräu tent, a full quartwas the smallest amount obtainable. A beer later I said, I don't knowif you'll make it or not, Arth. Make what? All seven tents. Oh. A waitress was on her way by,mugs foaming over their rims. I gesturedto her for refills. Where are you from, Arth? Iasked him, in the way of makingconversation. 2183. 2183 where? He looked at me, closing one eyeto focus better. Oh, he said. Well,2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque. New Albuquerque? Where'sthat? Arth thought about it. Took anotherlong pull at the beer. Rightacross the way from old Albuquerque,he said finally. Maybe weought to be getting on to thePschorrbräu tent. Maybe we ought to eat somethingfirst, I said. I'm beginning to feelthis. We could get some of that barbecuedox. Arth closed his eyes in pain.Vegetarian, he said. Couldn't possiblyeat meat. Barbarous. Ugh. Well, we need some nourishment,I said. There's supposed to be considerablenourishment in beer. That made sense. I yelled, Fräulein!Zwei neu bier! <doc-sep> Somewhere along in here the fogrolled in. When it rolled out again,I found myself closing one eye thebetter to read the lettering on myearthenware mug. It read Augustinerbräu.Somehow we'd evidentlynavigated from one tent to another. Arth was saying, Where's yourhotel? That seemed like a good question.I thought about it for a while. FinallyI said, Haven't got one. Town'sjam packed. Left my bag at the Bahnhof.I don't think we'll ever makeit, Arth. How many we got togo? Lost track, Arth said. You cancome home with me. We drank to that and the fog rolledin again. When the fog rolled out, it wasdaylight. Bright, glaring, awful daylight.I was sprawled, complete withclothes, on one of twin beds. On theother bed, also completely clothed,was Arth. That sun was too much. I stumbledup from the bed, staggered tothe window and fumbled around fora blind or curtain. There was none. Behind me a voice said in horror,Who ... how ... oh, Wodo ,where'd you come from? I got a quick impression, lookingout the window, that the Germanswere certainly the most modern, futuristicpeople in the world. But Icouldn't stand the light. Where'sthe shade, I moaned. Arth did something and the windowwent opaque. That's quite a gadget, I groaned.If I didn't feel so lousy, I'dappreciate it. Arth was sitting on the edge ofthe bed holding his bald head in hishands. I remember now, he sorrowed.You didn't have a hotel.What a stupidity. I'll be phased.Phased all the way down. You haven't got a handful ofaspirin, have you? I asked him. Just a minute, Arth said, staggeringerect and heading for whatundoubtedly was a bathroom. Staywhere you are. Don't move. Don'ttouch anything. All right, I told him plaintively.I'm clean. I won't mess up theplace. All I've got is a hangover, notlice. Arth was gone. He came back intwo or three minutes, box of pills inhand. Here, take one of these. I took the pill, followed it with aglass of water. <doc-sep> And went out like a light. Arth was shaking my arm. Wantanother mass ? The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment. In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus! Eins, Zwei, G'sufa! At the G'sufa everybody uppedwith their king-size mugs and drankeach other's health. My head was killing me. This iswhere I came in, or something, Igroaned. Arth said, That was last night.He looked at me over the rim of hisbeer mug. Something, somewhere, waswrong. But I didn't care. I finishedmy mass and then remembered. I'vegot to get my bag. Oh, my head.Where did we spend last night? Arth said, and his voice soundedcautious, At my hotel, don't you remember? Not very well, I admitted. Ifeel lousy. I must have dimmed out.I've got to go to the Bahnhof andget my luggage. Arth didn't put up an argumenton that. We said good-by and I couldfeel him watching after me as I pushedthrough the tables on the wayout. At the Bahnhof they could do meno good. There were no hotel roomsavailable in Munich. The head wasgetting worse by the minute. Thefact that they'd somehow managedto lose my bag didn't help. I workedon that project for at least a coupleof hours. Not only wasn't the bagat the luggage checking station, butthe attendant there evidently couldn'tmake heads nor tails of the checkreceipt. He didn't speak English andmy high school German was inadequate,especially accompanied by ablockbusting hangover. I didn't get anywhere tearing myhair and complaining from one endof the Bahnhof to the other. I drewa blank on the bag. And the head was getting worseby the minute. I was bleeding todeath through the eyes and insteadof butterflies I had bats in my stomach.Believe me, nobody should drinka gallon or more of Marzenbräu. <doc-sep> I decided the hell with it. I tooka cab to the airport, presented my returnticket, told them I wanted toleave on the first obtainable plane toNew York. I'd spent two days at the Oktoberfest , and I'd had it. I got more guff there. Somethingwas wrong with the ticket, wrongdate or some such. But they fixedthat up. I never was clear on whatwas fouled up, some clerk's error,evidently. The trip back was as uninterestingas the one over. As the hangover beganto wear off—a little—I was almostsorry I hadn't been able to stay.If I'd only been able to get a room I would have stayed, I told myself. From Idlewild, I came directly tothe office rather than going to myapartment. I figured I might as wellcheck in with Betty. I opened the door and there Ifound Mr. Oyster sitting in the chairhe had been occupying four—or wasit five—days before when I'd left.I'd lost track of the time. I said to him, Glad you're here,sir. I can report. Ah, what was ityou came for? Impatient to hear ifI'd had any results? My mind wasspinning like a whirling dervish ina revolving door. I'd spent a wad ofhis money and had nothing I couldthink of to show for it; nothing butthe last stages of a grand-daddyhangover. Came for? Mr. Oyster snorted.I'm merely waiting for your girl tomake out my receipt. I thought youhad already left. You'll miss your plane, Bettysaid. There was suddenly a double dipof ice cream in my stomach. I walkedover to my desk and looked down atthe calendar. Mr. Oyster was saying somethingto the effect that if I didn't leave today,it would have to be tomorrow,that he hadn't ponied up that thousanddollars advance for anythingless than immediate service. Stuffinghis receipt in his wallet, he fussedhis way out the door. I said to Betty hopefully, I supposeyou haven't changed this calendarsince I left. Betty said, What's the matterwith you? You look funny. How didyour clothes get so mussed? You torethe top sheet off that calendar yourself,not half an hour ago, just beforethis marble-missing client camein. She added, irrelevantly, Timetravelers yet. I tried just once more. Uh, whendid you first see this Mr. Oyster? Never saw him before in mylife, she said. Not until he camein this morning. This morning, I said weakly. While Betty stared at me as thoughit was me that needed candling by ahead shrinker preparatory to beingsent off to a pressure cooker, I fishedin my pocket for my wallet, countedthe contents and winced at thepathetic remains of the thousand.I said pleadingly, Betty, listen,how long ago did I go out that door—onthe way to the airport? You've been acting sick all morning.You went out that door aboutten minutes ago, were gone aboutthree minutes, and then came back. See here, Mr. Oyster said (interruptingSimon's story), did yousay this was supposed to be amusing,young man? I don't find it so. Infact, I believe I am being ridiculed. Simon shrugged, put one hand tohis forehead and said, That's onlythe first chapter. There are twomore. I'm not interested in more, Mr.Oyster said. I suppose your pointwas to show me how ridiculous thewhole idea actually is. Very well,you've done it. Confound it. However,I suppose your time, even whenspent in this manner, has some value.Here is fifty dollars. And good day,sir! He slammed the door after himas he left. Simon winced at the noise, tookthe aspirin bottle from its drawer,took two, washed them down withwater from the desk carafe. Betty looked at him admiringly.Came to her feet, crossed over andtook up the fifty dollars. Week'swages, she said. I suppose that'sone way of taking care of a crackpot.But I'm surprised you didn'ttake his money and enjoy that vacationyou've been yearning about. I did, Simon groaned. Threetimes. Betty stared at him. You mean— Simon nodded, miserably. She said, But Simon . Fifty thousanddollars bonus. If that story wastrue, you should have gone backagain to Munich. If there was onetime traveler, there might havebeen— I keep telling you, Simon saidbitterly, I went back there threetimes. There were hundreds of them.Probably thousands. He took a deepbreath. Listen, we're just going tohave to forget about it. They're notgoing to stand for the space-timecontinuum track being altered. Ifsomething comes up that looks likeit might result in the track beingchanged, they set you right back atthe beginning and let things start—foryou—all over again. They justcan't allow anything to come backfrom the future and change thepast. You mean, Betty was suddenlyfurious at him, you've given up!Why this is the biggest thing— Whythe fifty thousand dollars is nothing.The future! Just think! Simon said wearily, There's justone thing you can bring back withyou from the future, a hangover compoundedof a gallon or so of Marzenbräu.What's more you can pileone on top of the other, and anotheron top of that! He shuddered. If you think I'mgoing to take another crack at thismerry-go-round and pile a fourthhangover on the three I'm alreadynursing, all at once, you can thinkagain. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction June1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Simon goes to his desk as Betty remarks that he is late. He tells her that he needs a vacation, but she asks him where the funds will come from and her weekly salary. Suddenly, the door knocks, and a man named Mr. Oyster comes in. Despite having never met before, he is impressed that Simon knows him and asks the other man if he believes in time travel. Betty says it is impossible, and Mr. Oyster questions her about why. Simon then asks why he came, to which the potential client responds that he wants them to hunt up some time travelers. He asks Betty some more about science fiction and explains that he is willing to gamble his fortune to investigate the presence of time travelers in the current era. Mr. Oyster further says that these time travelers will be at the Oktoberfest in Munich, which is considered the greatest festival globally. Simon says that he is not interested in taking up the case. Betty is surprised, and Mr. Oyster tries to offer him a substantial amount of money. Simon then tells them a story where he accepts Mr. Oyster’s offer. Simon thinks about how much fun he will have and a fake report to generate for Mr. Oyster. He then goes on to be suspicious about how five million people can appear to attend a festival in a remote part of southern Germany, especially considering the population of Munich is less than one million. There is no hotel space in Munch, so Simon must go to Bahnhof to apply for hotel service. It is suspicious how the five million attendees are accommodated for this festival. The circus-like tents represent the seven major brewers of the Munich area, and many people are going around. Simon finds a space at one of the tables; he notes that the crowd is made up of both tourists and Germans. A bald-headed person and he both drink beer. The bald man accidentally reveals that his pencil is Venusian and tells Simon that his dream is to sample each of the seven best beer brands. The man then introduces himself as Arth and tells Simon that he is from a strange location. Arth offers to take him to his hotel later, and Simon goes with him. Arth gives him a box of pills for his hangover, and the scene cuts to them drinking at the festival again. Simon feels that something is off and decides to go back to New York. He returns to the office, where Mr. Oyster tells him that Betty has just finished the receipt. They are both confused and say that he has only been gone for about three minutes. Mr. Oyster is furious and leaves, while Betty asks why he didn’t just take the money. Simon tells her that he experienced the trip three times and says that he will not be dealing with a fourth hangover on top of the three already-present ones.

Describe Oktoberfest in the story. [SEP] <s> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep> There was a knock. Betty bounced up with Olympicagility and had the door swingingwide before the knocking was quitecompleted. He was old, little and had bugeyes behind pince-nez glasses. Hissuit was cut in the style of yesteryearbut when a suit costs two orthree hundred dollars you still retaincaste whatever the styling. Simon said unenthusiastically,Good morning, Mr. Oyster. He indicatedthe client's chair. Sit down,sir. The client fussed himself withBetty's assistance into the seat, bug-eyedSimon, said finally, You knowmy name, that's pretty good. Neversaw you before in my life. Stop fussingwith me, young lady. Your adin the phone book says you'll investigateanything. Anything, Simon said. Onlyone exception. Excellent. Do you believe in timetravel? Simon said nothing. Across theroom, where she had resumed herseat, Betty cleared her throat. WhenSimon continued to say nothing sheventured, Time travel is impossible. Why? Why? Yes, why? Betty looked to her boss for assistance.None was forthcoming. Thereought to be some very quick, positive,definite answer. She said, Well,for one thing, paradox. Suppose youhad a time machine and traveled backa hundred years or so and killed yourown great-grandfather. Then howcould you ever be born? Confound it if I know, the littlefellow growled. How? Simon said, Let's get to the point,what you wanted to see me about. I want to hire you to hunt me upsome time travelers, the old boysaid. Betty was too far in now to maintainher proper role of silent secretary.Time travelers, she said, notvery intelligently. The potential client sat more erect,obviously with intent to hold thefloor for a time. He removed thepince-nez glasses and pointed themat Betty. He said, Have you readmuch science fiction, Miss? Some, Betty admitted. Then you'll realize that there area dozen explanations of the paradoxesof time travel. Every writer inthe field worth his salt has explainedthem away. But to get on. It's mycontention that within a century orso man will have solved the problemsof immortality and eternal youth, andit's also my suspicion that he willeventually be able to travel in time.So convinced am I of these possibilitiesthat I am willing to gamble aportion of my fortune to investigatethe presence in our era of such timetravelers. Simon seemed incapable of carryingthe ball this morning, so Bettysaid, But ... Mr. Oyster, if thefuture has developed time travel whydon't we ever meet such travelers? Simon put in a word. The usualexplanation, Betty, is that they can'tafford to allow the space-time continuumtrack to be altered. If, say, atime traveler returned to a period oftwenty-five years ago and shot Hitler,then all subsequent history would bechanged. In that case, the time travelerhimself might never be born. Theyhave to tread mighty carefully. Mr. Oyster was pleased. I didn'texpect you to be so well informedon the subject, young man. Simon shrugged and fumbledagain with the aspirin bottle. <doc-sep> Mr. Oyster went on. I've beenconsidering the matter for some timeand— Simon held up a hand. There'sno use prolonging this. As I understandit, you're an elderly gentlemanwith a considerable fortune and yourealize that thus far nobody has succeededin taking it with him. Mr. Oyster returned his glasses totheir perch, bug-eyed Simon, but thennodded. Simon said, You want to hire meto find a time traveler and in somemanner or other—any manner willdo—exhort from him the secret ofeternal life and youth, which you figurethe future will have discovered.You're willing to pony up a part ofthis fortune of yours, if I can delivera bona fide time traveler. Right! Betty had been looking from oneto the other. Now she said, plaintively,But where are you going to findone of these characters—especially ifthey're interested in keeping hid? The old boy was the center again.I told you I'd been considering itfor some time. The Oktoberfest ,that's where they'd be! He seemedelated. Betty and Simon waited. The Oktoberfest , he repeated.The greatest festival the world hasever seen, the carnival, feria , fiesta to beat them all. Every year it's heldin Munich. Makes the New OrleansMardi gras look like a quiltingparty. He began to swing into thespirit of his description. It originallystarted in celebration of the weddingof some local prince a centuryand a half ago and the Bavarians hadsuch a bang-up time they've beenholding it every year since. TheMunich breweries do up a specialbeer, Marzenbräu they call it, andeach brewery opens a tremendous tenton the fair grounds which will holdfive thousand customers apiece. Millionsof liters of beer are put away,hundreds of thousands of barbecuedchickens, a small herd of oxen areroasted whole over spits, millions ofpair of weisswurst , a very specialsausage, millions upon millions ofpretzels— All right, Simon said. We'll acceptit. The Oktoberfest is one whaleof a wingding. <doc-sep> Well, the old boy pursued, intohis subject now, that's where they'dbe, places like the Oktoberfest . Forone thing, a time traveler wouldn'tbe conspicuous. At a festival like thissomebody with a strange accent, orwho didn't know exactly how to wearhis clothes correctly, or was off theordinary in any of a dozen otherways, wouldn't be noticed. You couldbe a four-armed space traveler fromMars, and you still wouldn't be conspicuousat the Oktoberfest . Peoplewould figure they had D.T.'s. But why would a time travelerwant to go to a— Betty began. Why not! What better opportunityto study a people than when theyare in their cups? If you could goback a few thousand years, the thingsyou would wish to see would be aRoman Triumph, perhaps the Ritesof Dionysus, or one of Alexander'sorgies. You wouldn't want to wanderup and down the streets of, say,Athens while nothing was going on,particularly when you might be revealedas a suspicious character notbeing able to speak the language, notknowing how to wear the clothes andnot familiar with the city's layout.He took a deep breath. No ma'am,you'd have to stick to some greatevent, both for the sake of actualinterest and for protection against beingunmasked. The old boy wound it up. Well,that's the story. What are your rates?The Oktoberfest starts on Friday andcontinues for sixteen days. You cantake the plane to Munich, spend aweek there and— Simon was shaking his head. Notinterested. As soon as Betty had got her jawback into place, she glared unbelievinglyat him. Mr. Oyster was taken aback himself.See here, young man, I realizethis isn't an ordinary assignment,however, as I said, I am willing torisk a considerable portion of myfortune— Sorry, Simon said. Can't bedone. A hundred dollars a day plus expenses,Mr. Oyster said quietly. Ilike the fact that you already seemto have some interest and knowledgeof the matter. I liked the way youknew my name when I walked in thedoor; my picture doesn't appear oftenin the papers. No go, Simon said, a sad qualityin his voice. A fifty thousand dollar bonus ifyou bring me a time traveler. Out of the question, Simonsaid. But why ? Betty wailed. Just for laughs, Simon told thetwo of them sourly, suppose I tellyou a funny story. It goes likethis: I got a thousand dollars from Mr.Oyster (Simon began) in the wayof an advance, and leaving him withBetty who was making out a receipt,I hustled back to the apartment andpacked a bag. Hell, I'd wanted a vacationanyway, this was a natural. Onthe way to Idlewild I stopped off atthe Germany Information Offices forsome tourist literature. It takes roughly three and a halfhours to get to Gander from Idlewild.I spent the time planning thefun I was going to have. It takes roughly seven and a halfhours from Gander to Shannon andI spent that time dreaming up materialI could put into my reports toMr. Oyster. I was going to have togive him some kind of report for hismoney. Time travel yet! What alaugh! Between Shannon and Munich afaint suspicion began to simmer inmy mind. These statistics I read onthe Oktoberfest in the Munich touristpamphlets. Five million peopleattended annually. Where did five million peoplecome from to attend an overgrownfestival in comparatively remoteSouthern Germany? The tourist seasonis over before September 21st,first day of the gigantic beer bust.Nor could the Germans account forany such number. Munich itself hasa population of less than a million,counting children. And those millions of gallons ofbeer, the hundreds of thousands ofchickens, the herds of oxen. Whoponied up all the money for such expenditures?How could the averageGerman, with his twenty-five dollarsa week salary? In Munich there was no hotelspace available. I went to the Bahnhofwhere they have a hotel serviceand applied. They put my namedown, pocketed the husky bribe,showed me where I could check mybag, told me they'd do what theycould, and to report back in a fewhours. I had another suspicious twinge.If five million people attended thisbeer bout, how were they accommodated? The Theresienwiese , the fairground, was only a few blocksaway. I was stiff from the plane rideso I walked. <doc-sep> There are seven major brewers inthe Munich area, each of them representedby one of the circuslike tentsthat Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tentcontained benches and tables forabout five thousand persons and fromsix to ten thousands pack themselvesin, competing for room. In the centeris a tremendous bandstand, themusicians all lederhosen clad, themusic as Bavarian as any to be foundin a Bavarian beer hall. Hundreds ofpeasant garbed fräuleins darted aboutthe tables with quart sized earthenwaremugs, platters of chicken, sausage,kraut and pretzels. I found a place finally at a tablewhich had space for twenty-odd beerbibbers. Odd is right. As weird anassortment of Germans and foreigntourists as could have been dreamedup, ranging from a seventy- oreighty-year-old couple in Bavariancostume, to the bald-headed drunkacross the table from me. A desperate waitress bearing sixmugs of beer in each hand scurriedpast. They call them masses , by theway, not mugs. The bald-headedcharacter and I both held up a fingerand she slid two of the masses overto us and then hustled on. Down the hatch, the other said,holding up his mass in toast. To the ladies, I told him. Beforesipping, I said, You know, thetourist pamphlets say this stuff iseighteen per cent. That's nonsense.No beer is that strong. I took a longpull. He looked at me, waiting. I came up. Mistaken, I admitted. A mass or two apiece later he lookedcarefully at the name engraved onhis earthenware mug. Löwenbräu,he said. He took a small notebookfrom his pocket and a pencil, noteddown the word and returned thethings. That's a queer looking pencil youhave there, I told him. German? Venusian, he said. Oops, sorry.Shouldn't have said that. I had never heard of the brand soI skipped it. Next is the Hofbräu, he said. Next what? Baldy's conversationdidn't seem to hang together verywell. My pilgrimage, he told me. Allmy life I've been wanting to go backto an Oktoberfest and sample everyone of the seven brands of the bestbeer the world has ever known. I'monly as far as Löwenbräu. I'm afraidI'll never make it. I finished my mass . I'll helpyou, I told him. Very noble endeavor.Name is Simon. Arth, he said. How could youhelp? I'm still fresh—comparatively.I'll navigate you around. There areseven beer tents. How many have yougot through, so far? Two, counting this one, Arthsaid. I looked at him. It's going to bea chore, I said. You've already gota nice edge on. Outside, as we made our way tothe next tent, the fair looked likeevery big State-Fair ever seen, exceptit was bigger. Games, souvenirstands, sausage stands, rides, sideshows, and people, people, people. The Hofbräu tent was as overflowingas the last but we managed tofind two seats. The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment. In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus! Eins, Zwei, G'sufa! At the G'sufa everybody uppedwith the mugs and drank each other'shealth. This is what I call a real beerbust, I said approvingly. Arth was waving to a waitress. Asin the Löwenbräu tent, a full quartwas the smallest amount obtainable. A beer later I said, I don't knowif you'll make it or not, Arth. Make what? All seven tents. Oh. A waitress was on her way by,mugs foaming over their rims. I gesturedto her for refills. Where are you from, Arth? Iasked him, in the way of makingconversation. 2183. 2183 where? He looked at me, closing one eyeto focus better. Oh, he said. Well,2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque. New Albuquerque? Where'sthat? Arth thought about it. Took anotherlong pull at the beer. Rightacross the way from old Albuquerque,he said finally. Maybe weought to be getting on to thePschorrbräu tent. Maybe we ought to eat somethingfirst, I said. I'm beginning to feelthis. We could get some of that barbecuedox. Arth closed his eyes in pain.Vegetarian, he said. Couldn't possiblyeat meat. Barbarous. Ugh. Well, we need some nourishment,I said. There's supposed to be considerablenourishment in beer. That made sense. I yelled, Fräulein!Zwei neu bier! <doc-sep> Somewhere along in here the fogrolled in. When it rolled out again,I found myself closing one eye thebetter to read the lettering on myearthenware mug. It read Augustinerbräu.Somehow we'd evidentlynavigated from one tent to another. Arth was saying, Where's yourhotel? That seemed like a good question.I thought about it for a while. FinallyI said, Haven't got one. Town'sjam packed. Left my bag at the Bahnhof.I don't think we'll ever makeit, Arth. How many we got togo? Lost track, Arth said. You cancome home with me. We drank to that and the fog rolledin again. When the fog rolled out, it wasdaylight. Bright, glaring, awful daylight.I was sprawled, complete withclothes, on one of twin beds. On theother bed, also completely clothed,was Arth. That sun was too much. I stumbledup from the bed, staggered tothe window and fumbled around fora blind or curtain. There was none. Behind me a voice said in horror,Who ... how ... oh, Wodo ,where'd you come from? I got a quick impression, lookingout the window, that the Germanswere certainly the most modern, futuristicpeople in the world. But Icouldn't stand the light. Where'sthe shade, I moaned. Arth did something and the windowwent opaque. That's quite a gadget, I groaned.If I didn't feel so lousy, I'dappreciate it. Arth was sitting on the edge ofthe bed holding his bald head in hishands. I remember now, he sorrowed.You didn't have a hotel.What a stupidity. I'll be phased.Phased all the way down. You haven't got a handful ofaspirin, have you? I asked him. Just a minute, Arth said, staggeringerect and heading for whatundoubtedly was a bathroom. Staywhere you are. Don't move. Don'ttouch anything. All right, I told him plaintively.I'm clean. I won't mess up theplace. All I've got is a hangover, notlice. Arth was gone. He came back intwo or three minutes, box of pills inhand. Here, take one of these. I took the pill, followed it with aglass of water. <doc-sep> And went out like a light. Arth was shaking my arm. Wantanother mass ? The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment. In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus! Eins, Zwei, G'sufa! At the G'sufa everybody uppedwith their king-size mugs and drankeach other's health. My head was killing me. This iswhere I came in, or something, Igroaned. Arth said, That was last night.He looked at me over the rim of hisbeer mug. Something, somewhere, waswrong. But I didn't care. I finishedmy mass and then remembered. I'vegot to get my bag. Oh, my head.Where did we spend last night? Arth said, and his voice soundedcautious, At my hotel, don't you remember? Not very well, I admitted. Ifeel lousy. I must have dimmed out.I've got to go to the Bahnhof andget my luggage. Arth didn't put up an argumenton that. We said good-by and I couldfeel him watching after me as I pushedthrough the tables on the wayout. At the Bahnhof they could do meno good. There were no hotel roomsavailable in Munich. The head wasgetting worse by the minute. Thefact that they'd somehow managedto lose my bag didn't help. I workedon that project for at least a coupleof hours. Not only wasn't the bagat the luggage checking station, butthe attendant there evidently couldn'tmake heads nor tails of the checkreceipt. He didn't speak English andmy high school German was inadequate,especially accompanied by ablockbusting hangover. I didn't get anywhere tearing myhair and complaining from one endof the Bahnhof to the other. I drewa blank on the bag. And the head was getting worseby the minute. I was bleeding todeath through the eyes and insteadof butterflies I had bats in my stomach.Believe me, nobody should drinka gallon or more of Marzenbräu. <doc-sep> I decided the hell with it. I tooka cab to the airport, presented my returnticket, told them I wanted toleave on the first obtainable plane toNew York. I'd spent two days at the Oktoberfest , and I'd had it. I got more guff there. Somethingwas wrong with the ticket, wrongdate or some such. But they fixedthat up. I never was clear on whatwas fouled up, some clerk's error,evidently. The trip back was as uninterestingas the one over. As the hangover beganto wear off—a little—I was almostsorry I hadn't been able to stay.If I'd only been able to get a room I would have stayed, I told myself. From Idlewild, I came directly tothe office rather than going to myapartment. I figured I might as wellcheck in with Betty. I opened the door and there Ifound Mr. Oyster sitting in the chairhe had been occupying four—or wasit five—days before when I'd left.I'd lost track of the time. I said to him, Glad you're here,sir. I can report. Ah, what was ityou came for? Impatient to hear ifI'd had any results? My mind wasspinning like a whirling dervish ina revolving door. I'd spent a wad ofhis money and had nothing I couldthink of to show for it; nothing butthe last stages of a grand-daddyhangover. Came for? Mr. Oyster snorted.I'm merely waiting for your girl tomake out my receipt. I thought youhad already left. You'll miss your plane, Bettysaid. There was suddenly a double dipof ice cream in my stomach. I walkedover to my desk and looked down atthe calendar. Mr. Oyster was saying somethingto the effect that if I didn't leave today,it would have to be tomorrow,that he hadn't ponied up that thousanddollars advance for anythingless than immediate service. Stuffinghis receipt in his wallet, he fussedhis way out the door. I said to Betty hopefully, I supposeyou haven't changed this calendarsince I left. Betty said, What's the matterwith you? You look funny. How didyour clothes get so mussed? You torethe top sheet off that calendar yourself,not half an hour ago, just beforethis marble-missing client camein. She added, irrelevantly, Timetravelers yet. I tried just once more. Uh, whendid you first see this Mr. Oyster? Never saw him before in mylife, she said. Not until he camein this morning. This morning, I said weakly. While Betty stared at me as thoughit was me that needed candling by ahead shrinker preparatory to beingsent off to a pressure cooker, I fishedin my pocket for my wallet, countedthe contents and winced at thepathetic remains of the thousand.I said pleadingly, Betty, listen,how long ago did I go out that door—onthe way to the airport? You've been acting sick all morning.You went out that door aboutten minutes ago, were gone aboutthree minutes, and then came back. See here, Mr. Oyster said (interruptingSimon's story), did yousay this was supposed to be amusing,young man? I don't find it so. Infact, I believe I am being ridiculed. Simon shrugged, put one hand tohis forehead and said, That's onlythe first chapter. There are twomore. I'm not interested in more, Mr.Oyster said. I suppose your pointwas to show me how ridiculous thewhole idea actually is. Very well,you've done it. Confound it. However,I suppose your time, even whenspent in this manner, has some value.Here is fifty dollars. And good day,sir! He slammed the door after himas he left. Simon winced at the noise, tookthe aspirin bottle from its drawer,took two, washed them down withwater from the desk carafe. Betty looked at him admiringly.Came to her feet, crossed over andtook up the fifty dollars. Week'swages, she said. I suppose that'sone way of taking care of a crackpot.But I'm surprised you didn'ttake his money and enjoy that vacationyou've been yearning about. I did, Simon groaned. Threetimes. Betty stared at him. You mean— Simon nodded, miserably. She said, But Simon . Fifty thousanddollars bonus. If that story wastrue, you should have gone backagain to Munich. If there was onetime traveler, there might havebeen— I keep telling you, Simon saidbitterly, I went back there threetimes. There were hundreds of them.Probably thousands. He took a deepbreath. Listen, we're just going tohave to forget about it. They're notgoing to stand for the space-timecontinuum track being altered. Ifsomething comes up that looks likeit might result in the track beingchanged, they set you right back atthe beginning and let things start—foryou—all over again. They justcan't allow anything to come backfrom the future and change thepast. You mean, Betty was suddenlyfurious at him, you've given up!Why this is the biggest thing— Whythe fifty thousand dollars is nothing.The future! Just think! Simon said wearily, There's justone thing you can bring back withyou from the future, a hangover compoundedof a gallon or so of Marzenbräu.What's more you can pileone on top of the other, and anotheron top of that! He shuddered. If you think I'mgoing to take another crack at thismerry-go-round and pile a fourthhangover on the three I'm alreadynursing, all at once, you can thinkagain. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction June1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe Oktoberfest in the story.

Oktoberfest, as described by Mr. Oyster, is held in Munich. It is the greatest festival the world has ever seen; each brewery opens a tremendous tent on the fairgrounds, holding five thousand customers apiece. There are millions of liters of beer, hundreds of thousands of barbecued chickens, oxen roasted over spits, millions of pairs of weisswurst sausage, and millions of pretzels. Since there are many people at Oktoberfest, it is perfect for strange people to blend in since nobody will notice. Oktoberfest is also mentioned to start on a Friday and continues for sixteen days. In Simon’s story, the seven major brewers of the Munich area are all represented by circus-like tents. Each tent contains benches and tables that can seat up to five thousand people. There is a tremendous bandstand in the tent's center, where the musicians are lederhosen-clad. The music is described to be Bavarian as well. It is described that there are many desperate waitresses as well, scrambling around and handing people masses of beer. In terms of people, it is extremely loud and crowded; tourists and German natives are all present and try to squeeze into the tents.

Who is Arth, and what are his characteristics? [SEP] <s> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep> There was a knock. Betty bounced up with Olympicagility and had the door swingingwide before the knocking was quitecompleted. He was old, little and had bugeyes behind pince-nez glasses. Hissuit was cut in the style of yesteryearbut when a suit costs two orthree hundred dollars you still retaincaste whatever the styling. Simon said unenthusiastically,Good morning, Mr. Oyster. He indicatedthe client's chair. Sit down,sir. The client fussed himself withBetty's assistance into the seat, bug-eyedSimon, said finally, You knowmy name, that's pretty good. Neversaw you before in my life. Stop fussingwith me, young lady. Your adin the phone book says you'll investigateanything. Anything, Simon said. Onlyone exception. Excellent. Do you believe in timetravel? Simon said nothing. Across theroom, where she had resumed herseat, Betty cleared her throat. WhenSimon continued to say nothing sheventured, Time travel is impossible. Why? Why? Yes, why? Betty looked to her boss for assistance.None was forthcoming. Thereought to be some very quick, positive,definite answer. She said, Well,for one thing, paradox. Suppose youhad a time machine and traveled backa hundred years or so and killed yourown great-grandfather. Then howcould you ever be born? Confound it if I know, the littlefellow growled. How? Simon said, Let's get to the point,what you wanted to see me about. I want to hire you to hunt me upsome time travelers, the old boysaid. Betty was too far in now to maintainher proper role of silent secretary.Time travelers, she said, notvery intelligently. The potential client sat more erect,obviously with intent to hold thefloor for a time. He removed thepince-nez glasses and pointed themat Betty. He said, Have you readmuch science fiction, Miss? Some, Betty admitted. Then you'll realize that there area dozen explanations of the paradoxesof time travel. Every writer inthe field worth his salt has explainedthem away. But to get on. It's mycontention that within a century orso man will have solved the problemsof immortality and eternal youth, andit's also my suspicion that he willeventually be able to travel in time.So convinced am I of these possibilitiesthat I am willing to gamble aportion of my fortune to investigatethe presence in our era of such timetravelers. Simon seemed incapable of carryingthe ball this morning, so Bettysaid, But ... Mr. Oyster, if thefuture has developed time travel whydon't we ever meet such travelers? Simon put in a word. The usualexplanation, Betty, is that they can'tafford to allow the space-time continuumtrack to be altered. If, say, atime traveler returned to a period oftwenty-five years ago and shot Hitler,then all subsequent history would bechanged. In that case, the time travelerhimself might never be born. Theyhave to tread mighty carefully. Mr. Oyster was pleased. I didn'texpect you to be so well informedon the subject, young man. Simon shrugged and fumbledagain with the aspirin bottle. <doc-sep> Mr. Oyster went on. I've beenconsidering the matter for some timeand— Simon held up a hand. There'sno use prolonging this. As I understandit, you're an elderly gentlemanwith a considerable fortune and yourealize that thus far nobody has succeededin taking it with him. Mr. Oyster returned his glasses totheir perch, bug-eyed Simon, but thennodded. Simon said, You want to hire meto find a time traveler and in somemanner or other—any manner willdo—exhort from him the secret ofeternal life and youth, which you figurethe future will have discovered.You're willing to pony up a part ofthis fortune of yours, if I can delivera bona fide time traveler. Right! Betty had been looking from oneto the other. Now she said, plaintively,But where are you going to findone of these characters—especially ifthey're interested in keeping hid? The old boy was the center again.I told you I'd been considering itfor some time. The Oktoberfest ,that's where they'd be! He seemedelated. Betty and Simon waited. The Oktoberfest , he repeated.The greatest festival the world hasever seen, the carnival, feria , fiesta to beat them all. Every year it's heldin Munich. Makes the New OrleansMardi gras look like a quiltingparty. He began to swing into thespirit of his description. It originallystarted in celebration of the weddingof some local prince a centuryand a half ago and the Bavarians hadsuch a bang-up time they've beenholding it every year since. TheMunich breweries do up a specialbeer, Marzenbräu they call it, andeach brewery opens a tremendous tenton the fair grounds which will holdfive thousand customers apiece. Millionsof liters of beer are put away,hundreds of thousands of barbecuedchickens, a small herd of oxen areroasted whole over spits, millions ofpair of weisswurst , a very specialsausage, millions upon millions ofpretzels— All right, Simon said. We'll acceptit. The Oktoberfest is one whaleof a wingding. <doc-sep> Well, the old boy pursued, intohis subject now, that's where they'dbe, places like the Oktoberfest . Forone thing, a time traveler wouldn'tbe conspicuous. At a festival like thissomebody with a strange accent, orwho didn't know exactly how to wearhis clothes correctly, or was off theordinary in any of a dozen otherways, wouldn't be noticed. You couldbe a four-armed space traveler fromMars, and you still wouldn't be conspicuousat the Oktoberfest . Peoplewould figure they had D.T.'s. But why would a time travelerwant to go to a— Betty began. Why not! What better opportunityto study a people than when theyare in their cups? If you could goback a few thousand years, the thingsyou would wish to see would be aRoman Triumph, perhaps the Ritesof Dionysus, or one of Alexander'sorgies. You wouldn't want to wanderup and down the streets of, say,Athens while nothing was going on,particularly when you might be revealedas a suspicious character notbeing able to speak the language, notknowing how to wear the clothes andnot familiar with the city's layout.He took a deep breath. No ma'am,you'd have to stick to some greatevent, both for the sake of actualinterest and for protection against beingunmasked. The old boy wound it up. Well,that's the story. What are your rates?The Oktoberfest starts on Friday andcontinues for sixteen days. You cantake the plane to Munich, spend aweek there and— Simon was shaking his head. Notinterested. As soon as Betty had got her jawback into place, she glared unbelievinglyat him. Mr. Oyster was taken aback himself.See here, young man, I realizethis isn't an ordinary assignment,however, as I said, I am willing torisk a considerable portion of myfortune— Sorry, Simon said. Can't bedone. A hundred dollars a day plus expenses,Mr. Oyster said quietly. Ilike the fact that you already seemto have some interest and knowledgeof the matter. I liked the way youknew my name when I walked in thedoor; my picture doesn't appear oftenin the papers. No go, Simon said, a sad qualityin his voice. A fifty thousand dollar bonus ifyou bring me a time traveler. Out of the question, Simonsaid. But why ? Betty wailed. Just for laughs, Simon told thetwo of them sourly, suppose I tellyou a funny story. It goes likethis: I got a thousand dollars from Mr.Oyster (Simon began) in the wayof an advance, and leaving him withBetty who was making out a receipt,I hustled back to the apartment andpacked a bag. Hell, I'd wanted a vacationanyway, this was a natural. Onthe way to Idlewild I stopped off atthe Germany Information Offices forsome tourist literature. It takes roughly three and a halfhours to get to Gander from Idlewild.I spent the time planning thefun I was going to have. It takes roughly seven and a halfhours from Gander to Shannon andI spent that time dreaming up materialI could put into my reports toMr. Oyster. I was going to have togive him some kind of report for hismoney. Time travel yet! What alaugh! Between Shannon and Munich afaint suspicion began to simmer inmy mind. These statistics I read onthe Oktoberfest in the Munich touristpamphlets. Five million peopleattended annually. Where did five million peoplecome from to attend an overgrownfestival in comparatively remoteSouthern Germany? The tourist seasonis over before September 21st,first day of the gigantic beer bust.Nor could the Germans account forany such number. Munich itself hasa population of less than a million,counting children. And those millions of gallons ofbeer, the hundreds of thousands ofchickens, the herds of oxen. Whoponied up all the money for such expenditures?How could the averageGerman, with his twenty-five dollarsa week salary? In Munich there was no hotelspace available. I went to the Bahnhofwhere they have a hotel serviceand applied. They put my namedown, pocketed the husky bribe,showed me where I could check mybag, told me they'd do what theycould, and to report back in a fewhours. I had another suspicious twinge.If five million people attended thisbeer bout, how were they accommodated? The Theresienwiese , the fairground, was only a few blocksaway. I was stiff from the plane rideso I walked. <doc-sep> There are seven major brewers inthe Munich area, each of them representedby one of the circuslike tentsthat Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tentcontained benches and tables forabout five thousand persons and fromsix to ten thousands pack themselvesin, competing for room. In the centeris a tremendous bandstand, themusicians all lederhosen clad, themusic as Bavarian as any to be foundin a Bavarian beer hall. Hundreds ofpeasant garbed fräuleins darted aboutthe tables with quart sized earthenwaremugs, platters of chicken, sausage,kraut and pretzels. I found a place finally at a tablewhich had space for twenty-odd beerbibbers. Odd is right. As weird anassortment of Germans and foreigntourists as could have been dreamedup, ranging from a seventy- oreighty-year-old couple in Bavariancostume, to the bald-headed drunkacross the table from me. A desperate waitress bearing sixmugs of beer in each hand scurriedpast. They call them masses , by theway, not mugs. The bald-headedcharacter and I both held up a fingerand she slid two of the masses overto us and then hustled on. Down the hatch, the other said,holding up his mass in toast. To the ladies, I told him. Beforesipping, I said, You know, thetourist pamphlets say this stuff iseighteen per cent. That's nonsense.No beer is that strong. I took a longpull. He looked at me, waiting. I came up. Mistaken, I admitted. A mass or two apiece later he lookedcarefully at the name engraved onhis earthenware mug. Löwenbräu,he said. He took a small notebookfrom his pocket and a pencil, noteddown the word and returned thethings. That's a queer looking pencil youhave there, I told him. German? Venusian, he said. Oops, sorry.Shouldn't have said that. I had never heard of the brand soI skipped it. Next is the Hofbräu, he said. Next what? Baldy's conversationdidn't seem to hang together verywell. My pilgrimage, he told me. Allmy life I've been wanting to go backto an Oktoberfest and sample everyone of the seven brands of the bestbeer the world has ever known. I'monly as far as Löwenbräu. I'm afraidI'll never make it. I finished my mass . I'll helpyou, I told him. Very noble endeavor.Name is Simon. Arth, he said. How could youhelp? I'm still fresh—comparatively.I'll navigate you around. There areseven beer tents. How many have yougot through, so far? Two, counting this one, Arthsaid. I looked at him. It's going to bea chore, I said. You've already gota nice edge on. Outside, as we made our way tothe next tent, the fair looked likeevery big State-Fair ever seen, exceptit was bigger. Games, souvenirstands, sausage stands, rides, sideshows, and people, people, people. The Hofbräu tent was as overflowingas the last but we managed tofind two seats. The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment. In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus! Eins, Zwei, G'sufa! At the G'sufa everybody uppedwith the mugs and drank each other'shealth. This is what I call a real beerbust, I said approvingly. Arth was waving to a waitress. Asin the Löwenbräu tent, a full quartwas the smallest amount obtainable. A beer later I said, I don't knowif you'll make it or not, Arth. Make what? All seven tents. Oh. A waitress was on her way by,mugs foaming over their rims. I gesturedto her for refills. Where are you from, Arth? Iasked him, in the way of makingconversation. 2183. 2183 where? He looked at me, closing one eyeto focus better. Oh, he said. Well,2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque. New Albuquerque? Where'sthat? Arth thought about it. Took anotherlong pull at the beer. Rightacross the way from old Albuquerque,he said finally. Maybe weought to be getting on to thePschorrbräu tent. Maybe we ought to eat somethingfirst, I said. I'm beginning to feelthis. We could get some of that barbecuedox. Arth closed his eyes in pain.Vegetarian, he said. Couldn't possiblyeat meat. Barbarous. Ugh. Well, we need some nourishment,I said. There's supposed to be considerablenourishment in beer. That made sense. I yelled, Fräulein!Zwei neu bier! <doc-sep> Somewhere along in here the fogrolled in. When it rolled out again,I found myself closing one eye thebetter to read the lettering on myearthenware mug. It read Augustinerbräu.Somehow we'd evidentlynavigated from one tent to another. Arth was saying, Where's yourhotel? That seemed like a good question.I thought about it for a while. FinallyI said, Haven't got one. Town'sjam packed. Left my bag at the Bahnhof.I don't think we'll ever makeit, Arth. How many we got togo? Lost track, Arth said. You cancome home with me. We drank to that and the fog rolledin again. When the fog rolled out, it wasdaylight. Bright, glaring, awful daylight.I was sprawled, complete withclothes, on one of twin beds. On theother bed, also completely clothed,was Arth. That sun was too much. I stumbledup from the bed, staggered tothe window and fumbled around fora blind or curtain. There was none. Behind me a voice said in horror,Who ... how ... oh, Wodo ,where'd you come from? I got a quick impression, lookingout the window, that the Germanswere certainly the most modern, futuristicpeople in the world. But Icouldn't stand the light. Where'sthe shade, I moaned. Arth did something and the windowwent opaque. That's quite a gadget, I groaned.If I didn't feel so lousy, I'dappreciate it. Arth was sitting on the edge ofthe bed holding his bald head in hishands. I remember now, he sorrowed.You didn't have a hotel.What a stupidity. I'll be phased.Phased all the way down. You haven't got a handful ofaspirin, have you? I asked him. Just a minute, Arth said, staggeringerect and heading for whatundoubtedly was a bathroom. Staywhere you are. Don't move. Don'ttouch anything. All right, I told him plaintively.I'm clean. I won't mess up theplace. All I've got is a hangover, notlice. Arth was gone. He came back intwo or three minutes, box of pills inhand. Here, take one of these. I took the pill, followed it with aglass of water. <doc-sep> And went out like a light. Arth was shaking my arm. Wantanother mass ? The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment. In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus! Eins, Zwei, G'sufa! At the G'sufa everybody uppedwith their king-size mugs and drankeach other's health. My head was killing me. This iswhere I came in, or something, Igroaned. Arth said, That was last night.He looked at me over the rim of hisbeer mug. Something, somewhere, waswrong. But I didn't care. I finishedmy mass and then remembered. I'vegot to get my bag. Oh, my head.Where did we spend last night? Arth said, and his voice soundedcautious, At my hotel, don't you remember? Not very well, I admitted. Ifeel lousy. I must have dimmed out.I've got to go to the Bahnhof andget my luggage. Arth didn't put up an argumenton that. We said good-by and I couldfeel him watching after me as I pushedthrough the tables on the wayout. At the Bahnhof they could do meno good. There were no hotel roomsavailable in Munich. The head wasgetting worse by the minute. Thefact that they'd somehow managedto lose my bag didn't help. I workedon that project for at least a coupleof hours. Not only wasn't the bagat the luggage checking station, butthe attendant there evidently couldn'tmake heads nor tails of the checkreceipt. He didn't speak English andmy high school German was inadequate,especially accompanied by ablockbusting hangover. I didn't get anywhere tearing myhair and complaining from one endof the Bahnhof to the other. I drewa blank on the bag. And the head was getting worseby the minute. I was bleeding todeath through the eyes and insteadof butterflies I had bats in my stomach.Believe me, nobody should drinka gallon or more of Marzenbräu. <doc-sep> I decided the hell with it. I tooka cab to the airport, presented my returnticket, told them I wanted toleave on the first obtainable plane toNew York. I'd spent two days at the Oktoberfest , and I'd had it. I got more guff there. Somethingwas wrong with the ticket, wrongdate or some such. But they fixedthat up. I never was clear on whatwas fouled up, some clerk's error,evidently. The trip back was as uninterestingas the one over. As the hangover beganto wear off—a little—I was almostsorry I hadn't been able to stay.If I'd only been able to get a room I would have stayed, I told myself. From Idlewild, I came directly tothe office rather than going to myapartment. I figured I might as wellcheck in with Betty. I opened the door and there Ifound Mr. Oyster sitting in the chairhe had been occupying four—or wasit five—days before when I'd left.I'd lost track of the time. I said to him, Glad you're here,sir. I can report. Ah, what was ityou came for? Impatient to hear ifI'd had any results? My mind wasspinning like a whirling dervish ina revolving door. I'd spent a wad ofhis money and had nothing I couldthink of to show for it; nothing butthe last stages of a grand-daddyhangover. Came for? Mr. Oyster snorted.I'm merely waiting for your girl tomake out my receipt. I thought youhad already left. You'll miss your plane, Bettysaid. There was suddenly a double dipof ice cream in my stomach. I walkedover to my desk and looked down atthe calendar. Mr. Oyster was saying somethingto the effect that if I didn't leave today,it would have to be tomorrow,that he hadn't ponied up that thousanddollars advance for anythingless than immediate service. Stuffinghis receipt in his wallet, he fussedhis way out the door. I said to Betty hopefully, I supposeyou haven't changed this calendarsince I left. Betty said, What's the matterwith you? You look funny. How didyour clothes get so mussed? You torethe top sheet off that calendar yourself,not half an hour ago, just beforethis marble-missing client camein. She added, irrelevantly, Timetravelers yet. I tried just once more. Uh, whendid you first see this Mr. Oyster? Never saw him before in mylife, she said. Not until he camein this morning. This morning, I said weakly. While Betty stared at me as thoughit was me that needed candling by ahead shrinker preparatory to beingsent off to a pressure cooker, I fishedin my pocket for my wallet, countedthe contents and winced at thepathetic remains of the thousand.I said pleadingly, Betty, listen,how long ago did I go out that door—onthe way to the airport? You've been acting sick all morning.You went out that door aboutten minutes ago, were gone aboutthree minutes, and then came back. See here, Mr. Oyster said (interruptingSimon's story), did yousay this was supposed to be amusing,young man? I don't find it so. Infact, I believe I am being ridiculed. Simon shrugged, put one hand tohis forehead and said, That's onlythe first chapter. There are twomore. I'm not interested in more, Mr.Oyster said. I suppose your pointwas to show me how ridiculous thewhole idea actually is. Very well,you've done it. Confound it. However,I suppose your time, even whenspent in this manner, has some value.Here is fifty dollars. And good day,sir! He slammed the door after himas he left. Simon winced at the noise, tookthe aspirin bottle from its drawer,took two, washed them down withwater from the desk carafe. Betty looked at him admiringly.Came to her feet, crossed over andtook up the fifty dollars. Week'swages, she said. I suppose that'sone way of taking care of a crackpot.But I'm surprised you didn'ttake his money and enjoy that vacationyou've been yearning about. I did, Simon groaned. Threetimes. Betty stared at him. You mean— Simon nodded, miserably. She said, But Simon . Fifty thousanddollars bonus. If that story wastrue, you should have gone backagain to Munich. If there was onetime traveler, there might havebeen— I keep telling you, Simon saidbitterly, I went back there threetimes. There were hundreds of them.Probably thousands. He took a deepbreath. Listen, we're just going tohave to forget about it. They're notgoing to stand for the space-timecontinuum track being altered. Ifsomething comes up that looks likeit might result in the track beingchanged, they set you right back atthe beginning and let things start—foryou—all over again. They justcan't allow anything to come backfrom the future and change thepast. You mean, Betty was suddenlyfurious at him, you've given up!Why this is the biggest thing— Whythe fifty thousand dollars is nothing.The future! Just think! Simon said wearily, There's justone thing you can bring back withyou from the future, a hangover compoundedof a gallon or so of Marzenbräu.What's more you can pileone on top of the other, and anotheron top of that! He shuddered. If you think I'mgoing to take another crack at thismerry-go-round and pile a fourthhangover on the three I'm alreadynursing, all at once, you can thinkagain. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction June1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Arth, and what are his characteristics?

Arth is a bald man at Oktoberfest. He is first introduced as a bald-headed drunk who sits across from Simon. They share a beer together and toast. After, Arth makes a note to write down the name engraved on his mug in a small notebook with a pencil. When Simon asks if he is German, Arth accidentally responds that his pencil is Venusian. Arth is very determined to fulfill his pilgrimage of trying every single beer at Oktoberfest, but he is disappointed that he will never make it. Simon asks him where he is from when they go to another tent, and Arth responds that he is from 2183 South St in New Albuquerque; it is situated right across Old Albuquerque. Arth also has a kind side to him, as he offers to take Simon to his hotel to rest for the night. He even offers Simon a box of pills to help with his hangover. When they go back to drinking again, he looks at Simon cautiously when the latter does not remember where he spent the night. Arth looks at Simon strangely as he goes back, even though he is initially portrayed as a friendly and kind bald man.

Who is Simon, and what are his characteristics? [SEP] <s> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep> There was a knock. Betty bounced up with Olympicagility and had the door swingingwide before the knocking was quitecompleted. He was old, little and had bugeyes behind pince-nez glasses. Hissuit was cut in the style of yesteryearbut when a suit costs two orthree hundred dollars you still retaincaste whatever the styling. Simon said unenthusiastically,Good morning, Mr. Oyster. He indicatedthe client's chair. Sit down,sir. The client fussed himself withBetty's assistance into the seat, bug-eyedSimon, said finally, You knowmy name, that's pretty good. Neversaw you before in my life. Stop fussingwith me, young lady. Your adin the phone book says you'll investigateanything. Anything, Simon said. Onlyone exception. Excellent. Do you believe in timetravel? Simon said nothing. Across theroom, where she had resumed herseat, Betty cleared her throat. WhenSimon continued to say nothing sheventured, Time travel is impossible. Why? Why? Yes, why? Betty looked to her boss for assistance.None was forthcoming. Thereought to be some very quick, positive,definite answer. She said, Well,for one thing, paradox. Suppose youhad a time machine and traveled backa hundred years or so and killed yourown great-grandfather. Then howcould you ever be born? Confound it if I know, the littlefellow growled. How? Simon said, Let's get to the point,what you wanted to see me about. I want to hire you to hunt me upsome time travelers, the old boysaid. Betty was too far in now to maintainher proper role of silent secretary.Time travelers, she said, notvery intelligently. The potential client sat more erect,obviously with intent to hold thefloor for a time. He removed thepince-nez glasses and pointed themat Betty. He said, Have you readmuch science fiction, Miss? Some, Betty admitted. Then you'll realize that there area dozen explanations of the paradoxesof time travel. Every writer inthe field worth his salt has explainedthem away. But to get on. It's mycontention that within a century orso man will have solved the problemsof immortality and eternal youth, andit's also my suspicion that he willeventually be able to travel in time.So convinced am I of these possibilitiesthat I am willing to gamble aportion of my fortune to investigatethe presence in our era of such timetravelers. Simon seemed incapable of carryingthe ball this morning, so Bettysaid, But ... Mr. Oyster, if thefuture has developed time travel whydon't we ever meet such travelers? Simon put in a word. The usualexplanation, Betty, is that they can'tafford to allow the space-time continuumtrack to be altered. If, say, atime traveler returned to a period oftwenty-five years ago and shot Hitler,then all subsequent history would bechanged. In that case, the time travelerhimself might never be born. Theyhave to tread mighty carefully. Mr. Oyster was pleased. I didn'texpect you to be so well informedon the subject, young man. Simon shrugged and fumbledagain with the aspirin bottle. <doc-sep> Mr. Oyster went on. I've beenconsidering the matter for some timeand— Simon held up a hand. There'sno use prolonging this. As I understandit, you're an elderly gentlemanwith a considerable fortune and yourealize that thus far nobody has succeededin taking it with him. Mr. Oyster returned his glasses totheir perch, bug-eyed Simon, but thennodded. Simon said, You want to hire meto find a time traveler and in somemanner or other—any manner willdo—exhort from him the secret ofeternal life and youth, which you figurethe future will have discovered.You're willing to pony up a part ofthis fortune of yours, if I can delivera bona fide time traveler. Right! Betty had been looking from oneto the other. Now she said, plaintively,But where are you going to findone of these characters—especially ifthey're interested in keeping hid? The old boy was the center again.I told you I'd been considering itfor some time. The Oktoberfest ,that's where they'd be! He seemedelated. Betty and Simon waited. The Oktoberfest , he repeated.The greatest festival the world hasever seen, the carnival, feria , fiesta to beat them all. Every year it's heldin Munich. Makes the New OrleansMardi gras look like a quiltingparty. He began to swing into thespirit of his description. It originallystarted in celebration of the weddingof some local prince a centuryand a half ago and the Bavarians hadsuch a bang-up time they've beenholding it every year since. TheMunich breweries do up a specialbeer, Marzenbräu they call it, andeach brewery opens a tremendous tenton the fair grounds which will holdfive thousand customers apiece. Millionsof liters of beer are put away,hundreds of thousands of barbecuedchickens, a small herd of oxen areroasted whole over spits, millions ofpair of weisswurst , a very specialsausage, millions upon millions ofpretzels— All right, Simon said. We'll acceptit. The Oktoberfest is one whaleof a wingding. <doc-sep> Well, the old boy pursued, intohis subject now, that's where they'dbe, places like the Oktoberfest . Forone thing, a time traveler wouldn'tbe conspicuous. At a festival like thissomebody with a strange accent, orwho didn't know exactly how to wearhis clothes correctly, or was off theordinary in any of a dozen otherways, wouldn't be noticed. You couldbe a four-armed space traveler fromMars, and you still wouldn't be conspicuousat the Oktoberfest . Peoplewould figure they had D.T.'s. But why would a time travelerwant to go to a— Betty began. Why not! What better opportunityto study a people than when theyare in their cups? If you could goback a few thousand years, the thingsyou would wish to see would be aRoman Triumph, perhaps the Ritesof Dionysus, or one of Alexander'sorgies. You wouldn't want to wanderup and down the streets of, say,Athens while nothing was going on,particularly when you might be revealedas a suspicious character notbeing able to speak the language, notknowing how to wear the clothes andnot familiar with the city's layout.He took a deep breath. No ma'am,you'd have to stick to some greatevent, both for the sake of actualinterest and for protection against beingunmasked. The old boy wound it up. Well,that's the story. What are your rates?The Oktoberfest starts on Friday andcontinues for sixteen days. You cantake the plane to Munich, spend aweek there and— Simon was shaking his head. Notinterested. As soon as Betty had got her jawback into place, she glared unbelievinglyat him. Mr. Oyster was taken aback himself.See here, young man, I realizethis isn't an ordinary assignment,however, as I said, I am willing torisk a considerable portion of myfortune— Sorry, Simon said. Can't bedone. A hundred dollars a day plus expenses,Mr. Oyster said quietly. Ilike the fact that you already seemto have some interest and knowledgeof the matter. I liked the way youknew my name when I walked in thedoor; my picture doesn't appear oftenin the papers. No go, Simon said, a sad qualityin his voice. A fifty thousand dollar bonus ifyou bring me a time traveler. Out of the question, Simonsaid. But why ? Betty wailed. Just for laughs, Simon told thetwo of them sourly, suppose I tellyou a funny story. It goes likethis: I got a thousand dollars from Mr.Oyster (Simon began) in the wayof an advance, and leaving him withBetty who was making out a receipt,I hustled back to the apartment andpacked a bag. Hell, I'd wanted a vacationanyway, this was a natural. Onthe way to Idlewild I stopped off atthe Germany Information Offices forsome tourist literature. It takes roughly three and a halfhours to get to Gander from Idlewild.I spent the time planning thefun I was going to have. It takes roughly seven and a halfhours from Gander to Shannon andI spent that time dreaming up materialI could put into my reports toMr. Oyster. I was going to have togive him some kind of report for hismoney. Time travel yet! What alaugh! Between Shannon and Munich afaint suspicion began to simmer inmy mind. These statistics I read onthe Oktoberfest in the Munich touristpamphlets. Five million peopleattended annually. Where did five million peoplecome from to attend an overgrownfestival in comparatively remoteSouthern Germany? The tourist seasonis over before September 21st,first day of the gigantic beer bust.Nor could the Germans account forany such number. Munich itself hasa population of less than a million,counting children. And those millions of gallons ofbeer, the hundreds of thousands ofchickens, the herds of oxen. Whoponied up all the money for such expenditures?How could the averageGerman, with his twenty-five dollarsa week salary? In Munich there was no hotelspace available. I went to the Bahnhofwhere they have a hotel serviceand applied. They put my namedown, pocketed the husky bribe,showed me where I could check mybag, told me they'd do what theycould, and to report back in a fewhours. I had another suspicious twinge.If five million people attended thisbeer bout, how were they accommodated? The Theresienwiese , the fairground, was only a few blocksaway. I was stiff from the plane rideso I walked. <doc-sep> There are seven major brewers inthe Munich area, each of them representedby one of the circuslike tentsthat Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tentcontained benches and tables forabout five thousand persons and fromsix to ten thousands pack themselvesin, competing for room. In the centeris a tremendous bandstand, themusicians all lederhosen clad, themusic as Bavarian as any to be foundin a Bavarian beer hall. Hundreds ofpeasant garbed fräuleins darted aboutthe tables with quart sized earthenwaremugs, platters of chicken, sausage,kraut and pretzels. I found a place finally at a tablewhich had space for twenty-odd beerbibbers. Odd is right. As weird anassortment of Germans and foreigntourists as could have been dreamedup, ranging from a seventy- oreighty-year-old couple in Bavariancostume, to the bald-headed drunkacross the table from me. A desperate waitress bearing sixmugs of beer in each hand scurriedpast. They call them masses , by theway, not mugs. The bald-headedcharacter and I both held up a fingerand she slid two of the masses overto us and then hustled on. Down the hatch, the other said,holding up his mass in toast. To the ladies, I told him. Beforesipping, I said, You know, thetourist pamphlets say this stuff iseighteen per cent. That's nonsense.No beer is that strong. I took a longpull. He looked at me, waiting. I came up. Mistaken, I admitted. A mass or two apiece later he lookedcarefully at the name engraved onhis earthenware mug. Löwenbräu,he said. He took a small notebookfrom his pocket and a pencil, noteddown the word and returned thethings. That's a queer looking pencil youhave there, I told him. German? Venusian, he said. Oops, sorry.Shouldn't have said that. I had never heard of the brand soI skipped it. Next is the Hofbräu, he said. Next what? Baldy's conversationdidn't seem to hang together verywell. My pilgrimage, he told me. Allmy life I've been wanting to go backto an Oktoberfest and sample everyone of the seven brands of the bestbeer the world has ever known. I'monly as far as Löwenbräu. I'm afraidI'll never make it. I finished my mass . I'll helpyou, I told him. Very noble endeavor.Name is Simon. Arth, he said. How could youhelp? I'm still fresh—comparatively.I'll navigate you around. There areseven beer tents. How many have yougot through, so far? Two, counting this one, Arthsaid. I looked at him. It's going to bea chore, I said. You've already gota nice edge on. Outside, as we made our way tothe next tent, the fair looked likeevery big State-Fair ever seen, exceptit was bigger. Games, souvenirstands, sausage stands, rides, sideshows, and people, people, people. The Hofbräu tent was as overflowingas the last but we managed tofind two seats. The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment. In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus! Eins, Zwei, G'sufa! At the G'sufa everybody uppedwith the mugs and drank each other'shealth. This is what I call a real beerbust, I said approvingly. Arth was waving to a waitress. Asin the Löwenbräu tent, a full quartwas the smallest amount obtainable. A beer later I said, I don't knowif you'll make it or not, Arth. Make what? All seven tents. Oh. A waitress was on her way by,mugs foaming over their rims. I gesturedto her for refills. Where are you from, Arth? Iasked him, in the way of makingconversation. 2183. 2183 where? He looked at me, closing one eyeto focus better. Oh, he said. Well,2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque. New Albuquerque? Where'sthat? Arth thought about it. Took anotherlong pull at the beer. Rightacross the way from old Albuquerque,he said finally. Maybe weought to be getting on to thePschorrbräu tent. Maybe we ought to eat somethingfirst, I said. I'm beginning to feelthis. We could get some of that barbecuedox. Arth closed his eyes in pain.Vegetarian, he said. Couldn't possiblyeat meat. Barbarous. Ugh. Well, we need some nourishment,I said. There's supposed to be considerablenourishment in beer. That made sense. I yelled, Fräulein!Zwei neu bier! <doc-sep> Somewhere along in here the fogrolled in. When it rolled out again,I found myself closing one eye thebetter to read the lettering on myearthenware mug. It read Augustinerbräu.Somehow we'd evidentlynavigated from one tent to another. Arth was saying, Where's yourhotel? That seemed like a good question.I thought about it for a while. FinallyI said, Haven't got one. Town'sjam packed. Left my bag at the Bahnhof.I don't think we'll ever makeit, Arth. How many we got togo? Lost track, Arth said. You cancome home with me. We drank to that and the fog rolledin again. When the fog rolled out, it wasdaylight. Bright, glaring, awful daylight.I was sprawled, complete withclothes, on one of twin beds. On theother bed, also completely clothed,was Arth. That sun was too much. I stumbledup from the bed, staggered tothe window and fumbled around fora blind or curtain. There was none. Behind me a voice said in horror,Who ... how ... oh, Wodo ,where'd you come from? I got a quick impression, lookingout the window, that the Germanswere certainly the most modern, futuristicpeople in the world. But Icouldn't stand the light. Where'sthe shade, I moaned. Arth did something and the windowwent opaque. That's quite a gadget, I groaned.If I didn't feel so lousy, I'dappreciate it. Arth was sitting on the edge ofthe bed holding his bald head in hishands. I remember now, he sorrowed.You didn't have a hotel.What a stupidity. I'll be phased.Phased all the way down. You haven't got a handful ofaspirin, have you? I asked him. Just a minute, Arth said, staggeringerect and heading for whatundoubtedly was a bathroom. Staywhere you are. Don't move. Don'ttouch anything. All right, I told him plaintively.I'm clean. I won't mess up theplace. All I've got is a hangover, notlice. Arth was gone. He came back intwo or three minutes, box of pills inhand. Here, take one of these. I took the pill, followed it with aglass of water. <doc-sep> And went out like a light. Arth was shaking my arm. Wantanother mass ? The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment. In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus! Eins, Zwei, G'sufa! At the G'sufa everybody uppedwith their king-size mugs and drankeach other's health. My head was killing me. This iswhere I came in, or something, Igroaned. Arth said, That was last night.He looked at me over the rim of hisbeer mug. Something, somewhere, waswrong. But I didn't care. I finishedmy mass and then remembered. I'vegot to get my bag. Oh, my head.Where did we spend last night? Arth said, and his voice soundedcautious, At my hotel, don't you remember? Not very well, I admitted. Ifeel lousy. I must have dimmed out.I've got to go to the Bahnhof andget my luggage. Arth didn't put up an argumenton that. We said good-by and I couldfeel him watching after me as I pushedthrough the tables on the wayout. At the Bahnhof they could do meno good. There were no hotel roomsavailable in Munich. The head wasgetting worse by the minute. Thefact that they'd somehow managedto lose my bag didn't help. I workedon that project for at least a coupleof hours. Not only wasn't the bagat the luggage checking station, butthe attendant there evidently couldn'tmake heads nor tails of the checkreceipt. He didn't speak English andmy high school German was inadequate,especially accompanied by ablockbusting hangover. I didn't get anywhere tearing myhair and complaining from one endof the Bahnhof to the other. I drewa blank on the bag. And the head was getting worseby the minute. I was bleeding todeath through the eyes and insteadof butterflies I had bats in my stomach.Believe me, nobody should drinka gallon or more of Marzenbräu. <doc-sep> I decided the hell with it. I tooka cab to the airport, presented my returnticket, told them I wanted toleave on the first obtainable plane toNew York. I'd spent two days at the Oktoberfest , and I'd had it. I got more guff there. Somethingwas wrong with the ticket, wrongdate or some such. But they fixedthat up. I never was clear on whatwas fouled up, some clerk's error,evidently. The trip back was as uninterestingas the one over. As the hangover beganto wear off—a little—I was almostsorry I hadn't been able to stay.If I'd only been able to get a room I would have stayed, I told myself. From Idlewild, I came directly tothe office rather than going to myapartment. I figured I might as wellcheck in with Betty. I opened the door and there Ifound Mr. Oyster sitting in the chairhe had been occupying four—or wasit five—days before when I'd left.I'd lost track of the time. I said to him, Glad you're here,sir. I can report. Ah, what was ityou came for? Impatient to hear ifI'd had any results? My mind wasspinning like a whirling dervish ina revolving door. I'd spent a wad ofhis money and had nothing I couldthink of to show for it; nothing butthe last stages of a grand-daddyhangover. Came for? Mr. Oyster snorted.I'm merely waiting for your girl tomake out my receipt. I thought youhad already left. You'll miss your plane, Bettysaid. There was suddenly a double dipof ice cream in my stomach. I walkedover to my desk and looked down atthe calendar. Mr. Oyster was saying somethingto the effect that if I didn't leave today,it would have to be tomorrow,that he hadn't ponied up that thousanddollars advance for anythingless than immediate service. Stuffinghis receipt in his wallet, he fussedhis way out the door. I said to Betty hopefully, I supposeyou haven't changed this calendarsince I left. Betty said, What's the matterwith you? You look funny. How didyour clothes get so mussed? You torethe top sheet off that calendar yourself,not half an hour ago, just beforethis marble-missing client camein. She added, irrelevantly, Timetravelers yet. I tried just once more. Uh, whendid you first see this Mr. Oyster? Never saw him before in mylife, she said. Not until he camein this morning. This morning, I said weakly. While Betty stared at me as thoughit was me that needed candling by ahead shrinker preparatory to beingsent off to a pressure cooker, I fishedin my pocket for my wallet, countedthe contents and winced at thepathetic remains of the thousand.I said pleadingly, Betty, listen,how long ago did I go out that door—onthe way to the airport? You've been acting sick all morning.You went out that door aboutten minutes ago, were gone aboutthree minutes, and then came back. See here, Mr. Oyster said (interruptingSimon's story), did yousay this was supposed to be amusing,young man? I don't find it so. Infact, I believe I am being ridiculed. Simon shrugged, put one hand tohis forehead and said, That's onlythe first chapter. There are twomore. I'm not interested in more, Mr.Oyster said. I suppose your pointwas to show me how ridiculous thewhole idea actually is. Very well,you've done it. Confound it. However,I suppose your time, even whenspent in this manner, has some value.Here is fifty dollars. And good day,sir! He slammed the door after himas he left. Simon winced at the noise, tookthe aspirin bottle from its drawer,took two, washed them down withwater from the desk carafe. Betty looked at him admiringly.Came to her feet, crossed over andtook up the fifty dollars. Week'swages, she said. I suppose that'sone way of taking care of a crackpot.But I'm surprised you didn'ttake his money and enjoy that vacationyou've been yearning about. I did, Simon groaned. Threetimes. Betty stared at him. You mean— Simon nodded, miserably. She said, But Simon . Fifty thousanddollars bonus. If that story wastrue, you should have gone backagain to Munich. If there was onetime traveler, there might havebeen— I keep telling you, Simon saidbitterly, I went back there threetimes. There were hundreds of them.Probably thousands. He took a deepbreath. Listen, we're just going tohave to forget about it. They're notgoing to stand for the space-timecontinuum track being altered. Ifsomething comes up that looks likeit might result in the track beingchanged, they set you right back atthe beginning and let things start—foryou—all over again. They justcan't allow anything to come backfrom the future and change thepast. You mean, Betty was suddenlyfurious at him, you've given up!Why this is the biggest thing— Whythe fifty thousand dollars is nothing.The future! Just think! Simon said wearily, There's justone thing you can bring back withyou from the future, a hangover compoundedof a gallon or so of Marzenbräu.What's more you can pileone on top of the other, and anotheron top of that! He shuddered. If you think I'mgoing to take another crack at thismerry-go-round and pile a fourthhangover on the three I'm alreadynursing, all at once, you can thinkagain. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction June1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Simon, and what are his characteristics?

Simon works with Betty investigating many cases at their office in New York. He initially has a terrible headache and has to take aspirin for his hangover. He is perceptive as well, knowing who Mr. Oyster is without having seen him before and informative about time travel. However, he does show a stubborn side when he refuses Mr. Oyster’s offer no matter how much money the other man offers him. Even though he could just create a false report for Mr. Oyster, he refuses to take the job. Simon later reveals to Betty that he has already experienced going to Oktoberfest three times and has brought nothing but multiple hangovers back. In the story he tells, Simon is very friendly towards Arth and tries to help him on his pilgrimage. He ends up getting extremely hungover and goes back to New York, which then resets the entire cycle of events again.

How does the story Simon tells relate back to Mr. Oyster’s initial request to find time travelers? [SEP] <s> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep> There was a knock. Betty bounced up with Olympicagility and had the door swingingwide before the knocking was quitecompleted. He was old, little and had bugeyes behind pince-nez glasses. Hissuit was cut in the style of yesteryearbut when a suit costs two orthree hundred dollars you still retaincaste whatever the styling. Simon said unenthusiastically,Good morning, Mr. Oyster. He indicatedthe client's chair. Sit down,sir. The client fussed himself withBetty's assistance into the seat, bug-eyedSimon, said finally, You knowmy name, that's pretty good. Neversaw you before in my life. Stop fussingwith me, young lady. Your adin the phone book says you'll investigateanything. Anything, Simon said. Onlyone exception. Excellent. Do you believe in timetravel? Simon said nothing. Across theroom, where she had resumed herseat, Betty cleared her throat. WhenSimon continued to say nothing sheventured, Time travel is impossible. Why? Why? Yes, why? Betty looked to her boss for assistance.None was forthcoming. Thereought to be some very quick, positive,definite answer. She said, Well,for one thing, paradox. Suppose youhad a time machine and traveled backa hundred years or so and killed yourown great-grandfather. Then howcould you ever be born? Confound it if I know, the littlefellow growled. How? Simon said, Let's get to the point,what you wanted to see me about. I want to hire you to hunt me upsome time travelers, the old boysaid. Betty was too far in now to maintainher proper role of silent secretary.Time travelers, she said, notvery intelligently. The potential client sat more erect,obviously with intent to hold thefloor for a time. He removed thepince-nez glasses and pointed themat Betty. He said, Have you readmuch science fiction, Miss? Some, Betty admitted. Then you'll realize that there area dozen explanations of the paradoxesof time travel. Every writer inthe field worth his salt has explainedthem away. But to get on. It's mycontention that within a century orso man will have solved the problemsof immortality and eternal youth, andit's also my suspicion that he willeventually be able to travel in time.So convinced am I of these possibilitiesthat I am willing to gamble aportion of my fortune to investigatethe presence in our era of such timetravelers. Simon seemed incapable of carryingthe ball this morning, so Bettysaid, But ... Mr. Oyster, if thefuture has developed time travel whydon't we ever meet such travelers? Simon put in a word. The usualexplanation, Betty, is that they can'tafford to allow the space-time continuumtrack to be altered. If, say, atime traveler returned to a period oftwenty-five years ago and shot Hitler,then all subsequent history would bechanged. In that case, the time travelerhimself might never be born. Theyhave to tread mighty carefully. Mr. Oyster was pleased. I didn'texpect you to be so well informedon the subject, young man. Simon shrugged and fumbledagain with the aspirin bottle. <doc-sep> Mr. Oyster went on. I've beenconsidering the matter for some timeand— Simon held up a hand. There'sno use prolonging this. As I understandit, you're an elderly gentlemanwith a considerable fortune and yourealize that thus far nobody has succeededin taking it with him. Mr. Oyster returned his glasses totheir perch, bug-eyed Simon, but thennodded. Simon said, You want to hire meto find a time traveler and in somemanner or other—any manner willdo—exhort from him the secret ofeternal life and youth, which you figurethe future will have discovered.You're willing to pony up a part ofthis fortune of yours, if I can delivera bona fide time traveler. Right! Betty had been looking from oneto the other. Now she said, plaintively,But where are you going to findone of these characters—especially ifthey're interested in keeping hid? The old boy was the center again.I told you I'd been considering itfor some time. The Oktoberfest ,that's where they'd be! He seemedelated. Betty and Simon waited. The Oktoberfest , he repeated.The greatest festival the world hasever seen, the carnival, feria , fiesta to beat them all. Every year it's heldin Munich. Makes the New OrleansMardi gras look like a quiltingparty. He began to swing into thespirit of his description. It originallystarted in celebration of the weddingof some local prince a centuryand a half ago and the Bavarians hadsuch a bang-up time they've beenholding it every year since. TheMunich breweries do up a specialbeer, Marzenbräu they call it, andeach brewery opens a tremendous tenton the fair grounds which will holdfive thousand customers apiece. Millionsof liters of beer are put away,hundreds of thousands of barbecuedchickens, a small herd of oxen areroasted whole over spits, millions ofpair of weisswurst , a very specialsausage, millions upon millions ofpretzels— All right, Simon said. We'll acceptit. The Oktoberfest is one whaleof a wingding. <doc-sep> Well, the old boy pursued, intohis subject now, that's where they'dbe, places like the Oktoberfest . Forone thing, a time traveler wouldn'tbe conspicuous. At a festival like thissomebody with a strange accent, orwho didn't know exactly how to wearhis clothes correctly, or was off theordinary in any of a dozen otherways, wouldn't be noticed. You couldbe a four-armed space traveler fromMars, and you still wouldn't be conspicuousat the Oktoberfest . Peoplewould figure they had D.T.'s. But why would a time travelerwant to go to a— Betty began. Why not! What better opportunityto study a people than when theyare in their cups? If you could goback a few thousand years, the thingsyou would wish to see would be aRoman Triumph, perhaps the Ritesof Dionysus, or one of Alexander'sorgies. You wouldn't want to wanderup and down the streets of, say,Athens while nothing was going on,particularly when you might be revealedas a suspicious character notbeing able to speak the language, notknowing how to wear the clothes andnot familiar with the city's layout.He took a deep breath. No ma'am,you'd have to stick to some greatevent, both for the sake of actualinterest and for protection against beingunmasked. The old boy wound it up. Well,that's the story. What are your rates?The Oktoberfest starts on Friday andcontinues for sixteen days. You cantake the plane to Munich, spend aweek there and— Simon was shaking his head. Notinterested. As soon as Betty had got her jawback into place, she glared unbelievinglyat him. Mr. Oyster was taken aback himself.See here, young man, I realizethis isn't an ordinary assignment,however, as I said, I am willing torisk a considerable portion of myfortune— Sorry, Simon said. Can't bedone. A hundred dollars a day plus expenses,Mr. Oyster said quietly. Ilike the fact that you already seemto have some interest and knowledgeof the matter. I liked the way youknew my name when I walked in thedoor; my picture doesn't appear oftenin the papers. No go, Simon said, a sad qualityin his voice. A fifty thousand dollar bonus ifyou bring me a time traveler. Out of the question, Simonsaid. But why ? Betty wailed. Just for laughs, Simon told thetwo of them sourly, suppose I tellyou a funny story. It goes likethis: I got a thousand dollars from Mr.Oyster (Simon began) in the wayof an advance, and leaving him withBetty who was making out a receipt,I hustled back to the apartment andpacked a bag. Hell, I'd wanted a vacationanyway, this was a natural. Onthe way to Idlewild I stopped off atthe Germany Information Offices forsome tourist literature. It takes roughly three and a halfhours to get to Gander from Idlewild.I spent the time planning thefun I was going to have. It takes roughly seven and a halfhours from Gander to Shannon andI spent that time dreaming up materialI could put into my reports toMr. Oyster. I was going to have togive him some kind of report for hismoney. Time travel yet! What alaugh! Between Shannon and Munich afaint suspicion began to simmer inmy mind. These statistics I read onthe Oktoberfest in the Munich touristpamphlets. Five million peopleattended annually. Where did five million peoplecome from to attend an overgrownfestival in comparatively remoteSouthern Germany? The tourist seasonis over before September 21st,first day of the gigantic beer bust.Nor could the Germans account forany such number. Munich itself hasa population of less than a million,counting children. And those millions of gallons ofbeer, the hundreds of thousands ofchickens, the herds of oxen. Whoponied up all the money for such expenditures?How could the averageGerman, with his twenty-five dollarsa week salary? In Munich there was no hotelspace available. I went to the Bahnhofwhere they have a hotel serviceand applied. They put my namedown, pocketed the husky bribe,showed me where I could check mybag, told me they'd do what theycould, and to report back in a fewhours. I had another suspicious twinge.If five million people attended thisbeer bout, how were they accommodated? The Theresienwiese , the fairground, was only a few blocksaway. I was stiff from the plane rideso I walked. <doc-sep> There are seven major brewers inthe Munich area, each of them representedby one of the circuslike tentsthat Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tentcontained benches and tables forabout five thousand persons and fromsix to ten thousands pack themselvesin, competing for room. In the centeris a tremendous bandstand, themusicians all lederhosen clad, themusic as Bavarian as any to be foundin a Bavarian beer hall. Hundreds ofpeasant garbed fräuleins darted aboutthe tables with quart sized earthenwaremugs, platters of chicken, sausage,kraut and pretzels. I found a place finally at a tablewhich had space for twenty-odd beerbibbers. Odd is right. As weird anassortment of Germans and foreigntourists as could have been dreamedup, ranging from a seventy- oreighty-year-old couple in Bavariancostume, to the bald-headed drunkacross the table from me. A desperate waitress bearing sixmugs of beer in each hand scurriedpast. They call them masses , by theway, not mugs. The bald-headedcharacter and I both held up a fingerand she slid two of the masses overto us and then hustled on. Down the hatch, the other said,holding up his mass in toast. To the ladies, I told him. Beforesipping, I said, You know, thetourist pamphlets say this stuff iseighteen per cent. That's nonsense.No beer is that strong. I took a longpull. He looked at me, waiting. I came up. Mistaken, I admitted. A mass or two apiece later he lookedcarefully at the name engraved onhis earthenware mug. Löwenbräu,he said. He took a small notebookfrom his pocket and a pencil, noteddown the word and returned thethings. That's a queer looking pencil youhave there, I told him. German? Venusian, he said. Oops, sorry.Shouldn't have said that. I had never heard of the brand soI skipped it. Next is the Hofbräu, he said. Next what? Baldy's conversationdidn't seem to hang together verywell. My pilgrimage, he told me. Allmy life I've been wanting to go backto an Oktoberfest and sample everyone of the seven brands of the bestbeer the world has ever known. I'monly as far as Löwenbräu. I'm afraidI'll never make it. I finished my mass . I'll helpyou, I told him. Very noble endeavor.Name is Simon. Arth, he said. How could youhelp? I'm still fresh—comparatively.I'll navigate you around. There areseven beer tents. How many have yougot through, so far? Two, counting this one, Arthsaid. I looked at him. It's going to bea chore, I said. You've already gota nice edge on. Outside, as we made our way tothe next tent, the fair looked likeevery big State-Fair ever seen, exceptit was bigger. Games, souvenirstands, sausage stands, rides, sideshows, and people, people, people. The Hofbräu tent was as overflowingas the last but we managed tofind two seats. The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment. In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus! Eins, Zwei, G'sufa! At the G'sufa everybody uppedwith the mugs and drank each other'shealth. This is what I call a real beerbust, I said approvingly. Arth was waving to a waitress. Asin the Löwenbräu tent, a full quartwas the smallest amount obtainable. A beer later I said, I don't knowif you'll make it or not, Arth. Make what? All seven tents. Oh. A waitress was on her way by,mugs foaming over their rims. I gesturedto her for refills. Where are you from, Arth? Iasked him, in the way of makingconversation. 2183. 2183 where? He looked at me, closing one eyeto focus better. Oh, he said. Well,2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque. New Albuquerque? Where'sthat? Arth thought about it. Took anotherlong pull at the beer. Rightacross the way from old Albuquerque,he said finally. Maybe weought to be getting on to thePschorrbräu tent. Maybe we ought to eat somethingfirst, I said. I'm beginning to feelthis. We could get some of that barbecuedox. Arth closed his eyes in pain.Vegetarian, he said. Couldn't possiblyeat meat. Barbarous. Ugh. Well, we need some nourishment,I said. There's supposed to be considerablenourishment in beer. That made sense. I yelled, Fräulein!Zwei neu bier! <doc-sep> Somewhere along in here the fogrolled in. When it rolled out again,I found myself closing one eye thebetter to read the lettering on myearthenware mug. It read Augustinerbräu.Somehow we'd evidentlynavigated from one tent to another. Arth was saying, Where's yourhotel? That seemed like a good question.I thought about it for a while. FinallyI said, Haven't got one. Town'sjam packed. Left my bag at the Bahnhof.I don't think we'll ever makeit, Arth. How many we got togo? Lost track, Arth said. You cancome home with me. We drank to that and the fog rolledin again. When the fog rolled out, it wasdaylight. Bright, glaring, awful daylight.I was sprawled, complete withclothes, on one of twin beds. On theother bed, also completely clothed,was Arth. That sun was too much. I stumbledup from the bed, staggered tothe window and fumbled around fora blind or curtain. There was none. Behind me a voice said in horror,Who ... how ... oh, Wodo ,where'd you come from? I got a quick impression, lookingout the window, that the Germanswere certainly the most modern, futuristicpeople in the world. But Icouldn't stand the light. Where'sthe shade, I moaned. Arth did something and the windowwent opaque. That's quite a gadget, I groaned.If I didn't feel so lousy, I'dappreciate it. Arth was sitting on the edge ofthe bed holding his bald head in hishands. I remember now, he sorrowed.You didn't have a hotel.What a stupidity. I'll be phased.Phased all the way down. You haven't got a handful ofaspirin, have you? I asked him. Just a minute, Arth said, staggeringerect and heading for whatundoubtedly was a bathroom. Staywhere you are. Don't move. Don'ttouch anything. All right, I told him plaintively.I'm clean. I won't mess up theplace. All I've got is a hangover, notlice. Arth was gone. He came back intwo or three minutes, box of pills inhand. Here, take one of these. I took the pill, followed it with aglass of water. <doc-sep> And went out like a light. Arth was shaking my arm. Wantanother mass ? The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment. In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus! Eins, Zwei, G'sufa! At the G'sufa everybody uppedwith their king-size mugs and drankeach other's health. My head was killing me. This iswhere I came in, or something, Igroaned. Arth said, That was last night.He looked at me over the rim of hisbeer mug. Something, somewhere, waswrong. But I didn't care. I finishedmy mass and then remembered. I'vegot to get my bag. Oh, my head.Where did we spend last night? Arth said, and his voice soundedcautious, At my hotel, don't you remember? Not very well, I admitted. Ifeel lousy. I must have dimmed out.I've got to go to the Bahnhof andget my luggage. Arth didn't put up an argumenton that. We said good-by and I couldfeel him watching after me as I pushedthrough the tables on the wayout. At the Bahnhof they could do meno good. There were no hotel roomsavailable in Munich. The head wasgetting worse by the minute. Thefact that they'd somehow managedto lose my bag didn't help. I workedon that project for at least a coupleof hours. Not only wasn't the bagat the luggage checking station, butthe attendant there evidently couldn'tmake heads nor tails of the checkreceipt. He didn't speak English andmy high school German was inadequate,especially accompanied by ablockbusting hangover. I didn't get anywhere tearing myhair and complaining from one endof the Bahnhof to the other. I drewa blank on the bag. And the head was getting worseby the minute. I was bleeding todeath through the eyes and insteadof butterflies I had bats in my stomach.Believe me, nobody should drinka gallon or more of Marzenbräu. <doc-sep> I decided the hell with it. I tooka cab to the airport, presented my returnticket, told them I wanted toleave on the first obtainable plane toNew York. I'd spent two days at the Oktoberfest , and I'd had it. I got more guff there. Somethingwas wrong with the ticket, wrongdate or some such. But they fixedthat up. I never was clear on whatwas fouled up, some clerk's error,evidently. The trip back was as uninterestingas the one over. As the hangover beganto wear off—a little—I was almostsorry I hadn't been able to stay.If I'd only been able to get a room I would have stayed, I told myself. From Idlewild, I came directly tothe office rather than going to myapartment. I figured I might as wellcheck in with Betty. I opened the door and there Ifound Mr. Oyster sitting in the chairhe had been occupying four—or wasit five—days before when I'd left.I'd lost track of the time. I said to him, Glad you're here,sir. I can report. Ah, what was ityou came for? Impatient to hear ifI'd had any results? My mind wasspinning like a whirling dervish ina revolving door. I'd spent a wad ofhis money and had nothing I couldthink of to show for it; nothing butthe last stages of a grand-daddyhangover. Came for? Mr. Oyster snorted.I'm merely waiting for your girl tomake out my receipt. I thought youhad already left. You'll miss your plane, Bettysaid. There was suddenly a double dipof ice cream in my stomach. I walkedover to my desk and looked down atthe calendar. Mr. Oyster was saying somethingto the effect that if I didn't leave today,it would have to be tomorrow,that he hadn't ponied up that thousanddollars advance for anythingless than immediate service. Stuffinghis receipt in his wallet, he fussedhis way out the door. I said to Betty hopefully, I supposeyou haven't changed this calendarsince I left. Betty said, What's the matterwith you? You look funny. How didyour clothes get so mussed? You torethe top sheet off that calendar yourself,not half an hour ago, just beforethis marble-missing client camein. She added, irrelevantly, Timetravelers yet. I tried just once more. Uh, whendid you first see this Mr. Oyster? Never saw him before in mylife, she said. Not until he camein this morning. This morning, I said weakly. While Betty stared at me as thoughit was me that needed candling by ahead shrinker preparatory to beingsent off to a pressure cooker, I fishedin my pocket for my wallet, countedthe contents and winced at thepathetic remains of the thousand.I said pleadingly, Betty, listen,how long ago did I go out that door—onthe way to the airport? You've been acting sick all morning.You went out that door aboutten minutes ago, were gone aboutthree minutes, and then came back. See here, Mr. Oyster said (interruptingSimon's story), did yousay this was supposed to be amusing,young man? I don't find it so. Infact, I believe I am being ridiculed. Simon shrugged, put one hand tohis forehead and said, That's onlythe first chapter. There are twomore. I'm not interested in more, Mr.Oyster said. I suppose your pointwas to show me how ridiculous thewhole idea actually is. Very well,you've done it. Confound it. However,I suppose your time, even whenspent in this manner, has some value.Here is fifty dollars. And good day,sir! He slammed the door after himas he left. Simon winced at the noise, tookthe aspirin bottle from its drawer,took two, washed them down withwater from the desk carafe. Betty looked at him admiringly.Came to her feet, crossed over andtook up the fifty dollars. Week'swages, she said. I suppose that'sone way of taking care of a crackpot.But I'm surprised you didn'ttake his money and enjoy that vacationyou've been yearning about. I did, Simon groaned. Threetimes. Betty stared at him. You mean— Simon nodded, miserably. She said, But Simon . Fifty thousanddollars bonus. If that story wastrue, you should have gone backagain to Munich. If there was onetime traveler, there might havebeen— I keep telling you, Simon saidbitterly, I went back there threetimes. There were hundreds of them.Probably thousands. He took a deepbreath. Listen, we're just going tohave to forget about it. They're notgoing to stand for the space-timecontinuum track being altered. Ifsomething comes up that looks likeit might result in the track beingchanged, they set you right back atthe beginning and let things start—foryou—all over again. They justcan't allow anything to come backfrom the future and change thepast. You mean, Betty was suddenlyfurious at him, you've given up!Why this is the biggest thing— Whythe fifty thousand dollars is nothing.The future! Just think! Simon said wearily, There's justone thing you can bring back withyou from the future, a hangover compoundedof a gallon or so of Marzenbräu.What's more you can pileone on top of the other, and anotheron top of that! He shuddered. If you think I'mgoing to take another crack at thismerry-go-round and pile a fourthhangover on the three I'm alreadynursing, all at once, you can thinkagain. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction June1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does the story Simon tells relate back to Mr. Oyster’s initial request to find time travelers?

The story that Simon tells relates back to Mr. Oyster’s initial request about time travelers because he is the one who time traveled. Although he calls it a funny story, the sequence of events he describes is all actual events he experiences. The entire purpose of Mr. Oyster’s request and his desire to spend a portion of his fortune is to find a time traveler and come to a conclusion that they exist. However, he fails to realize that the very person he is asking has time traveled. Since the events were repeated three times, Simon’s refusal now changes the flow of events in the near future to avoid a fourth hangover. Even though Mr. Oyster leaves angrily, Simon’s story serves as a true report of time traveling and fulfills Mr. Oyster’s request.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> A FALL OF GLASS By STANLEY R. LEE Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The weatherman was always right: Temperature, 59; humidity, 47%; occasional light showers—but of what? The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously. It was a splendid day. The temperature was a crisp 59 degrees, thehumidity a mildly dessicated 47%. The sun was a flaming orange ball ina cloudless blue sky. His pockets were picked eleven times. It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was amasterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was HumphreyFownes' abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. Hewas strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses,one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions.But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject tobegin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking sodeeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too manypeople were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum DomeConditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a boguspostman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In theconfusion of spilled letters and apologies from both sides, the postmanrifled Fownes's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets. <doc-sep>He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girlhappened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got hisright and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence.The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time.He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in aheated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied hisrear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of thehandkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of putand take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea hewas playing. There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass. It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist,hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings ofa celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-lightfragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Domeweevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed thehuge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing. Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass stillintrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humiditythat was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was thisrather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tightsurveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of gettinghis fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayedand chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returningthem. Two blocks away from his home a careless housewife spilled afive-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster ofParis. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight andhandedness behind. By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier completewith photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in anorange patrol car parked down the street. <doc-sep>Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job. Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Fownesapproach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was anodd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature. It was similarto that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new andparticularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope. Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be toleratedwithin the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a socialforce; it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it,Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see thatgenuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his ownsmall efforts, rarer. Fownes was a masterpiece of queerness. He was utterly inexplicable.Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes. Sometimes his house shakes , Lanfierre said. House shakes, Lieutenant MacBride wrote in his notebook. Then hestopped and frowned. He reread what he'd just written. You heard right. The house shakes , Lanfierre said, savoring it. MacBride looked at the Fownes house through the magnifying glass ofthe windshield. Like from ... side to side ? he asked in a somewhatpatronizing tone of voice. And up and down. MacBride returned the notebook to the breast pocket of his orangeuniform. Go on, he said, amused. It sounds interesting. He tossedthe dossier carelessly on the back seat. Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBridecouldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways MacBridewas a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. Hehad even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantlyabsurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It wasonly with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownesto MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre hadseen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimlyresounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spokein an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievablytrite. Then a fine robust freak came along and the others—the echoes—refusedto believe it. The lieutenant was probably on the point of suggesting avacation. Why don't you take a vacation? Lieutenant MacBride suggested. It's like this, MacBride. Do you know what a wind is? A breeze? Azephyr? I've heard some. They say there are mountain-tops where winds blow all the time. Strongwinds, MacBride. Winds like you and I can't imagine. And if there wasa house sitting on such a mountain and if winds did blow, it wouldshake exactly the way that one does. Sometimes I get the feeling thewhole place is going to slide off its foundation and go sailing downthe avenue. <doc-sep>Lieutenant MacBride pursed his lips. I'll tell you something else, Lanfierre went on. The windows allclose at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden everysingle window in the place will drop to its sill. Lanfierre leanedback in the seat, his eyes still on the house. Sometimes I thinkthere's a whole crowd of people in there waiting for a signal—as ifthey all had something important to say but had to close the windowsfirst so no one could hear. Why else close the windows in a domed city?And then as soon as the place is buttoned up they all explode intoconversation—and that's why the house shakes. MacBride whistled. No, I don't need a vacation. A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against thewindshield. Lanfierre started and bumped his knee on the steering wheel. No, you don't need a rest, MacBride said. You're starting to seeflying houses, hear loud babbling voices. You've got winds in yourbrain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality— At that moment, all at once, every last window in the house slammedshut. The street was deserted and quiet, not a movement, not a sound.MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for theghostly babble of voices to commence. The house began to shake. It rocked from side to side, it pitched forward and back, it yawed anddipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. Thehouse could have been preparing to take off and sail down the.... MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and thenthey both looked back at the dancing house. And the water , Lanfierre said. The water he uses! He could bethe thirstiest and cleanest man in the city. He could have a wholefamily of thirsty and clean kids, and he still wouldn't need all thatwater. The lieutenant had picked up the dossier. He thumbed through the pagesnow in amazement. Where do you get a guy like this? he asked. Didyou see what he carries in his pockets? And compasses won't work on this street. The lieutenant lit a cigarette and sighed. He usually sighed when making the decision to raid a dwelling. Itexpressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and gotneurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. Therewas something implacable about his sighs. He'll be coming out soon, Lanfierre said. He eats supper next doorwith a widow. Then he goes to the library. Always the same. Supper atthe widow's next door and then the library. MacBride's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. The library? hesaid. Is he in with that bunch? Lanfierre nodded. Should be very interesting, MacBride said slowly. I can't wait to see what he's got in there, Lanfierre murmured,watching the house with a consuming interest. They sat there smoking in silence and every now and then their eyeswidened as the house danced a new step. <doc-sep>Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off hisshoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupationof his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn'tnoticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. Hehad a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and thehigh-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of thehouse. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watchfrom outside. He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no roomleft in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist adraw-pull. Every window slammed shut. Tight as a kite, he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward thecloset at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was thatright? No, snug as a hug in a rug . He went on, thinking: The olddevils. The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion ofwheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-sawthat went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had acurious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged fromgrandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in gracefulcircles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although therewas one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. Hewatched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them forseven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year. Outside, the domed city vanished. It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a moresatisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.Looking through the window he saw only a garden. Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sunsetting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which leftthe smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid ahuge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon agarden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses. Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory. And cocktails fortwo. Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched asthe moon played, Oh, You Beautiful Doll and the neon roses flashedslowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned onthe scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated roseas the moon shifted to People Will Say We're In Love . <doc-sep>He rubbed his chin critically. It seemed all right. A dreamy sunset,an enchanted moon, flowers, scent. They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rosereally smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. Butthen, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive. Insist on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realisticromantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icyfingers marching up and down your spine? His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read thatbook on ancient mores and courtship customs. How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incrediblylong and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amountof falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Nomeant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and thecircumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later onthis evening. He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,thinking roguishly: Thou shalt not inundate. The risks he was taking!A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant Singing in the Rain . Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red suncontinued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over anddemolished several of the neon roses. The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steeringwheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; hegingerly turned it. Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle ofwinds came to him. He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This wasimportant; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose andthe moon shook a trifle as it whispered Cuddle Up a Little Closer . He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start. My dearMrs. Deshazaway. Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romanticgarden; time to be a bit forward. My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway. No.Contrived. How about a simple, Dear Mrs. Deshazaway . That might beit. I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn'trather stay over instead of going home.... Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear theshaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connectedto wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they madeone gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance ashigh-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening theStudebaker valve wider and wider.... The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sunshot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moonfell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning When theBlue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day . The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to theStudebaker wheel and shut it off. At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn'tthe first time the winds got out of line. Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all downand went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.Its days were thirty and it followed September. And all the rest havethirty-one. What a strange people, the ancients! He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street. <doc-sep>Men are too perishable, Mrs. Deshazaway said over dinner. For allpractical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die. Would you pass the beets, please? Humphrey Fownes said. She handed him a platter of steaming red beets. And don't look at methat way, she said. I'm not going to marry you and if you wantreasons I'll give you four of them. Andrew. Curt. Norman. And Alphonse. The widow was a passionate woman. She did everythingpassionately—talking, cooking, dressing. Her beets were passionatelyred. Her clothes rustled and her high heels clicked and her jewelrytinkled. She was possessed by an uncontrollable dynamism. Fownes hadnever known anyone like her. You forgot to put salt on the potatoes,she said passionately, then went on as calmly as it was possible forher to be, to explain why she couldn't marry him. Do you have anyidea what people are saying? They're all saying I'm a cannibal! I robmy husbands of their life force and when they're empty I carry theirbodies outside on my way to the justice of the peace. As long as there are people, he said philosophically, there'll betalk. But it's the air! Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale,I'm positive. It's not nourishing. The air is stale and Andrew, Curt,Norman and Alphonse couldn't stand it. Poor Alphonse. He was never sohealthy as on the day he was born. From then on things got steadilyworse for him. I don't seem to mind the air. She threw up her hands. You'd be the worst of the lot! She left thetable, rustling and tinkling about the room. I can just hear them. Trysome of the asparagus. Five. That's what they'd say. That woman didit again. And the plain fact is I don't want you on my record. Really, Fownes protested. I feel splendid. Never better. He could hear her moving about and then felt her hands on hisshoulders. And what about those very elaborate plans you've beenmaking to seduce me? Fownes froze with three asparagus hanging from his fork. Don't you think they'll find out? I found out and you can bet they will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don'talways tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Fownes, itwasn't the old customs at all standing between us, it was air. I can'thave another man die on me, it's bad for my self-esteem. And now you'vegone and done something good and criminal, something peculiar. <doc-sep>Fownes put his fork down. Dear Mrs. Deshazaway, he started to say. And of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Fownes,you'll tell them. No, no heroics, please! When they ask a man aquestion he always answers and you will too. You'll tell them I wantedto be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask me afew questions. You see, we're both a bit queer. I hadn't thought of that, Fownes said quietly. Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew, Curt, Norman— That won't be necessary, Fownes said with unusual force. With alldue respect to Andrew, Curt, Norman and Alphonse, I might as well statehere and now I have other plans for you, Mrs. Deshazaway. But my dear Mr. Fownes, she said, leaning across the table. We'relost, you and I. Not if we could leave the dome, Fownes said quietly. That's impossible! How? In no hurry, now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fownesleaned across the table and whispered: Fresh air, Mrs. Deshazaway?Space? Miles and miles of space where the real-estate monopoly hasno control whatever? Where the wind blows across prairies ; or isit the other way around? No matter. How would you like that , Mrs.Deshazaway? Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on hertwo hands. Pray continue, she said. Endless vistas of moonlight and roses? April showers, Mrs. Deshazaway.And June, which as you may know follows directly upon April and issupposed to be the month of brides, of marrying. June also lies beyondthe dome. I see. And , Mr. Fownes added, his voice a honeyed whisper, they saythat somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight,the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's vernal and that's when it roams the Open Country where geigers nolonger scintillate. My. Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window and then cameback to the table, standing directly over Fownes. If you can get usoutside the dome, she said, out where a man stays warm long enoughfor his wife to get to know him ... if you can do that, Mr. Fownes ...you may call me Agnes. <doc-sep>When Humphrey Fownes stepped out of the widow's house, there was alook of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt awistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. Itwould be such a deliciously insane experience. (April has thirtydays, Fownes mumbled, passing them, because thirty is the largestnumber such that all smaller numbers not having a common divisorwith it are primes . MacBride frowned and added it to the dossier.Lanfierre sighed.) Pinning his hopes on the Movement, Fownes went straight to thelibrary several blocks away, a shattered depressing place given overto government publications and censored old books with holes inthem. It was used so infrequently that the Movement was able to meetthere undisturbed. The librarian was a yellowed, dog-eared woman ofeighty. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like thebooks around her, had been rendered by time's own censor into nearunintelligibility. Here's one, she said to him as he entered. Gulliver's Travels. Loaned to John Wesley Davidson on March 14, 1979 for five days. Whatdo you make of it? In the litter of books and cards and dried out ink pads that surroundedthe librarian, Fownes noticed a torn dust jacket with a curiousillustration. What's that? he said. A twister, she replied quickly. Now listen to this . Seven yearslater on March 21, 1986, Ella Marshall Davidson took out the same book.What do you make of that ? I'd say, Humphrey Fownes said, that he ... that he recommended itto her, that one day they met in the street and he told her aboutthis book and then they ... they went to the library together and sheborrowed it and eventually, why eventually they got married. Hah! They were brother and sister! the librarian shouted in herparched voice, her old buckram eyes laughing with cunning. Fownes smiled weakly and looked again at the dust jacket. The twisterwas unquestionably a meteorological phenomenon. It spun ominously, likea malevolent top, and coursed the countryside destructively, carryinga Dorothy to an Oz. He couldn't help wondering if twisters did anythingto feminine pulses, if they could possibly be a part of a moonlitnight, with cocktails and roses. He absently stuffed the dust jacketin his pocket and went on into the other rooms, the librarian mumblingafter him: Edna Murdoch Featherstone, April 21, 1991, as thoughreading inscriptions on a tombstone. <doc-sep>The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaidladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to otherpeople's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tableslooking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting. Where did the old society fail? the leader was demanding of them. Hestood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. Heglanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as HumphreyFownes squeezed into an empty chair. We live in a dome, the leadersaid, for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thingthat the great technological societies before ours could not invent,notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise? Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. Hewaited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggledwith this problem in revolutionary dialectics. A sound foreign policy , the leader said, aware that no one else hadobtained the insight. If a sound foreign policy can't be created theonly alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus themovement into domes began— by common consent of the governments . Thisis known as self-containment. Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lullin the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might bearranged for him to get out. Out? the leader said, frowning. Out? Out where? Outside the dome. Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up andleave. And that day I'll await impatiently, Fownes replied with marveloustact, because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My futurewife and I have to leave now . Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. Anddialectically very poor. Then you have discussed preparations, the practical necessities oflife in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?Have I left anything out? The leader sighed. The gentleman wants to know if he's left anythingout, he said to the group. Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions. Tell the man what he's forgotten, the leader said, walking to the farwindow and turning his back quite pointedly on them. Everyone spoke at the same moment. A sound foreign policy , they allsaid, it being almost too obvious for words. <doc-sep>On his way out the librarian shouted at him: A Tale of a Tub ,thirty-five years overdue! She was calculating the fine as he closedthe door. Humphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was oneblock away from his house. It was then that he realized somethingunusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security policewas parked at his front door. And something else was happening too. His house was dancing. It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one'sresidence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sightthat for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causingit. But when he stepped gingerly onto the porch, which was doing itsown independent gavotte, he reached for the doorknob with an immensecuriosity. The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch. From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched ashis favorite easy chair sailed out of the living room on a blast ofcold air and went pinwheeling down the avenue in the bright sunshine. Awild wind and a thick fog poured out of the house. It brought chairs,suits, small tables, lamps trailing their cords, ashtrays, sofacushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging anold, spoiled meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of hisancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room. He stood up; a wet wind swept over him, whipping at his face, toyingwith his hair. It was a whistling in his ears, and a tingle on hischeeks. He got hit by a shoe. As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played overhis face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room. Help! Lieutenant MacBride called. Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on hisdripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in thedistance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly. Winds , he said in a whisper. What's happening? MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa. March winds, he said. What?! April showers! The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emergedfrom the blackness of the living room. These are not Optimum DomeConditions! the voice wailed. The temperature is not 59 degrees.The humidity is not 47%! <doc-sep>Fownes held his face up to let the rain fall on it. Moonlight! heshouted. Roses! My soul for a cocktail for two! He grasped thedoorway to keep from being blown out of the house. Are you going to make it stop or aren't you! MacBride yelled. You'll have to tell me what you did first! I told him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairsbedroom! When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his wayup the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with awheel in his hand. What have I done? Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock. Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker. I'm not sure what's going to come of this, he said to Lanfierre withan astonishing amount of objectivity, but the entire dome air supplyis now coming through my bedroom. The wind screamed. Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked. Not any more there isn't. They started down the stairs carefully, but the wind caught them andthey quickly reached the bottom in a wet heap. Recruiting Lieutenant MacBride from behind his sofa, the men carefullyedged out of the house and forced the front door shut. The wind died. The fog dispersed. They stood dripping in the OptimumDome Conditions of the bright avenue. I never figured on this , Lanfierre said, shaking his head. With the front door closed the wind quickly built up inside the house.They could see the furnishing whirl past the windows. The house did awild, elated jig. What kind of a place is this? MacBride said, his courage beginningto return. He took out his notebook but it was a soggy mess. He tossedit away. Sure, he was different , Lanfierre murmured. I knew that much. When the roof blew off they weren't really surprised. With a certainamount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully,standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It wasstrangely slow motion, as was the black twirling cloud that now roseout of the master bedroom, spewing shorts and socks and cases everywhich way. Now what? MacBride said, thoroughly exasperated, as this strangeblack cloud began to accelerate, whirling about like some malevolenttop.... <doc-sep>Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. Heheld it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroomwith the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identicalshape of the illustration. It's a twister, he said softly. A Kansas twister! What, MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, what ... is atwister? The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear ofthe house toward the side of the dome. It says here, Fownes shoutedover the roaring, that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twisterand that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land beyond theconfines of everyday living . MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros. Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked. Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them. Fownes! MacBride shouted. This is a direct order! Make it go back! But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodgingmountainous puffs of glass as he went. Mrs. Deshazaway! he shouted.Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway! The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with theprecipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quicklyemptied and then rushed about empty-handed. Yoo-hoo! he yelled,running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.Optimum temperature collapsed. Mrs. Deshazaway! Agnes , will youmarry me? Yoo-hoo! Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,dazed. There was quite a large fall of glass. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Mr. Humphrey Fownes has been pickpocketed eleven times despite the weather being good. This is because he is an uncommonly preoccupied individual and has constantly been thinking about the weather for the entire day. The first person who pickpockets him is a bogus postman who jostles him while pretending to read a postal card. The next person who pickpockets him is a pretty girl who collides with him. The next people are two men who pretend to be in a heated argument. Humphrey continuously thinks about the weather outside; this allows the police to maintain tight surveillance of him. Lanfierre is one of the people in the orange car and thinks about Humphrey Fownes being unique. He tells Lieutenant MacBride that Fownes’ house sometimes shakes, which makes the other man frown. Lanfierre considers MacBride to be a barbarian because he is cynical and cannot appreciate the peculiar nature of Fownes. He goes on to tell him that the windows all close at the same time in the house. MacBride refuses to believe him and tells him to take a rest, but all of the windows close, and the house suddenly begins to shake. They continue to observe the man; Fownes goes into his house and begins to think about his dinner with Mrs. Deshazaway. The house begins to shake more, and he decides that repairs are a must. During his dinner, Mrs. Deshazaway explains how she will never marry again. The widow is a passionate woman, and she passionately tells him he forgot salt on his potatoes during the explanation of why they cannot marry because of the air. When she continues to refuse him, Fownes brings up the idea of leaving the dome city for freedom. She tells him that if they can leave, then she will let him call her by her first name. After the date, he goes to the library, where the old librarian tries to test him with old library cards. The story then cuts to a movement meeting, where the members discuss how the old society failed and the lack of a sound foreign policy. Fownes impatiently explains that he and his future wife must leave now, to which the leader explains that it is impossible because there is no sound foreign policy. When Fownes returns to the house, he finds MacBride in the doorway with dripping hair. MacBride yells that these are not optimum dome conditions, explaining that Lanfierre is in the upstairs bedroom. The entire dome air supply is going through his bedroom, and a strange black cloud appears. Fownes recognizes this as a Kansas twister and runs towards the next house for Mrs. Deshazaway. The dome glass has begun to fall, destroying the artificial sun and optimum temperature.

Who is Mrs. Deshazaway, and what are her characteristics? [SEP] <s> A FALL OF GLASS By STANLEY R. LEE Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The weatherman was always right: Temperature, 59; humidity, 47%; occasional light showers—but of what? The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously. It was a splendid day. The temperature was a crisp 59 degrees, thehumidity a mildly dessicated 47%. The sun was a flaming orange ball ina cloudless blue sky. His pockets were picked eleven times. It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was amasterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was HumphreyFownes' abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. Hewas strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses,one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions.But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject tobegin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking sodeeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too manypeople were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum DomeConditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a boguspostman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In theconfusion of spilled letters and apologies from both sides, the postmanrifled Fownes's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets. <doc-sep>He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girlhappened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got hisright and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence.The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time.He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in aheated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied hisrear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of thehandkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of putand take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea hewas playing. There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass. It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist,hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings ofa celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-lightfragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Domeweevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed thehuge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing. Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass stillintrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humiditythat was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was thisrather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tightsurveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of gettinghis fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayedand chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returningthem. Two blocks away from his home a careless housewife spilled afive-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster ofParis. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight andhandedness behind. By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier completewith photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in anorange patrol car parked down the street. <doc-sep>Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job. Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Fownesapproach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was anodd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature. It was similarto that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new andparticularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope. Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be toleratedwithin the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a socialforce; it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it,Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see thatgenuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his ownsmall efforts, rarer. Fownes was a masterpiece of queerness. He was utterly inexplicable.Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes. Sometimes his house shakes , Lanfierre said. House shakes, Lieutenant MacBride wrote in his notebook. Then hestopped and frowned. He reread what he'd just written. You heard right. The house shakes , Lanfierre said, savoring it. MacBride looked at the Fownes house through the magnifying glass ofthe windshield. Like from ... side to side ? he asked in a somewhatpatronizing tone of voice. And up and down. MacBride returned the notebook to the breast pocket of his orangeuniform. Go on, he said, amused. It sounds interesting. He tossedthe dossier carelessly on the back seat. Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBridecouldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways MacBridewas a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. Hehad even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantlyabsurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It wasonly with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownesto MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre hadseen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimlyresounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spokein an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievablytrite. Then a fine robust freak came along and the others—the echoes—refusedto believe it. The lieutenant was probably on the point of suggesting avacation. Why don't you take a vacation? Lieutenant MacBride suggested. It's like this, MacBride. Do you know what a wind is? A breeze? Azephyr? I've heard some. They say there are mountain-tops where winds blow all the time. Strongwinds, MacBride. Winds like you and I can't imagine. And if there wasa house sitting on such a mountain and if winds did blow, it wouldshake exactly the way that one does. Sometimes I get the feeling thewhole place is going to slide off its foundation and go sailing downthe avenue. <doc-sep>Lieutenant MacBride pursed his lips. I'll tell you something else, Lanfierre went on. The windows allclose at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden everysingle window in the place will drop to its sill. Lanfierre leanedback in the seat, his eyes still on the house. Sometimes I thinkthere's a whole crowd of people in there waiting for a signal—as ifthey all had something important to say but had to close the windowsfirst so no one could hear. Why else close the windows in a domed city?And then as soon as the place is buttoned up they all explode intoconversation—and that's why the house shakes. MacBride whistled. No, I don't need a vacation. A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against thewindshield. Lanfierre started and bumped his knee on the steering wheel. No, you don't need a rest, MacBride said. You're starting to seeflying houses, hear loud babbling voices. You've got winds in yourbrain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality— At that moment, all at once, every last window in the house slammedshut. The street was deserted and quiet, not a movement, not a sound.MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for theghostly babble of voices to commence. The house began to shake. It rocked from side to side, it pitched forward and back, it yawed anddipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. Thehouse could have been preparing to take off and sail down the.... MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and thenthey both looked back at the dancing house. And the water , Lanfierre said. The water he uses! He could bethe thirstiest and cleanest man in the city. He could have a wholefamily of thirsty and clean kids, and he still wouldn't need all thatwater. The lieutenant had picked up the dossier. He thumbed through the pagesnow in amazement. Where do you get a guy like this? he asked. Didyou see what he carries in his pockets? And compasses won't work on this street. The lieutenant lit a cigarette and sighed. He usually sighed when making the decision to raid a dwelling. Itexpressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and gotneurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. Therewas something implacable about his sighs. He'll be coming out soon, Lanfierre said. He eats supper next doorwith a widow. Then he goes to the library. Always the same. Supper atthe widow's next door and then the library. MacBride's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. The library? hesaid. Is he in with that bunch? Lanfierre nodded. Should be very interesting, MacBride said slowly. I can't wait to see what he's got in there, Lanfierre murmured,watching the house with a consuming interest. They sat there smoking in silence and every now and then their eyeswidened as the house danced a new step. <doc-sep>Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off hisshoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupationof his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn'tnoticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. Hehad a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and thehigh-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of thehouse. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watchfrom outside. He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no roomleft in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist adraw-pull. Every window slammed shut. Tight as a kite, he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward thecloset at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was thatright? No, snug as a hug in a rug . He went on, thinking: The olddevils. The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion ofwheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-sawthat went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had acurious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged fromgrandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in gracefulcircles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although therewas one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. Hewatched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them forseven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year. Outside, the domed city vanished. It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a moresatisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.Looking through the window he saw only a garden. Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sunsetting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which leftthe smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid ahuge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon agarden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses. Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory. And cocktails fortwo. Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched asthe moon played, Oh, You Beautiful Doll and the neon roses flashedslowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned onthe scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated roseas the moon shifted to People Will Say We're In Love . <doc-sep>He rubbed his chin critically. It seemed all right. A dreamy sunset,an enchanted moon, flowers, scent. They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rosereally smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. Butthen, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive. Insist on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realisticromantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icyfingers marching up and down your spine? His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read thatbook on ancient mores and courtship customs. How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incrediblylong and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amountof falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Nomeant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and thecircumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later onthis evening. He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,thinking roguishly: Thou shalt not inundate. The risks he was taking!A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant Singing in the Rain . Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red suncontinued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over anddemolished several of the neon roses. The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steeringwheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; hegingerly turned it. Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle ofwinds came to him. He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This wasimportant; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose andthe moon shook a trifle as it whispered Cuddle Up a Little Closer . He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start. My dearMrs. Deshazaway. Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romanticgarden; time to be a bit forward. My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway. No.Contrived. How about a simple, Dear Mrs. Deshazaway . That might beit. I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn'trather stay over instead of going home.... Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear theshaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connectedto wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they madeone gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance ashigh-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening theStudebaker valve wider and wider.... The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sunshot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moonfell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning When theBlue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day . The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to theStudebaker wheel and shut it off. At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn'tthe first time the winds got out of line. Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all downand went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.Its days were thirty and it followed September. And all the rest havethirty-one. What a strange people, the ancients! He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street. <doc-sep>Men are too perishable, Mrs. Deshazaway said over dinner. For allpractical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die. Would you pass the beets, please? Humphrey Fownes said. She handed him a platter of steaming red beets. And don't look at methat way, she said. I'm not going to marry you and if you wantreasons I'll give you four of them. Andrew. Curt. Norman. And Alphonse. The widow was a passionate woman. She did everythingpassionately—talking, cooking, dressing. Her beets were passionatelyred. Her clothes rustled and her high heels clicked and her jewelrytinkled. She was possessed by an uncontrollable dynamism. Fownes hadnever known anyone like her. You forgot to put salt on the potatoes,she said passionately, then went on as calmly as it was possible forher to be, to explain why she couldn't marry him. Do you have anyidea what people are saying? They're all saying I'm a cannibal! I robmy husbands of their life force and when they're empty I carry theirbodies outside on my way to the justice of the peace. As long as there are people, he said philosophically, there'll betalk. But it's the air! Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale,I'm positive. It's not nourishing. The air is stale and Andrew, Curt,Norman and Alphonse couldn't stand it. Poor Alphonse. He was never sohealthy as on the day he was born. From then on things got steadilyworse for him. I don't seem to mind the air. She threw up her hands. You'd be the worst of the lot! She left thetable, rustling and tinkling about the room. I can just hear them. Trysome of the asparagus. Five. That's what they'd say. That woman didit again. And the plain fact is I don't want you on my record. Really, Fownes protested. I feel splendid. Never better. He could hear her moving about and then felt her hands on hisshoulders. And what about those very elaborate plans you've beenmaking to seduce me? Fownes froze with three asparagus hanging from his fork. Don't you think they'll find out? I found out and you can bet they will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don'talways tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Fownes, itwasn't the old customs at all standing between us, it was air. I can'thave another man die on me, it's bad for my self-esteem. And now you'vegone and done something good and criminal, something peculiar. <doc-sep>Fownes put his fork down. Dear Mrs. Deshazaway, he started to say. And of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Fownes,you'll tell them. No, no heroics, please! When they ask a man aquestion he always answers and you will too. You'll tell them I wantedto be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask me afew questions. You see, we're both a bit queer. I hadn't thought of that, Fownes said quietly. Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew, Curt, Norman— That won't be necessary, Fownes said with unusual force. With alldue respect to Andrew, Curt, Norman and Alphonse, I might as well statehere and now I have other plans for you, Mrs. Deshazaway. But my dear Mr. Fownes, she said, leaning across the table. We'relost, you and I. Not if we could leave the dome, Fownes said quietly. That's impossible! How? In no hurry, now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fownesleaned across the table and whispered: Fresh air, Mrs. Deshazaway?Space? Miles and miles of space where the real-estate monopoly hasno control whatever? Where the wind blows across prairies ; or isit the other way around? No matter. How would you like that , Mrs.Deshazaway? Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on hertwo hands. Pray continue, she said. Endless vistas of moonlight and roses? April showers, Mrs. Deshazaway.And June, which as you may know follows directly upon April and issupposed to be the month of brides, of marrying. June also lies beyondthe dome. I see. And , Mr. Fownes added, his voice a honeyed whisper, they saythat somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight,the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's vernal and that's when it roams the Open Country where geigers nolonger scintillate. My. Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window and then cameback to the table, standing directly over Fownes. If you can get usoutside the dome, she said, out where a man stays warm long enoughfor his wife to get to know him ... if you can do that, Mr. Fownes ...you may call me Agnes. <doc-sep>When Humphrey Fownes stepped out of the widow's house, there was alook of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt awistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. Itwould be such a deliciously insane experience. (April has thirtydays, Fownes mumbled, passing them, because thirty is the largestnumber such that all smaller numbers not having a common divisorwith it are primes . MacBride frowned and added it to the dossier.Lanfierre sighed.) Pinning his hopes on the Movement, Fownes went straight to thelibrary several blocks away, a shattered depressing place given overto government publications and censored old books with holes inthem. It was used so infrequently that the Movement was able to meetthere undisturbed. The librarian was a yellowed, dog-eared woman ofeighty. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like thebooks around her, had been rendered by time's own censor into nearunintelligibility. Here's one, she said to him as he entered. Gulliver's Travels. Loaned to John Wesley Davidson on March 14, 1979 for five days. Whatdo you make of it? In the litter of books and cards and dried out ink pads that surroundedthe librarian, Fownes noticed a torn dust jacket with a curiousillustration. What's that? he said. A twister, she replied quickly. Now listen to this . Seven yearslater on March 21, 1986, Ella Marshall Davidson took out the same book.What do you make of that ? I'd say, Humphrey Fownes said, that he ... that he recommended itto her, that one day they met in the street and he told her aboutthis book and then they ... they went to the library together and sheborrowed it and eventually, why eventually they got married. Hah! They were brother and sister! the librarian shouted in herparched voice, her old buckram eyes laughing with cunning. Fownes smiled weakly and looked again at the dust jacket. The twisterwas unquestionably a meteorological phenomenon. It spun ominously, likea malevolent top, and coursed the countryside destructively, carryinga Dorothy to an Oz. He couldn't help wondering if twisters did anythingto feminine pulses, if they could possibly be a part of a moonlitnight, with cocktails and roses. He absently stuffed the dust jacketin his pocket and went on into the other rooms, the librarian mumblingafter him: Edna Murdoch Featherstone, April 21, 1991, as thoughreading inscriptions on a tombstone. <doc-sep>The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaidladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to otherpeople's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tableslooking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting. Where did the old society fail? the leader was demanding of them. Hestood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. Heglanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as HumphreyFownes squeezed into an empty chair. We live in a dome, the leadersaid, for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thingthat the great technological societies before ours could not invent,notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise? Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. Hewaited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggledwith this problem in revolutionary dialectics. A sound foreign policy , the leader said, aware that no one else hadobtained the insight. If a sound foreign policy can't be created theonly alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus themovement into domes began— by common consent of the governments . Thisis known as self-containment. Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lullin the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might bearranged for him to get out. Out? the leader said, frowning. Out? Out where? Outside the dome. Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up andleave. And that day I'll await impatiently, Fownes replied with marveloustact, because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My futurewife and I have to leave now . Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. Anddialectically very poor. Then you have discussed preparations, the practical necessities oflife in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?Have I left anything out? The leader sighed. The gentleman wants to know if he's left anythingout, he said to the group. Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions. Tell the man what he's forgotten, the leader said, walking to the farwindow and turning his back quite pointedly on them. Everyone spoke at the same moment. A sound foreign policy , they allsaid, it being almost too obvious for words. <doc-sep>On his way out the librarian shouted at him: A Tale of a Tub ,thirty-five years overdue! She was calculating the fine as he closedthe door. Humphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was oneblock away from his house. It was then that he realized somethingunusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security policewas parked at his front door. And something else was happening too. His house was dancing. It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one'sresidence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sightthat for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causingit. But when he stepped gingerly onto the porch, which was doing itsown independent gavotte, he reached for the doorknob with an immensecuriosity. The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch. From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched ashis favorite easy chair sailed out of the living room on a blast ofcold air and went pinwheeling down the avenue in the bright sunshine. Awild wind and a thick fog poured out of the house. It brought chairs,suits, small tables, lamps trailing their cords, ashtrays, sofacushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging anold, spoiled meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of hisancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room. He stood up; a wet wind swept over him, whipping at his face, toyingwith his hair. It was a whistling in his ears, and a tingle on hischeeks. He got hit by a shoe. As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played overhis face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room. Help! Lieutenant MacBride called. Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on hisdripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in thedistance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly. Winds , he said in a whisper. What's happening? MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa. March winds, he said. What?! April showers! The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emergedfrom the blackness of the living room. These are not Optimum DomeConditions! the voice wailed. The temperature is not 59 degrees.The humidity is not 47%! <doc-sep>Fownes held his face up to let the rain fall on it. Moonlight! heshouted. Roses! My soul for a cocktail for two! He grasped thedoorway to keep from being blown out of the house. Are you going to make it stop or aren't you! MacBride yelled. You'll have to tell me what you did first! I told him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairsbedroom! When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his wayup the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with awheel in his hand. What have I done? Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock. Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker. I'm not sure what's going to come of this, he said to Lanfierre withan astonishing amount of objectivity, but the entire dome air supplyis now coming through my bedroom. The wind screamed. Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked. Not any more there isn't. They started down the stairs carefully, but the wind caught them andthey quickly reached the bottom in a wet heap. Recruiting Lieutenant MacBride from behind his sofa, the men carefullyedged out of the house and forced the front door shut. The wind died. The fog dispersed. They stood dripping in the OptimumDome Conditions of the bright avenue. I never figured on this , Lanfierre said, shaking his head. With the front door closed the wind quickly built up inside the house.They could see the furnishing whirl past the windows. The house did awild, elated jig. What kind of a place is this? MacBride said, his courage beginningto return. He took out his notebook but it was a soggy mess. He tossedit away. Sure, he was different , Lanfierre murmured. I knew that much. When the roof blew off they weren't really surprised. With a certainamount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully,standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It wasstrangely slow motion, as was the black twirling cloud that now roseout of the master bedroom, spewing shorts and socks and cases everywhich way. Now what? MacBride said, thoroughly exasperated, as this strangeblack cloud began to accelerate, whirling about like some malevolenttop.... <doc-sep>Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. Heheld it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroomwith the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identicalshape of the illustration. It's a twister, he said softly. A Kansas twister! What, MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, what ... is atwister? The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear ofthe house toward the side of the dome. It says here, Fownes shoutedover the roaring, that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twisterand that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land beyond theconfines of everyday living . MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros. Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked. Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them. Fownes! MacBride shouted. This is a direct order! Make it go back! But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodgingmountainous puffs of glass as he went. Mrs. Deshazaway! he shouted.Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway! The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with theprecipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quicklyemptied and then rushed about empty-handed. Yoo-hoo! he yelled,running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.Optimum temperature collapsed. Mrs. Deshazaway! Agnes , will youmarry me? Yoo-hoo! Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,dazed. There was quite a large fall of glass. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Mrs. Deshazaway, and what are her characteristics?

Mrs. Agnes Deshazaway is a widow who had previously married four men. All of her four husbands died; she claims that she will never marry again. However, she is also considered to be a passionate woman who does everything passionately. Whether it be talking, cooking, dressing, everything about her is passionate. She also has uncontrollable dynamism, and Fownes remarks that he has never known anyone like her. Despite her passion, she is also self-conscious of what other people think of her, telling Fownes that there is a rumor that she is a cannibal. She blames her husbands’ deaths on the air and gets angry when Fownes says that he does not mind. Despite how reluctant she is to marry Fownes, Mrs. Deshazaway also has a hopeful side to her. She is quite attentive when Fownes tells her the possibility of leaving the dome, telling him that she will allow him to marry her if the both of them can leave.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> A FALL OF GLASS By STANLEY R. LEE Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The weatherman was always right: Temperature, 59; humidity, 47%; occasional light showers—but of what? The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously. It was a splendid day. The temperature was a crisp 59 degrees, thehumidity a mildly dessicated 47%. The sun was a flaming orange ball ina cloudless blue sky. His pockets were picked eleven times. It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was amasterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was HumphreyFownes' abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. Hewas strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses,one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions.But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject tobegin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking sodeeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too manypeople were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum DomeConditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a boguspostman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In theconfusion of spilled letters and apologies from both sides, the postmanrifled Fownes's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets. <doc-sep>He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girlhappened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got hisright and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence.The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time.He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in aheated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied hisrear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of thehandkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of putand take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea hewas playing. There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass. It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist,hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings ofa celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-lightfragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Domeweevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed thehuge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing. Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass stillintrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humiditythat was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was thisrather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tightsurveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of gettinghis fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayedand chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returningthem. Two blocks away from his home a careless housewife spilled afive-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster ofParis. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight andhandedness behind. By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier completewith photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in anorange patrol car parked down the street. <doc-sep>Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job. Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Fownesapproach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was anodd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature. It was similarto that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new andparticularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope. Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be toleratedwithin the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a socialforce; it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it,Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see thatgenuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his ownsmall efforts, rarer. Fownes was a masterpiece of queerness. He was utterly inexplicable.Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes. Sometimes his house shakes , Lanfierre said. House shakes, Lieutenant MacBride wrote in his notebook. Then hestopped and frowned. He reread what he'd just written. You heard right. The house shakes , Lanfierre said, savoring it. MacBride looked at the Fownes house through the magnifying glass ofthe windshield. Like from ... side to side ? he asked in a somewhatpatronizing tone of voice. And up and down. MacBride returned the notebook to the breast pocket of his orangeuniform. Go on, he said, amused. It sounds interesting. He tossedthe dossier carelessly on the back seat. Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBridecouldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways MacBridewas a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. Hehad even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantlyabsurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It wasonly with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownesto MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre hadseen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimlyresounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spokein an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievablytrite. Then a fine robust freak came along and the others—the echoes—refusedto believe it. The lieutenant was probably on the point of suggesting avacation. Why don't you take a vacation? Lieutenant MacBride suggested. It's like this, MacBride. Do you know what a wind is? A breeze? Azephyr? I've heard some. They say there are mountain-tops where winds blow all the time. Strongwinds, MacBride. Winds like you and I can't imagine. And if there wasa house sitting on such a mountain and if winds did blow, it wouldshake exactly the way that one does. Sometimes I get the feeling thewhole place is going to slide off its foundation and go sailing downthe avenue. <doc-sep>Lieutenant MacBride pursed his lips. I'll tell you something else, Lanfierre went on. The windows allclose at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden everysingle window in the place will drop to its sill. Lanfierre leanedback in the seat, his eyes still on the house. Sometimes I thinkthere's a whole crowd of people in there waiting for a signal—as ifthey all had something important to say but had to close the windowsfirst so no one could hear. Why else close the windows in a domed city?And then as soon as the place is buttoned up they all explode intoconversation—and that's why the house shakes. MacBride whistled. No, I don't need a vacation. A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against thewindshield. Lanfierre started and bumped his knee on the steering wheel. No, you don't need a rest, MacBride said. You're starting to seeflying houses, hear loud babbling voices. You've got winds in yourbrain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality— At that moment, all at once, every last window in the house slammedshut. The street was deserted and quiet, not a movement, not a sound.MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for theghostly babble of voices to commence. The house began to shake. It rocked from side to side, it pitched forward and back, it yawed anddipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. Thehouse could have been preparing to take off and sail down the.... MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and thenthey both looked back at the dancing house. And the water , Lanfierre said. The water he uses! He could bethe thirstiest and cleanest man in the city. He could have a wholefamily of thirsty and clean kids, and he still wouldn't need all thatwater. The lieutenant had picked up the dossier. He thumbed through the pagesnow in amazement. Where do you get a guy like this? he asked. Didyou see what he carries in his pockets? And compasses won't work on this street. The lieutenant lit a cigarette and sighed. He usually sighed when making the decision to raid a dwelling. Itexpressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and gotneurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. Therewas something implacable about his sighs. He'll be coming out soon, Lanfierre said. He eats supper next doorwith a widow. Then he goes to the library. Always the same. Supper atthe widow's next door and then the library. MacBride's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. The library? hesaid. Is he in with that bunch? Lanfierre nodded. Should be very interesting, MacBride said slowly. I can't wait to see what he's got in there, Lanfierre murmured,watching the house with a consuming interest. They sat there smoking in silence and every now and then their eyeswidened as the house danced a new step. <doc-sep>Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off hisshoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupationof his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn'tnoticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. Hehad a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and thehigh-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of thehouse. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watchfrom outside. He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no roomleft in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist adraw-pull. Every window slammed shut. Tight as a kite, he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward thecloset at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was thatright? No, snug as a hug in a rug . He went on, thinking: The olddevils. The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion ofwheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-sawthat went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had acurious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged fromgrandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in gracefulcircles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although therewas one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. Hewatched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them forseven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year. Outside, the domed city vanished. It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a moresatisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.Looking through the window he saw only a garden. Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sunsetting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which leftthe smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid ahuge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon agarden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses. Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory. And cocktails fortwo. Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched asthe moon played, Oh, You Beautiful Doll and the neon roses flashedslowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned onthe scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated roseas the moon shifted to People Will Say We're In Love . <doc-sep>He rubbed his chin critically. It seemed all right. A dreamy sunset,an enchanted moon, flowers, scent. They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rosereally smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. Butthen, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive. Insist on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realisticromantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icyfingers marching up and down your spine? His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read thatbook on ancient mores and courtship customs. How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incrediblylong and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amountof falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Nomeant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and thecircumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later onthis evening. He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,thinking roguishly: Thou shalt not inundate. The risks he was taking!A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant Singing in the Rain . Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red suncontinued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over anddemolished several of the neon roses. The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steeringwheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; hegingerly turned it. Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle ofwinds came to him. He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This wasimportant; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose andthe moon shook a trifle as it whispered Cuddle Up a Little Closer . He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start. My dearMrs. Deshazaway. Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romanticgarden; time to be a bit forward. My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway. No.Contrived. How about a simple, Dear Mrs. Deshazaway . That might beit. I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn'trather stay over instead of going home.... Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear theshaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connectedto wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they madeone gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance ashigh-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening theStudebaker valve wider and wider.... The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sunshot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moonfell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning When theBlue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day . The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to theStudebaker wheel and shut it off. At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn'tthe first time the winds got out of line. Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all downand went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.Its days were thirty and it followed September. And all the rest havethirty-one. What a strange people, the ancients! He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street. <doc-sep>Men are too perishable, Mrs. Deshazaway said over dinner. For allpractical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die. Would you pass the beets, please? Humphrey Fownes said. She handed him a platter of steaming red beets. And don't look at methat way, she said. I'm not going to marry you and if you wantreasons I'll give you four of them. Andrew. Curt. Norman. And Alphonse. The widow was a passionate woman. She did everythingpassionately—talking, cooking, dressing. Her beets were passionatelyred. Her clothes rustled and her high heels clicked and her jewelrytinkled. She was possessed by an uncontrollable dynamism. Fownes hadnever known anyone like her. You forgot to put salt on the potatoes,she said passionately, then went on as calmly as it was possible forher to be, to explain why she couldn't marry him. Do you have anyidea what people are saying? They're all saying I'm a cannibal! I robmy husbands of their life force and when they're empty I carry theirbodies outside on my way to the justice of the peace. As long as there are people, he said philosophically, there'll betalk. But it's the air! Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale,I'm positive. It's not nourishing. The air is stale and Andrew, Curt,Norman and Alphonse couldn't stand it. Poor Alphonse. He was never sohealthy as on the day he was born. From then on things got steadilyworse for him. I don't seem to mind the air. She threw up her hands. You'd be the worst of the lot! She left thetable, rustling and tinkling about the room. I can just hear them. Trysome of the asparagus. Five. That's what they'd say. That woman didit again. And the plain fact is I don't want you on my record. Really, Fownes protested. I feel splendid. Never better. He could hear her moving about and then felt her hands on hisshoulders. And what about those very elaborate plans you've beenmaking to seduce me? Fownes froze with three asparagus hanging from his fork. Don't you think they'll find out? I found out and you can bet they will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don'talways tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Fownes, itwasn't the old customs at all standing between us, it was air. I can'thave another man die on me, it's bad for my self-esteem. And now you'vegone and done something good and criminal, something peculiar. <doc-sep>Fownes put his fork down. Dear Mrs. Deshazaway, he started to say. And of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Fownes,you'll tell them. No, no heroics, please! When they ask a man aquestion he always answers and you will too. You'll tell them I wantedto be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask me afew questions. You see, we're both a bit queer. I hadn't thought of that, Fownes said quietly. Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew, Curt, Norman— That won't be necessary, Fownes said with unusual force. With alldue respect to Andrew, Curt, Norman and Alphonse, I might as well statehere and now I have other plans for you, Mrs. Deshazaway. But my dear Mr. Fownes, she said, leaning across the table. We'relost, you and I. Not if we could leave the dome, Fownes said quietly. That's impossible! How? In no hurry, now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fownesleaned across the table and whispered: Fresh air, Mrs. Deshazaway?Space? Miles and miles of space where the real-estate monopoly hasno control whatever? Where the wind blows across prairies ; or isit the other way around? No matter. How would you like that , Mrs.Deshazaway? Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on hertwo hands. Pray continue, she said. Endless vistas of moonlight and roses? April showers, Mrs. Deshazaway.And June, which as you may know follows directly upon April and issupposed to be the month of brides, of marrying. June also lies beyondthe dome. I see. And , Mr. Fownes added, his voice a honeyed whisper, they saythat somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight,the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's vernal and that's when it roams the Open Country where geigers nolonger scintillate. My. Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window and then cameback to the table, standing directly over Fownes. If you can get usoutside the dome, she said, out where a man stays warm long enoughfor his wife to get to know him ... if you can do that, Mr. Fownes ...you may call me Agnes. <doc-sep>When Humphrey Fownes stepped out of the widow's house, there was alook of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt awistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. Itwould be such a deliciously insane experience. (April has thirtydays, Fownes mumbled, passing them, because thirty is the largestnumber such that all smaller numbers not having a common divisorwith it are primes . MacBride frowned and added it to the dossier.Lanfierre sighed.) Pinning his hopes on the Movement, Fownes went straight to thelibrary several blocks away, a shattered depressing place given overto government publications and censored old books with holes inthem. It was used so infrequently that the Movement was able to meetthere undisturbed. The librarian was a yellowed, dog-eared woman ofeighty. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like thebooks around her, had been rendered by time's own censor into nearunintelligibility. Here's one, she said to him as he entered. Gulliver's Travels. Loaned to John Wesley Davidson on March 14, 1979 for five days. Whatdo you make of it? In the litter of books and cards and dried out ink pads that surroundedthe librarian, Fownes noticed a torn dust jacket with a curiousillustration. What's that? he said. A twister, she replied quickly. Now listen to this . Seven yearslater on March 21, 1986, Ella Marshall Davidson took out the same book.What do you make of that ? I'd say, Humphrey Fownes said, that he ... that he recommended itto her, that one day they met in the street and he told her aboutthis book and then they ... they went to the library together and sheborrowed it and eventually, why eventually they got married. Hah! They were brother and sister! the librarian shouted in herparched voice, her old buckram eyes laughing with cunning. Fownes smiled weakly and looked again at the dust jacket. The twisterwas unquestionably a meteorological phenomenon. It spun ominously, likea malevolent top, and coursed the countryside destructively, carryinga Dorothy to an Oz. He couldn't help wondering if twisters did anythingto feminine pulses, if they could possibly be a part of a moonlitnight, with cocktails and roses. He absently stuffed the dust jacketin his pocket and went on into the other rooms, the librarian mumblingafter him: Edna Murdoch Featherstone, April 21, 1991, as thoughreading inscriptions on a tombstone. <doc-sep>The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaidladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to otherpeople's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tableslooking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting. Where did the old society fail? the leader was demanding of them. Hestood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. Heglanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as HumphreyFownes squeezed into an empty chair. We live in a dome, the leadersaid, for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thingthat the great technological societies before ours could not invent,notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise? Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. Hewaited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggledwith this problem in revolutionary dialectics. A sound foreign policy , the leader said, aware that no one else hadobtained the insight. If a sound foreign policy can't be created theonly alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus themovement into domes began— by common consent of the governments . Thisis known as self-containment. Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lullin the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might bearranged for him to get out. Out? the leader said, frowning. Out? Out where? Outside the dome. Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up andleave. And that day I'll await impatiently, Fownes replied with marveloustact, because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My futurewife and I have to leave now . Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. Anddialectically very poor. Then you have discussed preparations, the practical necessities oflife in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?Have I left anything out? The leader sighed. The gentleman wants to know if he's left anythingout, he said to the group. Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions. Tell the man what he's forgotten, the leader said, walking to the farwindow and turning his back quite pointedly on them. Everyone spoke at the same moment. A sound foreign policy , they allsaid, it being almost too obvious for words. <doc-sep>On his way out the librarian shouted at him: A Tale of a Tub ,thirty-five years overdue! She was calculating the fine as he closedthe door. Humphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was oneblock away from his house. It was then that he realized somethingunusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security policewas parked at his front door. And something else was happening too. His house was dancing. It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one'sresidence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sightthat for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causingit. But when he stepped gingerly onto the porch, which was doing itsown independent gavotte, he reached for the doorknob with an immensecuriosity. The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch. From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched ashis favorite easy chair sailed out of the living room on a blast ofcold air and went pinwheeling down the avenue in the bright sunshine. Awild wind and a thick fog poured out of the house. It brought chairs,suits, small tables, lamps trailing their cords, ashtrays, sofacushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging anold, spoiled meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of hisancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room. He stood up; a wet wind swept over him, whipping at his face, toyingwith his hair. It was a whistling in his ears, and a tingle on hischeeks. He got hit by a shoe. As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played overhis face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room. Help! Lieutenant MacBride called. Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on hisdripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in thedistance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly. Winds , he said in a whisper. What's happening? MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa. March winds, he said. What?! April showers! The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emergedfrom the blackness of the living room. These are not Optimum DomeConditions! the voice wailed. The temperature is not 59 degrees.The humidity is not 47%! <doc-sep>Fownes held his face up to let the rain fall on it. Moonlight! heshouted. Roses! My soul for a cocktail for two! He grasped thedoorway to keep from being blown out of the house. Are you going to make it stop or aren't you! MacBride yelled. You'll have to tell me what you did first! I told him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairsbedroom! When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his wayup the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with awheel in his hand. What have I done? Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock. Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker. I'm not sure what's going to come of this, he said to Lanfierre withan astonishing amount of objectivity, but the entire dome air supplyis now coming through my bedroom. The wind screamed. Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked. Not any more there isn't. They started down the stairs carefully, but the wind caught them andthey quickly reached the bottom in a wet heap. Recruiting Lieutenant MacBride from behind his sofa, the men carefullyedged out of the house and forced the front door shut. The wind died. The fog dispersed. They stood dripping in the OptimumDome Conditions of the bright avenue. I never figured on this , Lanfierre said, shaking his head. With the front door closed the wind quickly built up inside the house.They could see the furnishing whirl past the windows. The house did awild, elated jig. What kind of a place is this? MacBride said, his courage beginningto return. He took out his notebook but it was a soggy mess. He tossedit away. Sure, he was different , Lanfierre murmured. I knew that much. When the roof blew off they weren't really surprised. With a certainamount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully,standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It wasstrangely slow motion, as was the black twirling cloud that now roseout of the master bedroom, spewing shorts and socks and cases everywhich way. Now what? MacBride said, thoroughly exasperated, as this strangeblack cloud began to accelerate, whirling about like some malevolenttop.... <doc-sep>Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. Heheld it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroomwith the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identicalshape of the illustration. It's a twister, he said softly. A Kansas twister! What, MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, what ... is atwister? The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear ofthe house toward the side of the dome. It says here, Fownes shoutedover the roaring, that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twisterand that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land beyond theconfines of everyday living . MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros. Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked. Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them. Fownes! MacBride shouted. This is a direct order! Make it go back! But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodgingmountainous puffs of glass as he went. Mrs. Deshazaway! he shouted.Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway! The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with theprecipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quicklyemptied and then rushed about empty-handed. Yoo-hoo! he yelled,running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.Optimum temperature collapsed. Mrs. Deshazaway! Agnes , will youmarry me? Yoo-hoo! Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,dazed. There was quite a large fall of glass. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The story is set inside a dome city with an artificial sun and optimal weather conditions. Fownes first strolls down a quiet residential avenue lined with private houses. Although the weather is generally cloudless, there are light showers that make small geysers of shiny mist. His house is also noted to be located right next to Mrs. Deshazaway’s house. Inside of an orange car, Lanfierre and MacBride watch him. Fownes’ house has a porch and a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system. His downstairs closet contains the Master Mechanism. The illusion he sees is of a red sun setting brightly, marred by an occasional arcover that leaves the scent of ozone. There is a garden outside as well, and a gigantic moon hidden in a large area of the sky. Neon large roses are found in the garden, and their colors change from red to violet. Inside of his bedroom closet upstairs, there is a rainmaker. The outside world that Fownes describes to Mrs. Deshazaway, outside of the dome, is one with miles and miles of space. The real-estate monopoly has no control, and the windows blow across prairies. When Fownes goes to the library, the place is described as a shattered and depressing place. It is used very infrequently, filled with given over government publications and censored old books with holes in them. The librarian's desk has ancient library cards that are almost impossible to read.

Who is Humphrey Fownes, and what are his characteristics? [SEP] <s> A FALL OF GLASS By STANLEY R. LEE Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The weatherman was always right: Temperature, 59; humidity, 47%; occasional light showers—but of what? The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously. It was a splendid day. The temperature was a crisp 59 degrees, thehumidity a mildly dessicated 47%. The sun was a flaming orange ball ina cloudless blue sky. His pockets were picked eleven times. It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was amasterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was HumphreyFownes' abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. Hewas strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses,one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions.But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject tobegin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking sodeeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too manypeople were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum DomeConditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a boguspostman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In theconfusion of spilled letters and apologies from both sides, the postmanrifled Fownes's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets. <doc-sep>He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girlhappened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got hisright and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence.The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time.He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in aheated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied hisrear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of thehandkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of putand take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea hewas playing. There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass. It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist,hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings ofa celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-lightfragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Domeweevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed thehuge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing. Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass stillintrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humiditythat was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was thisrather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tightsurveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of gettinghis fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayedand chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returningthem. Two blocks away from his home a careless housewife spilled afive-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster ofParis. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight andhandedness behind. By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier completewith photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in anorange patrol car parked down the street. <doc-sep>Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job. Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Fownesapproach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was anodd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature. It was similarto that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new andparticularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope. Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be toleratedwithin the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a socialforce; it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it,Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see thatgenuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his ownsmall efforts, rarer. Fownes was a masterpiece of queerness. He was utterly inexplicable.Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes. Sometimes his house shakes , Lanfierre said. House shakes, Lieutenant MacBride wrote in his notebook. Then hestopped and frowned. He reread what he'd just written. You heard right. The house shakes , Lanfierre said, savoring it. MacBride looked at the Fownes house through the magnifying glass ofthe windshield. Like from ... side to side ? he asked in a somewhatpatronizing tone of voice. And up and down. MacBride returned the notebook to the breast pocket of his orangeuniform. Go on, he said, amused. It sounds interesting. He tossedthe dossier carelessly on the back seat. Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBridecouldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways MacBridewas a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. Hehad even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantlyabsurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It wasonly with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownesto MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre hadseen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimlyresounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spokein an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievablytrite. Then a fine robust freak came along and the others—the echoes—refusedto believe it. The lieutenant was probably on the point of suggesting avacation. Why don't you take a vacation? Lieutenant MacBride suggested. It's like this, MacBride. Do you know what a wind is? A breeze? Azephyr? I've heard some. They say there are mountain-tops where winds blow all the time. Strongwinds, MacBride. Winds like you and I can't imagine. And if there wasa house sitting on such a mountain and if winds did blow, it wouldshake exactly the way that one does. Sometimes I get the feeling thewhole place is going to slide off its foundation and go sailing downthe avenue. <doc-sep>Lieutenant MacBride pursed his lips. I'll tell you something else, Lanfierre went on. The windows allclose at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden everysingle window in the place will drop to its sill. Lanfierre leanedback in the seat, his eyes still on the house. Sometimes I thinkthere's a whole crowd of people in there waiting for a signal—as ifthey all had something important to say but had to close the windowsfirst so no one could hear. Why else close the windows in a domed city?And then as soon as the place is buttoned up they all explode intoconversation—and that's why the house shakes. MacBride whistled. No, I don't need a vacation. A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against thewindshield. Lanfierre started and bumped his knee on the steering wheel. No, you don't need a rest, MacBride said. You're starting to seeflying houses, hear loud babbling voices. You've got winds in yourbrain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality— At that moment, all at once, every last window in the house slammedshut. The street was deserted and quiet, not a movement, not a sound.MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for theghostly babble of voices to commence. The house began to shake. It rocked from side to side, it pitched forward and back, it yawed anddipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. Thehouse could have been preparing to take off and sail down the.... MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and thenthey both looked back at the dancing house. And the water , Lanfierre said. The water he uses! He could bethe thirstiest and cleanest man in the city. He could have a wholefamily of thirsty and clean kids, and he still wouldn't need all thatwater. The lieutenant had picked up the dossier. He thumbed through the pagesnow in amazement. Where do you get a guy like this? he asked. Didyou see what he carries in his pockets? And compasses won't work on this street. The lieutenant lit a cigarette and sighed. He usually sighed when making the decision to raid a dwelling. Itexpressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and gotneurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. Therewas something implacable about his sighs. He'll be coming out soon, Lanfierre said. He eats supper next doorwith a widow. Then he goes to the library. Always the same. Supper atthe widow's next door and then the library. MacBride's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. The library? hesaid. Is he in with that bunch? Lanfierre nodded. Should be very interesting, MacBride said slowly. I can't wait to see what he's got in there, Lanfierre murmured,watching the house with a consuming interest. They sat there smoking in silence and every now and then their eyeswidened as the house danced a new step. <doc-sep>Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off hisshoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupationof his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn'tnoticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. Hehad a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and thehigh-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of thehouse. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watchfrom outside. He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no roomleft in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist adraw-pull. Every window slammed shut. Tight as a kite, he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward thecloset at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was thatright? No, snug as a hug in a rug . He went on, thinking: The olddevils. The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion ofwheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-sawthat went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had acurious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged fromgrandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in gracefulcircles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although therewas one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. Hewatched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them forseven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year. Outside, the domed city vanished. It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a moresatisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.Looking through the window he saw only a garden. Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sunsetting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which leftthe smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid ahuge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon agarden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses. Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory. And cocktails fortwo. Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched asthe moon played, Oh, You Beautiful Doll and the neon roses flashedslowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned onthe scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated roseas the moon shifted to People Will Say We're In Love . <doc-sep>He rubbed his chin critically. It seemed all right. A dreamy sunset,an enchanted moon, flowers, scent. They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rosereally smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. Butthen, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive. Insist on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realisticromantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icyfingers marching up and down your spine? His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read thatbook on ancient mores and courtship customs. How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incrediblylong and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amountof falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Nomeant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and thecircumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later onthis evening. He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,thinking roguishly: Thou shalt not inundate. The risks he was taking!A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant Singing in the Rain . Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red suncontinued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over anddemolished several of the neon roses. The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steeringwheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; hegingerly turned it. Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle ofwinds came to him. He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This wasimportant; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose andthe moon shook a trifle as it whispered Cuddle Up a Little Closer . He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start. My dearMrs. Deshazaway. Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romanticgarden; time to be a bit forward. My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway. No.Contrived. How about a simple, Dear Mrs. Deshazaway . That might beit. I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn'trather stay over instead of going home.... Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear theshaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connectedto wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they madeone gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance ashigh-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening theStudebaker valve wider and wider.... The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sunshot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moonfell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning When theBlue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day . The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to theStudebaker wheel and shut it off. At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn'tthe first time the winds got out of line. Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all downand went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.Its days were thirty and it followed September. And all the rest havethirty-one. What a strange people, the ancients! He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street. <doc-sep>Men are too perishable, Mrs. Deshazaway said over dinner. For allpractical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die. Would you pass the beets, please? Humphrey Fownes said. She handed him a platter of steaming red beets. And don't look at methat way, she said. I'm not going to marry you and if you wantreasons I'll give you four of them. Andrew. Curt. Norman. And Alphonse. The widow was a passionate woman. She did everythingpassionately—talking, cooking, dressing. Her beets were passionatelyred. Her clothes rustled and her high heels clicked and her jewelrytinkled. She was possessed by an uncontrollable dynamism. Fownes hadnever known anyone like her. You forgot to put salt on the potatoes,she said passionately, then went on as calmly as it was possible forher to be, to explain why she couldn't marry him. Do you have anyidea what people are saying? They're all saying I'm a cannibal! I robmy husbands of their life force and when they're empty I carry theirbodies outside on my way to the justice of the peace. As long as there are people, he said philosophically, there'll betalk. But it's the air! Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale,I'm positive. It's not nourishing. The air is stale and Andrew, Curt,Norman and Alphonse couldn't stand it. Poor Alphonse. He was never sohealthy as on the day he was born. From then on things got steadilyworse for him. I don't seem to mind the air. She threw up her hands. You'd be the worst of the lot! She left thetable, rustling and tinkling about the room. I can just hear them. Trysome of the asparagus. Five. That's what they'd say. That woman didit again. And the plain fact is I don't want you on my record. Really, Fownes protested. I feel splendid. Never better. He could hear her moving about and then felt her hands on hisshoulders. And what about those very elaborate plans you've beenmaking to seduce me? Fownes froze with three asparagus hanging from his fork. Don't you think they'll find out? I found out and you can bet they will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don'talways tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Fownes, itwasn't the old customs at all standing between us, it was air. I can'thave another man die on me, it's bad for my self-esteem. And now you'vegone and done something good and criminal, something peculiar. <doc-sep>Fownes put his fork down. Dear Mrs. Deshazaway, he started to say. And of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Fownes,you'll tell them. No, no heroics, please! When they ask a man aquestion he always answers and you will too. You'll tell them I wantedto be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask me afew questions. You see, we're both a bit queer. I hadn't thought of that, Fownes said quietly. Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew, Curt, Norman— That won't be necessary, Fownes said with unusual force. With alldue respect to Andrew, Curt, Norman and Alphonse, I might as well statehere and now I have other plans for you, Mrs. Deshazaway. But my dear Mr. Fownes, she said, leaning across the table. We'relost, you and I. Not if we could leave the dome, Fownes said quietly. That's impossible! How? In no hurry, now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fownesleaned across the table and whispered: Fresh air, Mrs. Deshazaway?Space? Miles and miles of space where the real-estate monopoly hasno control whatever? Where the wind blows across prairies ; or isit the other way around? No matter. How would you like that , Mrs.Deshazaway? Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on hertwo hands. Pray continue, she said. Endless vistas of moonlight and roses? April showers, Mrs. Deshazaway.And June, which as you may know follows directly upon April and issupposed to be the month of brides, of marrying. June also lies beyondthe dome. I see. And , Mr. Fownes added, his voice a honeyed whisper, they saythat somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight,the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's vernal and that's when it roams the Open Country where geigers nolonger scintillate. My. Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window and then cameback to the table, standing directly over Fownes. If you can get usoutside the dome, she said, out where a man stays warm long enoughfor his wife to get to know him ... if you can do that, Mr. Fownes ...you may call me Agnes. <doc-sep>When Humphrey Fownes stepped out of the widow's house, there was alook of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt awistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. Itwould be such a deliciously insane experience. (April has thirtydays, Fownes mumbled, passing them, because thirty is the largestnumber such that all smaller numbers not having a common divisorwith it are primes . MacBride frowned and added it to the dossier.Lanfierre sighed.) Pinning his hopes on the Movement, Fownes went straight to thelibrary several blocks away, a shattered depressing place given overto government publications and censored old books with holes inthem. It was used so infrequently that the Movement was able to meetthere undisturbed. The librarian was a yellowed, dog-eared woman ofeighty. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like thebooks around her, had been rendered by time's own censor into nearunintelligibility. Here's one, she said to him as he entered. Gulliver's Travels. Loaned to John Wesley Davidson on March 14, 1979 for five days. Whatdo you make of it? In the litter of books and cards and dried out ink pads that surroundedthe librarian, Fownes noticed a torn dust jacket with a curiousillustration. What's that? he said. A twister, she replied quickly. Now listen to this . Seven yearslater on March 21, 1986, Ella Marshall Davidson took out the same book.What do you make of that ? I'd say, Humphrey Fownes said, that he ... that he recommended itto her, that one day they met in the street and he told her aboutthis book and then they ... they went to the library together and sheborrowed it and eventually, why eventually they got married. Hah! They were brother and sister! the librarian shouted in herparched voice, her old buckram eyes laughing with cunning. Fownes smiled weakly and looked again at the dust jacket. The twisterwas unquestionably a meteorological phenomenon. It spun ominously, likea malevolent top, and coursed the countryside destructively, carryinga Dorothy to an Oz. He couldn't help wondering if twisters did anythingto feminine pulses, if they could possibly be a part of a moonlitnight, with cocktails and roses. He absently stuffed the dust jacketin his pocket and went on into the other rooms, the librarian mumblingafter him: Edna Murdoch Featherstone, April 21, 1991, as thoughreading inscriptions on a tombstone. <doc-sep>The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaidladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to otherpeople's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tableslooking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting. Where did the old society fail? the leader was demanding of them. Hestood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. Heglanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as HumphreyFownes squeezed into an empty chair. We live in a dome, the leadersaid, for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thingthat the great technological societies before ours could not invent,notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise? Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. Hewaited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggledwith this problem in revolutionary dialectics. A sound foreign policy , the leader said, aware that no one else hadobtained the insight. If a sound foreign policy can't be created theonly alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus themovement into domes began— by common consent of the governments . Thisis known as self-containment. Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lullin the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might bearranged for him to get out. Out? the leader said, frowning. Out? Out where? Outside the dome. Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up andleave. And that day I'll await impatiently, Fownes replied with marveloustact, because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My futurewife and I have to leave now . Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. Anddialectically very poor. Then you have discussed preparations, the practical necessities oflife in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?Have I left anything out? The leader sighed. The gentleman wants to know if he's left anythingout, he said to the group. Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions. Tell the man what he's forgotten, the leader said, walking to the farwindow and turning his back quite pointedly on them. Everyone spoke at the same moment. A sound foreign policy , they allsaid, it being almost too obvious for words. <doc-sep>On his way out the librarian shouted at him: A Tale of a Tub ,thirty-five years overdue! She was calculating the fine as he closedthe door. Humphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was oneblock away from his house. It was then that he realized somethingunusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security policewas parked at his front door. And something else was happening too. His house was dancing. It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one'sresidence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sightthat for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causingit. But when he stepped gingerly onto the porch, which was doing itsown independent gavotte, he reached for the doorknob with an immensecuriosity. The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch. From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched ashis favorite easy chair sailed out of the living room on a blast ofcold air and went pinwheeling down the avenue in the bright sunshine. Awild wind and a thick fog poured out of the house. It brought chairs,suits, small tables, lamps trailing their cords, ashtrays, sofacushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging anold, spoiled meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of hisancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room. He stood up; a wet wind swept over him, whipping at his face, toyingwith his hair. It was a whistling in his ears, and a tingle on hischeeks. He got hit by a shoe. As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played overhis face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room. Help! Lieutenant MacBride called. Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on hisdripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in thedistance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly. Winds , he said in a whisper. What's happening? MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa. March winds, he said. What?! April showers! The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emergedfrom the blackness of the living room. These are not Optimum DomeConditions! the voice wailed. The temperature is not 59 degrees.The humidity is not 47%! <doc-sep>Fownes held his face up to let the rain fall on it. Moonlight! heshouted. Roses! My soul for a cocktail for two! He grasped thedoorway to keep from being blown out of the house. Are you going to make it stop or aren't you! MacBride yelled. You'll have to tell me what you did first! I told him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairsbedroom! When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his wayup the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with awheel in his hand. What have I done? Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock. Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker. I'm not sure what's going to come of this, he said to Lanfierre withan astonishing amount of objectivity, but the entire dome air supplyis now coming through my bedroom. The wind screamed. Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked. Not any more there isn't. They started down the stairs carefully, but the wind caught them andthey quickly reached the bottom in a wet heap. Recruiting Lieutenant MacBride from behind his sofa, the men carefullyedged out of the house and forced the front door shut. The wind died. The fog dispersed. They stood dripping in the OptimumDome Conditions of the bright avenue. I never figured on this , Lanfierre said, shaking his head. With the front door closed the wind quickly built up inside the house.They could see the furnishing whirl past the windows. The house did awild, elated jig. What kind of a place is this? MacBride said, his courage beginningto return. He took out his notebook but it was a soggy mess. He tossedit away. Sure, he was different , Lanfierre murmured. I knew that much. When the roof blew off they weren't really surprised. With a certainamount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully,standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It wasstrangely slow motion, as was the black twirling cloud that now roseout of the master bedroom, spewing shorts and socks and cases everywhich way. Now what? MacBride said, thoroughly exasperated, as this strangeblack cloud began to accelerate, whirling about like some malevolenttop.... <doc-sep>Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. Heheld it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroomwith the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identicalshape of the illustration. It's a twister, he said softly. A Kansas twister! What, MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, what ... is atwister? The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear ofthe house toward the side of the dome. It says here, Fownes shoutedover the roaring, that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twisterand that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land beyond theconfines of everyday living . MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros. Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked. Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them. Fownes! MacBride shouted. This is a direct order! Make it go back! But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodgingmountainous puffs of glass as he went. Mrs. Deshazaway! he shouted.Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway! The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with theprecipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quicklyemptied and then rushed about empty-handed. Yoo-hoo! he yelled,running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.Optimum temperature collapsed. Mrs. Deshazaway! Agnes , will youmarry me? Yoo-hoo! Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,dazed. There was quite a large fall of glass. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Humphrey Fownes, and what are his characteristics?

Humphrey Fownes is an interesting man who always seems to be preoccupied with the weather. Despite it being optimal conditions, he does not seem to notice anything around him even when he is being pickpocketed. He owns an assortment of machinery, capable of creating his ideal illusions and even affecting the weather outside. It is revealed that most of this is part of his plan to leave the dome. Fownes is a very persistent person as well, trying his very hardest to convince Mrs. Deshazaway to marry him even after she rejects his offer. He is stubborn, too, especially when the leader of The Movement explains that they cannot just leave the dome without a sound foreign policy. No matter what, he is determined to leave the dome and marry the widow. However, his plans seem to finally come together when MacBride and Lanfierre mess with the wheel in his house. When the dome begins to break, Fownes sees this as an opportunity and becomes excited at the thought of finally leaving this dome and living in the outside world with his future wife.

What are the features and significance of the Master Mechanism in the downstairs closet that Fownes owns? [SEP] <s> A FALL OF GLASS By STANLEY R. LEE Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The weatherman was always right: Temperature, 59; humidity, 47%; occasional light showers—but of what? The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously. It was a splendid day. The temperature was a crisp 59 degrees, thehumidity a mildly dessicated 47%. The sun was a flaming orange ball ina cloudless blue sky. His pockets were picked eleven times. It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was amasterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was HumphreyFownes' abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. Hewas strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses,one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions.But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject tobegin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking sodeeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too manypeople were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum DomeConditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a boguspostman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In theconfusion of spilled letters and apologies from both sides, the postmanrifled Fownes's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets. <doc-sep>He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girlhappened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got hisright and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence.The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time.He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in aheated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied hisrear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of thehandkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of putand take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea hewas playing. There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass. It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist,hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings ofa celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-lightfragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Domeweevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed thehuge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing. Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass stillintrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humiditythat was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was thisrather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tightsurveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of gettinghis fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayedand chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returningthem. Two blocks away from his home a careless housewife spilled afive-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster ofParis. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight andhandedness behind. By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier completewith photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in anorange patrol car parked down the street. <doc-sep>Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job. Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Fownesapproach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was anodd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature. It was similarto that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new andparticularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope. Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be toleratedwithin the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a socialforce; it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it,Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see thatgenuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his ownsmall efforts, rarer. Fownes was a masterpiece of queerness. He was utterly inexplicable.Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes. Sometimes his house shakes , Lanfierre said. House shakes, Lieutenant MacBride wrote in his notebook. Then hestopped and frowned. He reread what he'd just written. You heard right. The house shakes , Lanfierre said, savoring it. MacBride looked at the Fownes house through the magnifying glass ofthe windshield. Like from ... side to side ? he asked in a somewhatpatronizing tone of voice. And up and down. MacBride returned the notebook to the breast pocket of his orangeuniform. Go on, he said, amused. It sounds interesting. He tossedthe dossier carelessly on the back seat. Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBridecouldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways MacBridewas a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. Hehad even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantlyabsurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It wasonly with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownesto MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre hadseen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimlyresounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spokein an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievablytrite. Then a fine robust freak came along and the others—the echoes—refusedto believe it. The lieutenant was probably on the point of suggesting avacation. Why don't you take a vacation? Lieutenant MacBride suggested. It's like this, MacBride. Do you know what a wind is? A breeze? Azephyr? I've heard some. They say there are mountain-tops where winds blow all the time. Strongwinds, MacBride. Winds like you and I can't imagine. And if there wasa house sitting on such a mountain and if winds did blow, it wouldshake exactly the way that one does. Sometimes I get the feeling thewhole place is going to slide off its foundation and go sailing downthe avenue. <doc-sep>Lieutenant MacBride pursed his lips. I'll tell you something else, Lanfierre went on. The windows allclose at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden everysingle window in the place will drop to its sill. Lanfierre leanedback in the seat, his eyes still on the house. Sometimes I thinkthere's a whole crowd of people in there waiting for a signal—as ifthey all had something important to say but had to close the windowsfirst so no one could hear. Why else close the windows in a domed city?And then as soon as the place is buttoned up they all explode intoconversation—and that's why the house shakes. MacBride whistled. No, I don't need a vacation. A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against thewindshield. Lanfierre started and bumped his knee on the steering wheel. No, you don't need a rest, MacBride said. You're starting to seeflying houses, hear loud babbling voices. You've got winds in yourbrain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality— At that moment, all at once, every last window in the house slammedshut. The street was deserted and quiet, not a movement, not a sound.MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for theghostly babble of voices to commence. The house began to shake. It rocked from side to side, it pitched forward and back, it yawed anddipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. Thehouse could have been preparing to take off and sail down the.... MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and thenthey both looked back at the dancing house. And the water , Lanfierre said. The water he uses! He could bethe thirstiest and cleanest man in the city. He could have a wholefamily of thirsty and clean kids, and he still wouldn't need all thatwater. The lieutenant had picked up the dossier. He thumbed through the pagesnow in amazement. Where do you get a guy like this? he asked. Didyou see what he carries in his pockets? And compasses won't work on this street. The lieutenant lit a cigarette and sighed. He usually sighed when making the decision to raid a dwelling. Itexpressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and gotneurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. Therewas something implacable about his sighs. He'll be coming out soon, Lanfierre said. He eats supper next doorwith a widow. Then he goes to the library. Always the same. Supper atthe widow's next door and then the library. MacBride's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. The library? hesaid. Is he in with that bunch? Lanfierre nodded. Should be very interesting, MacBride said slowly. I can't wait to see what he's got in there, Lanfierre murmured,watching the house with a consuming interest. They sat there smoking in silence and every now and then their eyeswidened as the house danced a new step. <doc-sep>Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off hisshoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupationof his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn'tnoticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. Hehad a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and thehigh-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of thehouse. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watchfrom outside. He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no roomleft in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist adraw-pull. Every window slammed shut. Tight as a kite, he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward thecloset at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was thatright? No, snug as a hug in a rug . He went on, thinking: The olddevils. The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion ofwheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-sawthat went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had acurious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged fromgrandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in gracefulcircles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although therewas one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. Hewatched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them forseven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year. Outside, the domed city vanished. It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a moresatisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.Looking through the window he saw only a garden. Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sunsetting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which leftthe smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid ahuge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon agarden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses. Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory. And cocktails fortwo. Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched asthe moon played, Oh, You Beautiful Doll and the neon roses flashedslowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned onthe scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated roseas the moon shifted to People Will Say We're In Love . <doc-sep>He rubbed his chin critically. It seemed all right. A dreamy sunset,an enchanted moon, flowers, scent. They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rosereally smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. Butthen, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive. Insist on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realisticromantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icyfingers marching up and down your spine? His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read thatbook on ancient mores and courtship customs. How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incrediblylong and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amountof falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Nomeant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and thecircumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later onthis evening. He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,thinking roguishly: Thou shalt not inundate. The risks he was taking!A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant Singing in the Rain . Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red suncontinued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over anddemolished several of the neon roses. The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steeringwheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; hegingerly turned it. Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle ofwinds came to him. He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This wasimportant; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose andthe moon shook a trifle as it whispered Cuddle Up a Little Closer . He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start. My dearMrs. Deshazaway. Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romanticgarden; time to be a bit forward. My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway. No.Contrived. How about a simple, Dear Mrs. Deshazaway . That might beit. I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn'trather stay over instead of going home.... Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear theshaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connectedto wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they madeone gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance ashigh-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening theStudebaker valve wider and wider.... The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sunshot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moonfell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning When theBlue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day . The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to theStudebaker wheel and shut it off. At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn'tthe first time the winds got out of line. Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all downand went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.Its days were thirty and it followed September. And all the rest havethirty-one. What a strange people, the ancients! He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street. <doc-sep>Men are too perishable, Mrs. Deshazaway said over dinner. For allpractical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die. Would you pass the beets, please? Humphrey Fownes said. She handed him a platter of steaming red beets. And don't look at methat way, she said. I'm not going to marry you and if you wantreasons I'll give you four of them. Andrew. Curt. Norman. And Alphonse. The widow was a passionate woman. She did everythingpassionately—talking, cooking, dressing. Her beets were passionatelyred. Her clothes rustled and her high heels clicked and her jewelrytinkled. She was possessed by an uncontrollable dynamism. Fownes hadnever known anyone like her. You forgot to put salt on the potatoes,she said passionately, then went on as calmly as it was possible forher to be, to explain why she couldn't marry him. Do you have anyidea what people are saying? They're all saying I'm a cannibal! I robmy husbands of their life force and when they're empty I carry theirbodies outside on my way to the justice of the peace. As long as there are people, he said philosophically, there'll betalk. But it's the air! Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale,I'm positive. It's not nourishing. The air is stale and Andrew, Curt,Norman and Alphonse couldn't stand it. Poor Alphonse. He was never sohealthy as on the day he was born. From then on things got steadilyworse for him. I don't seem to mind the air. She threw up her hands. You'd be the worst of the lot! She left thetable, rustling and tinkling about the room. I can just hear them. Trysome of the asparagus. Five. That's what they'd say. That woman didit again. And the plain fact is I don't want you on my record. Really, Fownes protested. I feel splendid. Never better. He could hear her moving about and then felt her hands on hisshoulders. And what about those very elaborate plans you've beenmaking to seduce me? Fownes froze with three asparagus hanging from his fork. Don't you think they'll find out? I found out and you can bet they will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don'talways tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Fownes, itwasn't the old customs at all standing between us, it was air. I can'thave another man die on me, it's bad for my self-esteem. And now you'vegone and done something good and criminal, something peculiar. <doc-sep>Fownes put his fork down. Dear Mrs. Deshazaway, he started to say. And of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Fownes,you'll tell them. No, no heroics, please! When they ask a man aquestion he always answers and you will too. You'll tell them I wantedto be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask me afew questions. You see, we're both a bit queer. I hadn't thought of that, Fownes said quietly. Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew, Curt, Norman— That won't be necessary, Fownes said with unusual force. With alldue respect to Andrew, Curt, Norman and Alphonse, I might as well statehere and now I have other plans for you, Mrs. Deshazaway. But my dear Mr. Fownes, she said, leaning across the table. We'relost, you and I. Not if we could leave the dome, Fownes said quietly. That's impossible! How? In no hurry, now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fownesleaned across the table and whispered: Fresh air, Mrs. Deshazaway?Space? Miles and miles of space where the real-estate monopoly hasno control whatever? Where the wind blows across prairies ; or isit the other way around? No matter. How would you like that , Mrs.Deshazaway? Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on hertwo hands. Pray continue, she said. Endless vistas of moonlight and roses? April showers, Mrs. Deshazaway.And June, which as you may know follows directly upon April and issupposed to be the month of brides, of marrying. June also lies beyondthe dome. I see. And , Mr. Fownes added, his voice a honeyed whisper, they saythat somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight,the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's vernal and that's when it roams the Open Country where geigers nolonger scintillate. My. Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window and then cameback to the table, standing directly over Fownes. If you can get usoutside the dome, she said, out where a man stays warm long enoughfor his wife to get to know him ... if you can do that, Mr. Fownes ...you may call me Agnes. <doc-sep>When Humphrey Fownes stepped out of the widow's house, there was alook of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt awistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. Itwould be such a deliciously insane experience. (April has thirtydays, Fownes mumbled, passing them, because thirty is the largestnumber such that all smaller numbers not having a common divisorwith it are primes . MacBride frowned and added it to the dossier.Lanfierre sighed.) Pinning his hopes on the Movement, Fownes went straight to thelibrary several blocks away, a shattered depressing place given overto government publications and censored old books with holes inthem. It was used so infrequently that the Movement was able to meetthere undisturbed. The librarian was a yellowed, dog-eared woman ofeighty. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like thebooks around her, had been rendered by time's own censor into nearunintelligibility. Here's one, she said to him as he entered. Gulliver's Travels. Loaned to John Wesley Davidson on March 14, 1979 for five days. Whatdo you make of it? In the litter of books and cards and dried out ink pads that surroundedthe librarian, Fownes noticed a torn dust jacket with a curiousillustration. What's that? he said. A twister, she replied quickly. Now listen to this . Seven yearslater on March 21, 1986, Ella Marshall Davidson took out the same book.What do you make of that ? I'd say, Humphrey Fownes said, that he ... that he recommended itto her, that one day they met in the street and he told her aboutthis book and then they ... they went to the library together and sheborrowed it and eventually, why eventually they got married. Hah! They were brother and sister! the librarian shouted in herparched voice, her old buckram eyes laughing with cunning. Fownes smiled weakly and looked again at the dust jacket. The twisterwas unquestionably a meteorological phenomenon. It spun ominously, likea malevolent top, and coursed the countryside destructively, carryinga Dorothy to an Oz. He couldn't help wondering if twisters did anythingto feminine pulses, if they could possibly be a part of a moonlitnight, with cocktails and roses. He absently stuffed the dust jacketin his pocket and went on into the other rooms, the librarian mumblingafter him: Edna Murdoch Featherstone, April 21, 1991, as thoughreading inscriptions on a tombstone. <doc-sep>The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaidladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to otherpeople's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tableslooking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting. Where did the old society fail? the leader was demanding of them. Hestood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. Heglanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as HumphreyFownes squeezed into an empty chair. We live in a dome, the leadersaid, for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thingthat the great technological societies before ours could not invent,notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise? Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. Hewaited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggledwith this problem in revolutionary dialectics. A sound foreign policy , the leader said, aware that no one else hadobtained the insight. If a sound foreign policy can't be created theonly alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus themovement into domes began— by common consent of the governments . Thisis known as self-containment. Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lullin the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might bearranged for him to get out. Out? the leader said, frowning. Out? Out where? Outside the dome. Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up andleave. And that day I'll await impatiently, Fownes replied with marveloustact, because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My futurewife and I have to leave now . Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. Anddialectically very poor. Then you have discussed preparations, the practical necessities oflife in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?Have I left anything out? The leader sighed. The gentleman wants to know if he's left anythingout, he said to the group. Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions. Tell the man what he's forgotten, the leader said, walking to the farwindow and turning his back quite pointedly on them. Everyone spoke at the same moment. A sound foreign policy , they allsaid, it being almost too obvious for words. <doc-sep>On his way out the librarian shouted at him: A Tale of a Tub ,thirty-five years overdue! She was calculating the fine as he closedthe door. Humphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was oneblock away from his house. It was then that he realized somethingunusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security policewas parked at his front door. And something else was happening too. His house was dancing. It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one'sresidence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sightthat for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causingit. But when he stepped gingerly onto the porch, which was doing itsown independent gavotte, he reached for the doorknob with an immensecuriosity. The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch. From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched ashis favorite easy chair sailed out of the living room on a blast ofcold air and went pinwheeling down the avenue in the bright sunshine. Awild wind and a thick fog poured out of the house. It brought chairs,suits, small tables, lamps trailing their cords, ashtrays, sofacushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging anold, spoiled meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of hisancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room. He stood up; a wet wind swept over him, whipping at his face, toyingwith his hair. It was a whistling in his ears, and a tingle on hischeeks. He got hit by a shoe. As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played overhis face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room. Help! Lieutenant MacBride called. Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on hisdripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in thedistance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly. Winds , he said in a whisper. What's happening? MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa. March winds, he said. What?! April showers! The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emergedfrom the blackness of the living room. These are not Optimum DomeConditions! the voice wailed. The temperature is not 59 degrees.The humidity is not 47%! <doc-sep>Fownes held his face up to let the rain fall on it. Moonlight! heshouted. Roses! My soul for a cocktail for two! He grasped thedoorway to keep from being blown out of the house. Are you going to make it stop or aren't you! MacBride yelled. You'll have to tell me what you did first! I told him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairsbedroom! When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his wayup the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with awheel in his hand. What have I done? Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock. Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker. I'm not sure what's going to come of this, he said to Lanfierre withan astonishing amount of objectivity, but the entire dome air supplyis now coming through my bedroom. The wind screamed. Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked. Not any more there isn't. They started down the stairs carefully, but the wind caught them andthey quickly reached the bottom in a wet heap. Recruiting Lieutenant MacBride from behind his sofa, the men carefullyedged out of the house and forced the front door shut. The wind died. The fog dispersed. They stood dripping in the OptimumDome Conditions of the bright avenue. I never figured on this , Lanfierre said, shaking his head. With the front door closed the wind quickly built up inside the house.They could see the furnishing whirl past the windows. The house did awild, elated jig. What kind of a place is this? MacBride said, his courage beginningto return. He took out his notebook but it was a soggy mess. He tossedit away. Sure, he was different , Lanfierre murmured. I knew that much. When the roof blew off they weren't really surprised. With a certainamount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully,standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It wasstrangely slow motion, as was the black twirling cloud that now roseout of the master bedroom, spewing shorts and socks and cases everywhich way. Now what? MacBride said, thoroughly exasperated, as this strangeblack cloud began to accelerate, whirling about like some malevolenttop.... <doc-sep>Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. Heheld it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroomwith the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identicalshape of the illustration. It's a twister, he said softly. A Kansas twister! What, MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, what ... is atwister? The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear ofthe house toward the side of the dome. It says here, Fownes shoutedover the roaring, that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twisterand that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land beyond theconfines of everyday living . MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros. Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked. Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them. Fownes! MacBride shouted. This is a direct order! Make it go back! But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodgingmountainous puffs of glass as he went. Mrs. Deshazaway! he shouted.Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway! The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with theprecipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quicklyemptied and then rushed about empty-handed. Yoo-hoo! he yelled,running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.Optimum temperature collapsed. Mrs. Deshazaway! Agnes , will youmarry me? Yoo-hoo! Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,dazed. There was quite a large fall of glass. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are the features and significance of the Master Mechanism in the downstairs closet that Fownes owns?

The Master Mechanism in the downstairs closet is similar to a watch being inside of a great watch case. There is a profusion of wheels surrounding it, and the Mechanism itself is a miniature see-saw that goes back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels are salvaged from grandfather’s clocks and music boxes, going around in graceful circles at a rate of 30 to 31 times an hour. However, there is one eccentric cam that goes between 28 and 29. Fownes also sets the time to seven o’clock on April 7th of any year. This Master Mechanism is significant because it is capable of showing the ideal illusion to Fownes. He uses this Mechanism to envision his ideal life outside of the dome, and it gives him the home that he hopes to see instead of the one that he is currently living inside of the dome. These illusions also motivate him to try and find a way to leave the dome with the widow. The Master Mechanism serves as a motivator for Fownes, and it allows him to envision his dreams into a form of reality.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> SURVIVAL TACTICS By AL SEVCIK ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK The robots were built to serveMan; to do his work, see to hiscomforts, make smooth his way.Then the robots figured out anadditional service—putting Manout of his misery. <doc-sep> There was a sudden crashthat hung sharply in the air,as if a tree had been hit bylightning some distance away.Then another. Alan stopped,puzzled. Two more blasts, quicklytogether, and the sound of ascream faintly. Frowning, worrying about thesounds, Alan momentarily forgotto watch his step until his footsuddenly plunged into an anthill, throwing him to the junglefloor. Damn! He cursed again,for the tenth time, and stooduncertainly in the dimness.From tall, moss-shrouded trees,wrist-thick vines hung quietly,scraping the spongy ground likethe tentacles of some monstroustree-bound octopus. Fitful littleplants grew straggly in theshadows of the mossy trunks,forming a dense underbrush thatmade walking difficult. At middaysome few of the blue sun'srays filtered through to thejungle floor, but now, late afternoonon the planet, the shadowswere long and gloomy. Alan peered around him at thevine-draped shadows, listeningto the soft rustlings and fainttwig-snappings of life in thejungle. Two short, poppingsounds echoed across the stillness,drowned out almost immediatelyand silenced by anexplosive crash. Alan started,Blaster fighting! But it can'tbe! Suddenly anxious, he slasheda hurried X in one of the treesto mark his position then turnedto follow a line of similar marksback through the jungle. Hetried to run, but vines blockedhis way and woody shrubscaught at his legs, tripping himand holding him back. Then,through the trees he saw theclearing of the camp site, thetemporary home for the scoutship and the eleven men who,with Alan, were the only humanson the jungle planet, Waiamea. Stepping through the lowshrubbery at the edge of thesite, he looked across the openarea to the two temporary structures,the camp headquarterswhere the power supplies andthe computer were; and thesleeping quarters. Beyond, nosehigh, stood the silver scout shipthat had brought the advanceexploratory party of scientistsand technicians to Waiameathree days before. Except for afew of the killer robots rollingslowly around the camp site ontheir quiet treads, there was noone about. So, they've finally got thosethings working. Alan smiledslightly. Guess that means Iowe Pete a bourbon-and-sodafor sure. Anybody who canbuild a robot that hunts by homingin on animals' mind impulses ...He stepped forwardjust as a roar of blue flame dissolvedthe branches of a tree,barely above his head. Without pausing to think,Alan leaped back, and fellsprawling over a bush just asone of the robots rolled silentlyup from the right, lowering itsblaster barrel to aim directly athis head. Alan froze. My God,Pete built those things wrong! Suddenly a screeching whirlwindof claws and teeth hurleditself from the smolderingbranches and crashed against therobot, clawing insanely at theantenna and blaster barrel.With an awkward jerk the robotswung around and fired its blaster,completely dissolving thelower half of the cat creaturewhich had clung across the barrel.But the back pressure of thecat's body overloaded the dischargecircuits. The robot startedto shake, then clicked sharplyas an overload relay snappedand shorted the blaster cells.The killer turned and rolled backtowards the camp, leaving Alanalone. Shakily, Alan crawled a fewfeet back into the undergrowthwhere he could lie and watch thecamp, but not himself be seen.Though visibility didn't makeany difference to the robots, hefelt safer, somehow, hidden. Heknew now what the shootingsounds had been and why therehadn't been anyone around thecamp site. A charred blob lyingin the grass of the clearing confirmedhis hypothesis. His stomachfelt sick. I suppose, he muttered tohimself, that Pete assembledthese robots in a batch and thenactivated them all at once, probablynever living to realize thatthey're tuned to pick up humanbrain waves, too. Damn!Damn! His eyes blurred andhe slammed his fist into the softearth. When he raised his eyes againthe jungle was perceptibly darker.Stealthy rustlings in theshadows grew louder with thesetting sun. Branches snappedunaccountably in the trees overheadand every now and thenleaves or a twig fell softly to theground, close to where he lay.Reaching into his jacket, Alanfingered his pocket blaster. Hepulled it out and held it in hisright hand. This pop gunwouldn't even singe a robot, butit just might stop one of thosepumas. They said the blast with your name on it would findyou anywhere. This looked like Alan's blast. Slowly Alan looked around,sizing up his situation. Behindhim the dark jungle rustled forbiddingly.He shuddered. Not avery healthy spot to spend thenight. On the other hand, I certainlycan't get to the camp witha pack of mind-activated mechanicalkillers running around.If I can just hold out until morning,when the big ship arrives ...The big ship! GoodLord, Peggy! He turned white;oily sweat punctuated his forehead.Peggy, arriving tomorrowwith the other colonists, thewives and kids! The metal killers,tuned to blast any livingflesh, would murder them theinstant they stepped from theship! A pretty girl, Peggy, the girlhe'd married just three weeksago. He still couldn't believe it.It was crazy, he supposed, tomarry a girl and then take offfor an unknown planet, with herto follow, to try to create a homein a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe,but Peggy and her green eyesthat changed color with thelight, with her soft brown hair,and her happy smile, had endedthirty years of loneliness andhad, at last, given him a reasonfor living. Not to be killed!Alan unclenched his fists andwiped his palms, bloody wherehis fingernails had dug into theflesh. There was a slight creak abovehim like the protesting of abranch too heavily laden. Blasterready, Alan rolled over onto hisback. In the movement, his elbowstruck the top of a smallearthy mound and he was instantlyengulfed in a swarm oflocust-like insects that beat disgustinglyagainst his eyes andmouth. Fagh! Waving hisarms before his face he jumpedup and backwards, away fromthe bugs. As he did so, a darkshapeless thing plopped fromthe trees onto the spot where hehad been lying stretched out.Then, like an ambient fungus,it slithered off into the jungleundergrowth. For a split second the junglestood frozen in a brilliant blueflash, followed by the sharp reportof a blaster. Then another.Alan whirled, startled. Theplanet's double moon had risenand he could see a robot rollingslowly across the clearing in hisgeneral direction, blasting indiscriminatelyat whatever mindimpulses came within its pickuprange, birds, insects, anything.Six or seven others also left thecamp headquarters area andheaded for the jungle, each to aslightly different spot. Apparently the robot hadn'tsensed him yet, but Alan didn'tknow what the effective rangeof its pickup devices was. Hebegan to slide back into thejungle. Minutes later, lookingback he saw that the machine,though several hundred yardsaway, had altered its course andwas now headed directly forhim. His stomach tightened. Panic.The dank, musty smell of thejungle seemed for an instant tothicken and choke in his throat.Then he thought of the big shiplanding in the morning, settlingdown slowly after a lonely two-weekvoyage. He thought of abrown-haired girl crowding withthe others to the gangway, eagerto embrace the new planet, andthe next instant a charred nothing,unrecognizable, the victimof a design error or a misplacedwire in a machine. I have totry, he said aloud. I have totry. He moved into the blackness. Powerful as a small tank, thekiller robot was equipped tocrush, slash, and burn its waythrough undergrowth. Nevertheless,it was slowed by thelarger trees and the thick, clingingvines, and Alan found thathe could manage to keep aheadof it, barely out of blaster range.Only, the robot didn't get tired.Alan did. The twin moons cast pale, deceptiveshadows that waveredand danced across the junglefloor, hiding debris that trippedhim and often sent him sprawlinginto the dark. Sharp-edgedgrowths tore at his face andclothes, and insects attracted bythe blood matted against hispants and shirt. Behind, the robotcrashed imperturbably afterhim, lighting the night with fitfulblaster flashes as somewinged or legged life came withinits range. There was movement also, inthe darkness beside him, scrapingsand rustlings and an occasionallow, throaty sound like anangry cat. Alan's fingers tensedon his pocket blaster. Swiftshadowy forms moved quickly inthe shrubs and the growling becamesuddenly louder. He firedtwice, blindly, into the undergrowth.Sharp screams punctuatedthe electric blue discharge asa pack of small feline creaturesleaped snarling and clawingback into the night. Mentally, Alan tried to figurethe charge remaining in his blaster.There wouldn't be much.Enough for a few more shots,maybe. Why the devil didn't Iload in fresh cells this morning! The robot crashed on, loudernow, gaining on the tired human.Legs aching and bruised,stinging from insect bites, Alantried to force himself to runholding his hands in front ofhim like a child in the dark. Hisfoot tripped on a barely visibleinsect hill and a winged swarmexploded around him. Startled,Alan jerked sideways, crashinghis head against a tree. Heclutched at the bark for a second,dazed, then his kneesbuckled. His blaster fell into theshadows. The robot crashed loudly behindhim now. Without stoppingto think, Alan fumbled along theground after his gun, straininghis eyes in the darkness. Hefound it just a couple of feet toone side, against the base of asmall bush. Just as his fingersclosed upon the barrel his otherhand slipped into somethingsticky that splashed over hisforearm. He screamed in painand leaped back, trying franticallyto wipe the clinging,burning blackness off his arm.Patches of black scraped off ontobranches and vines, but the restspread slowly over his arm asagonizing as hot acid, or as fleshbeing ripped away layer bylayer. Almost blinded by pain, whimpering,Alan stumbled forward.Sharp muscle spasms shot fromhis shoulder across his back andchest. Tears streamed across hischeeks. A blue arc slashed at the treesa mere hundred yards behind.He screamed at the blast. Damnyou, Pete! Damn your robots!Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!He stepped into emptiness. Coolness. Wet. Slowly, washedby the water, the pain began tofall away. He wanted to lie thereforever in the dark, cool, wetness.For ever, and ever, and ...The air thundered. In the dim light he could seethe banks of the stream, higherthan a man, muddy and loose.Growing right to the edge of thebanks, the jungle reached outwith hairy, disjointed arms asif to snag even the dirty littlestream that passed so timidlythrough its domain. Alan, lying in the mud of thestream bed, felt the earth shakeas the heavy little robot rolledslowly and inexorably towardshim. The Lord High Executioner,he thought, in battledress. He tried to stand but hislegs were almost too weak andhis arm felt numb. I'll drownhim, he said aloud. I'll drownthe Lord High Executioner. Helaughed. Then his mind cleared.He remembered where he was. Alan trembled. For the firsttime in his life he understoodwhat it was to live, because forthe first time he realized that hewould sometime die. In othertimes and circumstances hemight put it off for a while, formonths or years, but eventually,as now, he would have to watch,still and helpless, while deathcame creeping. Then, at thirty,Alan became a man. Dammit, no law says I haveto flame-out now ! He forcedhimself to rise, forced his legsto stand, struggling painfully inthe shin-deep ooze. He workedhis way to the bank and began todig frenziedly, chest high, abouttwo feet below the edge. His arm where the black thinghad been was swollen and tender,but he forced his hands to dig,dig, dig, cursing and crying tohide the pain, and biting hislips, ignoring the salty taste ofblood. The soft earth crumbledunder his hands until he had asmall cave about three feet deepin the bank. Beyond that thesoil was held too tightly by theroots from above and he had tostop. The air crackled blue and atree crashed heavily past Alaninto the stream. Above him onthe bank, silhouetting againstthe moons, the killer robot stoppedand its blaster swivelledslowly down. Frantically, Alanhugged the bank as a shaft ofpure electricity arced over him,sliced into the water, and explodedin a cloud of steam. Therobot shook for a second, itsblaster muzzle lifted erraticallyand for an instant it seemed almostout of control, then itquieted and the muzzle againpointed down. Pressing with all his might,Alan slid slowly along the bankinches at a time, away from themachine above. Its muzzle turnedto follow him but the edge ofthe bank blocked its aim. Grindingforward a couple of feet,slightly overhanging the bank,the robot fired again. For a splitsecond Alan seemed engulfed inflame; the heat of hell singed hishead and back, and mud boiledin the bank by his arm. Again the robot trembled. Itjerked forward a foot and itsblaster swung slightly away. Butonly for a moment. Then the gunswung back again. Suddenly, as if sensing somethingwrong, its tracks slammedinto reverse. It stood poised fora second, its treads spinningcrazily as the earth collapsed underneathit, where Alan haddug, then it fell with a heavysplash into the mud, ten feetfrom where Alan stood. Without hesitation Alanthrew himself across the blasterhousing, frantically locking hisarms around the barrel as therobot's treads churned furiouslyin the sticky mud, causing it tobuck and plunge like a Brahmabull. The treads stopped and theblaster jerked upwards wrenchingAlan's arms, then slammeddown. Then the whole housingwhirled around and around, tiltingalternately up and down likea steel-skinned water monstertrying to dislodge a tenaciouscrab, while Alan, arms and legswrapped tightly around the blasterbarrel and housing, pressedfiercely against the robot's metalskin. Slowly, trying to anticipateand shift his weight with thespinning plunges, Alan workedhis hand down to his right hip.He fumbled for the sheath clippedto his belt, found it, and extracteda stubby hunting knife.Sweat and blood in his eyes,hardly able to move on the wildlyswinging turret, he felt downthe sides to the thin crack betweenthe revolving housing andthe stationary portion of the robot.With a quick prayer hejammed in the knife blade—andwas whipped headlong into themud as the turret literally snappedto a stop. The earth, jungle and moonsspun in a pinwheeled blur,slowed, and settled to their properplaces. Standing in the sticky,sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyedthe robot apprehensively. Halfburied in mud, it stood quiet inthe shadowy light except for anoccasional, almost spasmodicjerk of its blaster barrel. Forthe first time that night Alanallowed himself a slight smile.A blade in the old gear box,eh? How does that feel, boy? He turned. Well, I'd betterget out of here before the knifeslips or the monster cooks upsome more tricks with whateverit's got for a brain. Digginglittle footholds in the soft bank,he climbed up and stood onceagain in the rustling jungledarkness. I wonder, he thought, howPete could cram enough braininto one of those things to makeit hunt and track so perfectly.He tried to visualize the computingcircuits needed for theoperation of its tracking mechanismalone. There just isn'troom for the electronics. You'dneed a computer as big as theone at camp headquarters. In the distance the sky blazedas a blaster roared in the jungle.Then Alan heard the approachingrobot, crunching and snappingits way through the undergrowthlike an onrushing forestfire. He froze. Good Lord!They communicate with eachother! The one I jammed mustbe calling others to help. He began to move along thebank, away from the crashingsounds. Suddenly he stopped, hiseyes widened. Of course! Radio!I'll bet anything they'reautomatically controlled by thecamp computer. That's wheretheir brain is! He paused.Then, if that were put out ofcommission ... He jerked awayfrom the bank and half ran, halfpulled himself through the undergrowthtowards the camp. Trees exploded to his left asanother robot fired in his direction,too far away to be effectivebut churning towards himthrough the blackness. Alan changed direction slightlyto follow a line between thetwo robots coming up fromeither side, behind him. His eyeswere well accustomed to the darknow, and he managed to dodgemost of the shadowy vines andbranches before they could snagor trip him. Even so, he stumbledin the wiry underbrush andhis legs were a mass of stingingslashes from ankle to thigh. The crashing rumble of thekiller robots shook the night behindhim, nearer sometimes,then falling slightly back, butfollowing constantly, moreunshakable than bloodhoundsbecause a man can sometimes covera scent, but no man can stop histhoughts. Intermittently, likephotographers' strobes, blueflashes would light the jungleabout him. Then, for secondsafterwards his eyes would seedancing streaks of yellow andsharp multi-colored pinwheelsthat alternately shrunk and expandedas if in a surrealist'snightmare. Alan would have topause and squeeze his eyelidstight shut before he could seeagain, and the robots wouldmove a little closer. To his right the trees silhouettedbriefly against brilliance asa third robot slowly moved upin the distance. Without thinking,Alan turned slightly to theleft, then froze in momentarypanic. I should be at the campnow. Damn, what direction amI going? He tried to thinkback, to visualize the twists andturns he'd taken in the jungle.All I need is to get lost. He pictured the camp computerwith no one to stop it, automaticallysending its robots inwider and wider forays, slowlywiping every trace of life fromthe planet. Technologically advancedmachines doing the jobfor which they were built, completely,thoroughly, without feeling,and without human mastersto separate sense from futility.Finally parts would wear out,circuits would short, and one byone the killers would crunch toa halt. A few birds would stillfly then, but a unique animallife, rare in the universe, wouldexist no more. And the bones ofchildren, eager girls, and theirmen would also lie, beside arusty hulk, beneath the aliensun. Peggy! As if in answer, a tree besidehim breathed fire, then exploded.In the brief flash of theblaster shot, Alan saw the steelglint of a robot only a hundredyards away, much nearer thanhe had thought. Thank heavenfor trees! He stepped back, felthis foot catch in something,clutched futilely at some leavesand fell heavily. Pain danced up his leg as hegrabbed his ankle. Quickly hefelt the throbbing flesh. Damnthe rotten luck, anyway! Heblinked the pain tears from hiseyes and looked up—into a robot'sblaster, jutting out of thefoliage, thirty yards away. Instinctively, in one motionAlan grabbed his pocket blasterand fired. To his amazement therobot jerked back, its gun wobbledand started to tilt away.Then, getting itself under control,it swung back again to faceAlan. He fired again, and againthe robot reacted. It seemed familiarsomehow. Then he rememberedthe robot on the riverbank, jiggling and swaying forseconds after each shot. Ofcourse! He cursed himself formissing the obvious. The blasterstatic blanks out radiotransmission from the computerfor a few seconds. They even doit to themselves! Firing intermittently, hepulled himself upright and hobbledahead through the bush.The robot shook spasmodicallywith each shot, its gun tilted upwardat an awkward angle. Then, unexpectedly, Alan sawstars, real stars brilliant in thenight sky, and half dragging hisswelling leg he stumbled out ofthe jungle into the camp clearing.Ahead, across fifty yards ofgrass stood the headquartersbuilding, housing the robot-controllingcomputer. Still firing atshort intervals he started acrossthe clearing, gritting his teethat every step. Straining every muscle inspite of the agonizing pain, Alanforced himself to a limping runacross the uneven ground, carefullyavoiding the insect hillsthat jutted up through the grass.From the corner of his eye hesaw another of the robots standingshakily in the dark edge ofthe jungle waiting, it seemed,for his small blaster to run dry. Be damned! You can't winnow! Alan yelled between blastershots, almost irrational fromthe pain that ripped jaggedlythrough his leg. Then it happened.A few feet from thebuilding's door his blaster quit.A click. A faint hiss when hefrantically jerked the triggeragain and again, and the spentcells released themselves fromthe device, falling in the grassat his feet. He dropped the uselessgun. No! He threw himself onthe ground as a new robot suddenlyappeared around the edgeof the building a few feet away,aimed, and fired. Air burnedover Alan's back and ozone tingledin his nostrils. Blinding itself for a few secondswith its own blaster static,the robot paused momentarily,jiggling in place. In thisinstant, Alan jammed his handsinto an insect hill and hurled thepile of dirt and insects directlyat the robot's antenna. In a flash,hundreds of the winged thingserupted angrily from the hole ina swarming cloud, each part ofwhich was a speck of lifetransmitting mental energy to therobot's pickup devices. Confused by the sudden dispersionof mind impulses, therobot fired erratically as Alancrouched and raced painfully forthe door. It fired again, closer,as he fumbled with the lockrelease. Jagged bits of plastic andstone ripped past him, torn looseby the blast. Frantically, Alan slammedopen the door as the robot, sensinghim strongly now, aimedpoint blank. He saw nothing, hismind thought of nothing but thered-clad safety switch mountedbeside the computer. Time stopped.There was nothing else inthe world. He half-jumped, half-felltowards it, slowly, in tenthsof seconds that seemed measuredout in years. The universe went black. Later. Brilliance pressed uponhis eyes. Then pain returned, amulti-hurting thing that crawledthrough his body and draggedragged tentacles across hisbrain. He moaned. A voice spoke hollowly in thedistance. He's waking. Call hiswife. Alan opened his eyes in awhite room; a white light hungover his head. Beside him, lookingdown with a rueful smile,stood a young man wearingspace medical insignia. Yes,he acknowledged the question inAlan's eyes, you hit the switch.That was three days ago. Whenyou're up again we'd all like tothank you. Suddenly a sobbing-laughinggreen-eyed girl was pressedtightly against him. Neither ofthem spoke. They couldn't. Therewas too much to say. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Alan is walking when he hears a sudden crash that hangs sharply in the air. He loses his footing and trips, realizing that there is a possibility of blaster fighting. He hurries to mark an X on a tree for his position and heads back to the clearing of the temporary camp site. This place is home to the only eleven humans, with Alan, on the planet of Waiamea. Once Alan returns to the site, he observes the killer robots and praises Pete for getting them to work. However, when the robots turn on him, he realizes that the robots must have been programmed to pick up human brain waves. He thinks back to Penny, a girl he married three weeks ago who will be arriving with the rest of the colonists tomorrow. This becomes his reason to live against the killer robots, and he observes the killer robots. He fires into the undergrowth and berates himself for not loading fresh cells in the morning as the robot gets louder. He is injured by one and cries out as he feels himself dying. As the robot comes towards him again, he understands what it means to live and forces himself to keep walking. Alan then hugs the bank as pure electricity arches over him, sliding slowly and away from the machine above. The robot trembles and suddenly falls; this gives Alan an opportunity to tackle it. The two struggle, but Alan takes a hunting knife out and jams it into the robot. He wonders how Pete managed to create these robots so perfectly. Suddenly, he hears an approaching robot and realizes that they communicate with each other even if one of them is jammed. Alan decides to run towards the camp because he realizes that’s where the brain of the robots is located. Shortly after running, he finds himself lost because the camp has not appeared in sight yet. He tries to think back to where the camp could be and narrowly misses getting blasted by one of the killer robots. When he fires the pocket blaster, it cancels out the radio transmission from the computer to the robot; Alan sees this as an opportunity to go towards the headquarters building. His blaster suddenly quits, but he manages to hurl a pile of dirt and insects at the robots. He goes into the room quickly as the robot continues to blast. The robot aims point blank at him as he hurls himself towards the red-clad safety switch. Everything then fades to black. When Alan wakes up again, there is a young man wearing a medical insignia telling him that he had hit the switch three days ago. Suddenly, his wife appears, and they hold each other tight.

Who is Alan, and what are his traits? [SEP] <s> SURVIVAL TACTICS By AL SEVCIK ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK The robots were built to serveMan; to do his work, see to hiscomforts, make smooth his way.Then the robots figured out anadditional service—putting Manout of his misery. <doc-sep> There was a sudden crashthat hung sharply in the air,as if a tree had been hit bylightning some distance away.Then another. Alan stopped,puzzled. Two more blasts, quicklytogether, and the sound of ascream faintly. Frowning, worrying about thesounds, Alan momentarily forgotto watch his step until his footsuddenly plunged into an anthill, throwing him to the junglefloor. Damn! He cursed again,for the tenth time, and stooduncertainly in the dimness.From tall, moss-shrouded trees,wrist-thick vines hung quietly,scraping the spongy ground likethe tentacles of some monstroustree-bound octopus. Fitful littleplants grew straggly in theshadows of the mossy trunks,forming a dense underbrush thatmade walking difficult. At middaysome few of the blue sun'srays filtered through to thejungle floor, but now, late afternoonon the planet, the shadowswere long and gloomy. Alan peered around him at thevine-draped shadows, listeningto the soft rustlings and fainttwig-snappings of life in thejungle. Two short, poppingsounds echoed across the stillness,drowned out almost immediatelyand silenced by anexplosive crash. Alan started,Blaster fighting! But it can'tbe! Suddenly anxious, he slasheda hurried X in one of the treesto mark his position then turnedto follow a line of similar marksback through the jungle. Hetried to run, but vines blockedhis way and woody shrubscaught at his legs, tripping himand holding him back. Then,through the trees he saw theclearing of the camp site, thetemporary home for the scoutship and the eleven men who,with Alan, were the only humanson the jungle planet, Waiamea. Stepping through the lowshrubbery at the edge of thesite, he looked across the openarea to the two temporary structures,the camp headquarterswhere the power supplies andthe computer were; and thesleeping quarters. Beyond, nosehigh, stood the silver scout shipthat had brought the advanceexploratory party of scientistsand technicians to Waiameathree days before. Except for afew of the killer robots rollingslowly around the camp site ontheir quiet treads, there was noone about. So, they've finally got thosethings working. Alan smiledslightly. Guess that means Iowe Pete a bourbon-and-sodafor sure. Anybody who canbuild a robot that hunts by homingin on animals' mind impulses ...He stepped forwardjust as a roar of blue flame dissolvedthe branches of a tree,barely above his head. Without pausing to think,Alan leaped back, and fellsprawling over a bush just asone of the robots rolled silentlyup from the right, lowering itsblaster barrel to aim directly athis head. Alan froze. My God,Pete built those things wrong! Suddenly a screeching whirlwindof claws and teeth hurleditself from the smolderingbranches and crashed against therobot, clawing insanely at theantenna and blaster barrel.With an awkward jerk the robotswung around and fired its blaster,completely dissolving thelower half of the cat creaturewhich had clung across the barrel.But the back pressure of thecat's body overloaded the dischargecircuits. The robot startedto shake, then clicked sharplyas an overload relay snappedand shorted the blaster cells.The killer turned and rolled backtowards the camp, leaving Alanalone. Shakily, Alan crawled a fewfeet back into the undergrowthwhere he could lie and watch thecamp, but not himself be seen.Though visibility didn't makeany difference to the robots, hefelt safer, somehow, hidden. Heknew now what the shootingsounds had been and why therehadn't been anyone around thecamp site. A charred blob lyingin the grass of the clearing confirmedhis hypothesis. His stomachfelt sick. I suppose, he muttered tohimself, that Pete assembledthese robots in a batch and thenactivated them all at once, probablynever living to realize thatthey're tuned to pick up humanbrain waves, too. Damn!Damn! His eyes blurred andhe slammed his fist into the softearth. When he raised his eyes againthe jungle was perceptibly darker.Stealthy rustlings in theshadows grew louder with thesetting sun. Branches snappedunaccountably in the trees overheadand every now and thenleaves or a twig fell softly to theground, close to where he lay.Reaching into his jacket, Alanfingered his pocket blaster. Hepulled it out and held it in hisright hand. This pop gunwouldn't even singe a robot, butit just might stop one of thosepumas. They said the blast with your name on it would findyou anywhere. This looked like Alan's blast. Slowly Alan looked around,sizing up his situation. Behindhim the dark jungle rustled forbiddingly.He shuddered. Not avery healthy spot to spend thenight. On the other hand, I certainlycan't get to the camp witha pack of mind-activated mechanicalkillers running around.If I can just hold out until morning,when the big ship arrives ...The big ship! GoodLord, Peggy! He turned white;oily sweat punctuated his forehead.Peggy, arriving tomorrowwith the other colonists, thewives and kids! The metal killers,tuned to blast any livingflesh, would murder them theinstant they stepped from theship! A pretty girl, Peggy, the girlhe'd married just three weeksago. He still couldn't believe it.It was crazy, he supposed, tomarry a girl and then take offfor an unknown planet, with herto follow, to try to create a homein a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe,but Peggy and her green eyesthat changed color with thelight, with her soft brown hair,and her happy smile, had endedthirty years of loneliness andhad, at last, given him a reasonfor living. Not to be killed!Alan unclenched his fists andwiped his palms, bloody wherehis fingernails had dug into theflesh. There was a slight creak abovehim like the protesting of abranch too heavily laden. Blasterready, Alan rolled over onto hisback. In the movement, his elbowstruck the top of a smallearthy mound and he was instantlyengulfed in a swarm oflocust-like insects that beat disgustinglyagainst his eyes andmouth. Fagh! Waving hisarms before his face he jumpedup and backwards, away fromthe bugs. As he did so, a darkshapeless thing plopped fromthe trees onto the spot where hehad been lying stretched out.Then, like an ambient fungus,it slithered off into the jungleundergrowth. For a split second the junglestood frozen in a brilliant blueflash, followed by the sharp reportof a blaster. Then another.Alan whirled, startled. Theplanet's double moon had risenand he could see a robot rollingslowly across the clearing in hisgeneral direction, blasting indiscriminatelyat whatever mindimpulses came within its pickuprange, birds, insects, anything.Six or seven others also left thecamp headquarters area andheaded for the jungle, each to aslightly different spot. Apparently the robot hadn'tsensed him yet, but Alan didn'tknow what the effective rangeof its pickup devices was. Hebegan to slide back into thejungle. Minutes later, lookingback he saw that the machine,though several hundred yardsaway, had altered its course andwas now headed directly forhim. His stomach tightened. Panic.The dank, musty smell of thejungle seemed for an instant tothicken and choke in his throat.Then he thought of the big shiplanding in the morning, settlingdown slowly after a lonely two-weekvoyage. He thought of abrown-haired girl crowding withthe others to the gangway, eagerto embrace the new planet, andthe next instant a charred nothing,unrecognizable, the victimof a design error or a misplacedwire in a machine. I have totry, he said aloud. I have totry. He moved into the blackness. Powerful as a small tank, thekiller robot was equipped tocrush, slash, and burn its waythrough undergrowth. Nevertheless,it was slowed by thelarger trees and the thick, clingingvines, and Alan found thathe could manage to keep aheadof it, barely out of blaster range.Only, the robot didn't get tired.Alan did. The twin moons cast pale, deceptiveshadows that waveredand danced across the junglefloor, hiding debris that trippedhim and often sent him sprawlinginto the dark. Sharp-edgedgrowths tore at his face andclothes, and insects attracted bythe blood matted against hispants and shirt. Behind, the robotcrashed imperturbably afterhim, lighting the night with fitfulblaster flashes as somewinged or legged life came withinits range. There was movement also, inthe darkness beside him, scrapingsand rustlings and an occasionallow, throaty sound like anangry cat. Alan's fingers tensedon his pocket blaster. Swiftshadowy forms moved quickly inthe shrubs and the growling becamesuddenly louder. He firedtwice, blindly, into the undergrowth.Sharp screams punctuatedthe electric blue discharge asa pack of small feline creaturesleaped snarling and clawingback into the night. Mentally, Alan tried to figurethe charge remaining in his blaster.There wouldn't be much.Enough for a few more shots,maybe. Why the devil didn't Iload in fresh cells this morning! The robot crashed on, loudernow, gaining on the tired human.Legs aching and bruised,stinging from insect bites, Alantried to force himself to runholding his hands in front ofhim like a child in the dark. Hisfoot tripped on a barely visibleinsect hill and a winged swarmexploded around him. Startled,Alan jerked sideways, crashinghis head against a tree. Heclutched at the bark for a second,dazed, then his kneesbuckled. His blaster fell into theshadows. The robot crashed loudly behindhim now. Without stoppingto think, Alan fumbled along theground after his gun, straininghis eyes in the darkness. Hefound it just a couple of feet toone side, against the base of asmall bush. Just as his fingersclosed upon the barrel his otherhand slipped into somethingsticky that splashed over hisforearm. He screamed in painand leaped back, trying franticallyto wipe the clinging,burning blackness off his arm.Patches of black scraped off ontobranches and vines, but the restspread slowly over his arm asagonizing as hot acid, or as fleshbeing ripped away layer bylayer. Almost blinded by pain, whimpering,Alan stumbled forward.Sharp muscle spasms shot fromhis shoulder across his back andchest. Tears streamed across hischeeks. A blue arc slashed at the treesa mere hundred yards behind.He screamed at the blast. Damnyou, Pete! Damn your robots!Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!He stepped into emptiness. Coolness. Wet. Slowly, washedby the water, the pain began tofall away. He wanted to lie thereforever in the dark, cool, wetness.For ever, and ever, and ...The air thundered. In the dim light he could seethe banks of the stream, higherthan a man, muddy and loose.Growing right to the edge of thebanks, the jungle reached outwith hairy, disjointed arms asif to snag even the dirty littlestream that passed so timidlythrough its domain. Alan, lying in the mud of thestream bed, felt the earth shakeas the heavy little robot rolledslowly and inexorably towardshim. The Lord High Executioner,he thought, in battledress. He tried to stand but hislegs were almost too weak andhis arm felt numb. I'll drownhim, he said aloud. I'll drownthe Lord High Executioner. Helaughed. Then his mind cleared.He remembered where he was. Alan trembled. For the firsttime in his life he understoodwhat it was to live, because forthe first time he realized that hewould sometime die. In othertimes and circumstances hemight put it off for a while, formonths or years, but eventually,as now, he would have to watch,still and helpless, while deathcame creeping. Then, at thirty,Alan became a man. Dammit, no law says I haveto flame-out now ! He forcedhimself to rise, forced his legsto stand, struggling painfully inthe shin-deep ooze. He workedhis way to the bank and began todig frenziedly, chest high, abouttwo feet below the edge. His arm where the black thinghad been was swollen and tender,but he forced his hands to dig,dig, dig, cursing and crying tohide the pain, and biting hislips, ignoring the salty taste ofblood. The soft earth crumbledunder his hands until he had asmall cave about three feet deepin the bank. Beyond that thesoil was held too tightly by theroots from above and he had tostop. The air crackled blue and atree crashed heavily past Alaninto the stream. Above him onthe bank, silhouetting againstthe moons, the killer robot stoppedand its blaster swivelledslowly down. Frantically, Alanhugged the bank as a shaft ofpure electricity arced over him,sliced into the water, and explodedin a cloud of steam. Therobot shook for a second, itsblaster muzzle lifted erraticallyand for an instant it seemed almostout of control, then itquieted and the muzzle againpointed down. Pressing with all his might,Alan slid slowly along the bankinches at a time, away from themachine above. Its muzzle turnedto follow him but the edge ofthe bank blocked its aim. Grindingforward a couple of feet,slightly overhanging the bank,the robot fired again. For a splitsecond Alan seemed engulfed inflame; the heat of hell singed hishead and back, and mud boiledin the bank by his arm. Again the robot trembled. Itjerked forward a foot and itsblaster swung slightly away. Butonly for a moment. Then the gunswung back again. Suddenly, as if sensing somethingwrong, its tracks slammedinto reverse. It stood poised fora second, its treads spinningcrazily as the earth collapsed underneathit, where Alan haddug, then it fell with a heavysplash into the mud, ten feetfrom where Alan stood. Without hesitation Alanthrew himself across the blasterhousing, frantically locking hisarms around the barrel as therobot's treads churned furiouslyin the sticky mud, causing it tobuck and plunge like a Brahmabull. The treads stopped and theblaster jerked upwards wrenchingAlan's arms, then slammeddown. Then the whole housingwhirled around and around, tiltingalternately up and down likea steel-skinned water monstertrying to dislodge a tenaciouscrab, while Alan, arms and legswrapped tightly around the blasterbarrel and housing, pressedfiercely against the robot's metalskin. Slowly, trying to anticipateand shift his weight with thespinning plunges, Alan workedhis hand down to his right hip.He fumbled for the sheath clippedto his belt, found it, and extracteda stubby hunting knife.Sweat and blood in his eyes,hardly able to move on the wildlyswinging turret, he felt downthe sides to the thin crack betweenthe revolving housing andthe stationary portion of the robot.With a quick prayer hejammed in the knife blade—andwas whipped headlong into themud as the turret literally snappedto a stop. The earth, jungle and moonsspun in a pinwheeled blur,slowed, and settled to their properplaces. Standing in the sticky,sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyedthe robot apprehensively. Halfburied in mud, it stood quiet inthe shadowy light except for anoccasional, almost spasmodicjerk of its blaster barrel. Forthe first time that night Alanallowed himself a slight smile.A blade in the old gear box,eh? How does that feel, boy? He turned. Well, I'd betterget out of here before the knifeslips or the monster cooks upsome more tricks with whateverit's got for a brain. Digginglittle footholds in the soft bank,he climbed up and stood onceagain in the rustling jungledarkness. I wonder, he thought, howPete could cram enough braininto one of those things to makeit hunt and track so perfectly.He tried to visualize the computingcircuits needed for theoperation of its tracking mechanismalone. There just isn'troom for the electronics. You'dneed a computer as big as theone at camp headquarters. In the distance the sky blazedas a blaster roared in the jungle.Then Alan heard the approachingrobot, crunching and snappingits way through the undergrowthlike an onrushing forestfire. He froze. Good Lord!They communicate with eachother! The one I jammed mustbe calling others to help. He began to move along thebank, away from the crashingsounds. Suddenly he stopped, hiseyes widened. Of course! Radio!I'll bet anything they'reautomatically controlled by thecamp computer. That's wheretheir brain is! He paused.Then, if that were put out ofcommission ... He jerked awayfrom the bank and half ran, halfpulled himself through the undergrowthtowards the camp. Trees exploded to his left asanother robot fired in his direction,too far away to be effectivebut churning towards himthrough the blackness. Alan changed direction slightlyto follow a line between thetwo robots coming up fromeither side, behind him. His eyeswere well accustomed to the darknow, and he managed to dodgemost of the shadowy vines andbranches before they could snagor trip him. Even so, he stumbledin the wiry underbrush andhis legs were a mass of stingingslashes from ankle to thigh. The crashing rumble of thekiller robots shook the night behindhim, nearer sometimes,then falling slightly back, butfollowing constantly, moreunshakable than bloodhoundsbecause a man can sometimes covera scent, but no man can stop histhoughts. Intermittently, likephotographers' strobes, blueflashes would light the jungleabout him. Then, for secondsafterwards his eyes would seedancing streaks of yellow andsharp multi-colored pinwheelsthat alternately shrunk and expandedas if in a surrealist'snightmare. Alan would have topause and squeeze his eyelidstight shut before he could seeagain, and the robots wouldmove a little closer. To his right the trees silhouettedbriefly against brilliance asa third robot slowly moved upin the distance. Without thinking,Alan turned slightly to theleft, then froze in momentarypanic. I should be at the campnow. Damn, what direction amI going? He tried to thinkback, to visualize the twists andturns he'd taken in the jungle.All I need is to get lost. He pictured the camp computerwith no one to stop it, automaticallysending its robots inwider and wider forays, slowlywiping every trace of life fromthe planet. Technologically advancedmachines doing the jobfor which they were built, completely,thoroughly, without feeling,and without human mastersto separate sense from futility.Finally parts would wear out,circuits would short, and one byone the killers would crunch toa halt. A few birds would stillfly then, but a unique animallife, rare in the universe, wouldexist no more. And the bones ofchildren, eager girls, and theirmen would also lie, beside arusty hulk, beneath the aliensun. Peggy! As if in answer, a tree besidehim breathed fire, then exploded.In the brief flash of theblaster shot, Alan saw the steelglint of a robot only a hundredyards away, much nearer thanhe had thought. Thank heavenfor trees! He stepped back, felthis foot catch in something,clutched futilely at some leavesand fell heavily. Pain danced up his leg as hegrabbed his ankle. Quickly hefelt the throbbing flesh. Damnthe rotten luck, anyway! Heblinked the pain tears from hiseyes and looked up—into a robot'sblaster, jutting out of thefoliage, thirty yards away. Instinctively, in one motionAlan grabbed his pocket blasterand fired. To his amazement therobot jerked back, its gun wobbledand started to tilt away.Then, getting itself under control,it swung back again to faceAlan. He fired again, and againthe robot reacted. It seemed familiarsomehow. Then he rememberedthe robot on the riverbank, jiggling and swaying forseconds after each shot. Ofcourse! He cursed himself formissing the obvious. The blasterstatic blanks out radiotransmission from the computerfor a few seconds. They even doit to themselves! Firing intermittently, hepulled himself upright and hobbledahead through the bush.The robot shook spasmodicallywith each shot, its gun tilted upwardat an awkward angle. Then, unexpectedly, Alan sawstars, real stars brilliant in thenight sky, and half dragging hisswelling leg he stumbled out ofthe jungle into the camp clearing.Ahead, across fifty yards ofgrass stood the headquartersbuilding, housing the robot-controllingcomputer. Still firing atshort intervals he started acrossthe clearing, gritting his teethat every step. Straining every muscle inspite of the agonizing pain, Alanforced himself to a limping runacross the uneven ground, carefullyavoiding the insect hillsthat jutted up through the grass.From the corner of his eye hesaw another of the robots standingshakily in the dark edge ofthe jungle waiting, it seemed,for his small blaster to run dry. Be damned! You can't winnow! Alan yelled between blastershots, almost irrational fromthe pain that ripped jaggedlythrough his leg. Then it happened.A few feet from thebuilding's door his blaster quit.A click. A faint hiss when hefrantically jerked the triggeragain and again, and the spentcells released themselves fromthe device, falling in the grassat his feet. He dropped the uselessgun. No! He threw himself onthe ground as a new robot suddenlyappeared around the edgeof the building a few feet away,aimed, and fired. Air burnedover Alan's back and ozone tingledin his nostrils. Blinding itself for a few secondswith its own blaster static,the robot paused momentarily,jiggling in place. In thisinstant, Alan jammed his handsinto an insect hill and hurled thepile of dirt and insects directlyat the robot's antenna. In a flash,hundreds of the winged thingserupted angrily from the hole ina swarming cloud, each part ofwhich was a speck of lifetransmitting mental energy to therobot's pickup devices. Confused by the sudden dispersionof mind impulses, therobot fired erratically as Alancrouched and raced painfully forthe door. It fired again, closer,as he fumbled with the lockrelease. Jagged bits of plastic andstone ripped past him, torn looseby the blast. Frantically, Alan slammedopen the door as the robot, sensinghim strongly now, aimedpoint blank. He saw nothing, hismind thought of nothing but thered-clad safety switch mountedbeside the computer. Time stopped.There was nothing else inthe world. He half-jumped, half-felltowards it, slowly, in tenthsof seconds that seemed measuredout in years. The universe went black. Later. Brilliance pressed uponhis eyes. Then pain returned, amulti-hurting thing that crawledthrough his body and draggedragged tentacles across hisbrain. He moaned. A voice spoke hollowly in thedistance. He's waking. Call hiswife. Alan opened his eyes in awhite room; a white light hungover his head. Beside him, lookingdown with a rueful smile,stood a young man wearingspace medical insignia. Yes,he acknowledged the question inAlan's eyes, you hit the switch.That was three days ago. Whenyou're up again we'd all like tothank you. Suddenly a sobbing-laughinggreen-eyed girl was pressedtightly against him. Neither ofthem spoke. They couldn't. Therewas too much to say. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Alan, and what are his traits?

Alan is one of the men who have arrived on Waiamea. He ventures around the jungle planet but goes on the run after a programming error with Pete’s robots. Alan is thirty years old, and he married a woman named Peggy three weeks earlier. Initially, he is very afraid of death and tries to protect himself from the robots. However, he does realize his love for Peggy and sees it as a motivation to continue living. He understands what it means to live for the first time in his life, and he becomes a lot more courageous. Instead of giving up, Alan chooses to find a way to defeat the robots. He also shows himself to be intelligent, figuring out that the robots are being controlled by radio transmissions via a computer in the headquarters building. Furthermore, he is capable of using his pocket blaster and knife to defeat one of the robots, even though it could instantly kill him with a single blast. Alan is very resilient as well; he is injured and continues to run around and fight against the robots. Even when the odds are against him, his desire to be with his wife gives him the strength to continue heading towards the headquarters building and flip off the switch.

What are the features of the killer robots? [SEP] <s> SURVIVAL TACTICS By AL SEVCIK ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK The robots were built to serveMan; to do his work, see to hiscomforts, make smooth his way.Then the robots figured out anadditional service—putting Manout of his misery. <doc-sep> There was a sudden crashthat hung sharply in the air,as if a tree had been hit bylightning some distance away.Then another. Alan stopped,puzzled. Two more blasts, quicklytogether, and the sound of ascream faintly. Frowning, worrying about thesounds, Alan momentarily forgotto watch his step until his footsuddenly plunged into an anthill, throwing him to the junglefloor. Damn! He cursed again,for the tenth time, and stooduncertainly in the dimness.From tall, moss-shrouded trees,wrist-thick vines hung quietly,scraping the spongy ground likethe tentacles of some monstroustree-bound octopus. Fitful littleplants grew straggly in theshadows of the mossy trunks,forming a dense underbrush thatmade walking difficult. At middaysome few of the blue sun'srays filtered through to thejungle floor, but now, late afternoonon the planet, the shadowswere long and gloomy. Alan peered around him at thevine-draped shadows, listeningto the soft rustlings and fainttwig-snappings of life in thejungle. Two short, poppingsounds echoed across the stillness,drowned out almost immediatelyand silenced by anexplosive crash. Alan started,Blaster fighting! But it can'tbe! Suddenly anxious, he slasheda hurried X in one of the treesto mark his position then turnedto follow a line of similar marksback through the jungle. Hetried to run, but vines blockedhis way and woody shrubscaught at his legs, tripping himand holding him back. Then,through the trees he saw theclearing of the camp site, thetemporary home for the scoutship and the eleven men who,with Alan, were the only humanson the jungle planet, Waiamea. Stepping through the lowshrubbery at the edge of thesite, he looked across the openarea to the two temporary structures,the camp headquarterswhere the power supplies andthe computer were; and thesleeping quarters. Beyond, nosehigh, stood the silver scout shipthat had brought the advanceexploratory party of scientistsand technicians to Waiameathree days before. Except for afew of the killer robots rollingslowly around the camp site ontheir quiet treads, there was noone about. So, they've finally got thosethings working. Alan smiledslightly. Guess that means Iowe Pete a bourbon-and-sodafor sure. Anybody who canbuild a robot that hunts by homingin on animals' mind impulses ...He stepped forwardjust as a roar of blue flame dissolvedthe branches of a tree,barely above his head. Without pausing to think,Alan leaped back, and fellsprawling over a bush just asone of the robots rolled silentlyup from the right, lowering itsblaster barrel to aim directly athis head. Alan froze. My God,Pete built those things wrong! Suddenly a screeching whirlwindof claws and teeth hurleditself from the smolderingbranches and crashed against therobot, clawing insanely at theantenna and blaster barrel.With an awkward jerk the robotswung around and fired its blaster,completely dissolving thelower half of the cat creaturewhich had clung across the barrel.But the back pressure of thecat's body overloaded the dischargecircuits. The robot startedto shake, then clicked sharplyas an overload relay snappedand shorted the blaster cells.The killer turned and rolled backtowards the camp, leaving Alanalone. Shakily, Alan crawled a fewfeet back into the undergrowthwhere he could lie and watch thecamp, but not himself be seen.Though visibility didn't makeany difference to the robots, hefelt safer, somehow, hidden. Heknew now what the shootingsounds had been and why therehadn't been anyone around thecamp site. A charred blob lyingin the grass of the clearing confirmedhis hypothesis. His stomachfelt sick. I suppose, he muttered tohimself, that Pete assembledthese robots in a batch and thenactivated them all at once, probablynever living to realize thatthey're tuned to pick up humanbrain waves, too. Damn!Damn! His eyes blurred andhe slammed his fist into the softearth. When he raised his eyes againthe jungle was perceptibly darker.Stealthy rustlings in theshadows grew louder with thesetting sun. Branches snappedunaccountably in the trees overheadand every now and thenleaves or a twig fell softly to theground, close to where he lay.Reaching into his jacket, Alanfingered his pocket blaster. Hepulled it out and held it in hisright hand. This pop gunwouldn't even singe a robot, butit just might stop one of thosepumas. They said the blast with your name on it would findyou anywhere. This looked like Alan's blast. Slowly Alan looked around,sizing up his situation. Behindhim the dark jungle rustled forbiddingly.He shuddered. Not avery healthy spot to spend thenight. On the other hand, I certainlycan't get to the camp witha pack of mind-activated mechanicalkillers running around.If I can just hold out until morning,when the big ship arrives ...The big ship! GoodLord, Peggy! He turned white;oily sweat punctuated his forehead.Peggy, arriving tomorrowwith the other colonists, thewives and kids! The metal killers,tuned to blast any livingflesh, would murder them theinstant they stepped from theship! A pretty girl, Peggy, the girlhe'd married just three weeksago. He still couldn't believe it.It was crazy, he supposed, tomarry a girl and then take offfor an unknown planet, with herto follow, to try to create a homein a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe,but Peggy and her green eyesthat changed color with thelight, with her soft brown hair,and her happy smile, had endedthirty years of loneliness andhad, at last, given him a reasonfor living. Not to be killed!Alan unclenched his fists andwiped his palms, bloody wherehis fingernails had dug into theflesh. There was a slight creak abovehim like the protesting of abranch too heavily laden. Blasterready, Alan rolled over onto hisback. In the movement, his elbowstruck the top of a smallearthy mound and he was instantlyengulfed in a swarm oflocust-like insects that beat disgustinglyagainst his eyes andmouth. Fagh! Waving hisarms before his face he jumpedup and backwards, away fromthe bugs. As he did so, a darkshapeless thing plopped fromthe trees onto the spot where hehad been lying stretched out.Then, like an ambient fungus,it slithered off into the jungleundergrowth. For a split second the junglestood frozen in a brilliant blueflash, followed by the sharp reportof a blaster. Then another.Alan whirled, startled. Theplanet's double moon had risenand he could see a robot rollingslowly across the clearing in hisgeneral direction, blasting indiscriminatelyat whatever mindimpulses came within its pickuprange, birds, insects, anything.Six or seven others also left thecamp headquarters area andheaded for the jungle, each to aslightly different spot. Apparently the robot hadn'tsensed him yet, but Alan didn'tknow what the effective rangeof its pickup devices was. Hebegan to slide back into thejungle. Minutes later, lookingback he saw that the machine,though several hundred yardsaway, had altered its course andwas now headed directly forhim. His stomach tightened. Panic.The dank, musty smell of thejungle seemed for an instant tothicken and choke in his throat.Then he thought of the big shiplanding in the morning, settlingdown slowly after a lonely two-weekvoyage. He thought of abrown-haired girl crowding withthe others to the gangway, eagerto embrace the new planet, andthe next instant a charred nothing,unrecognizable, the victimof a design error or a misplacedwire in a machine. I have totry, he said aloud. I have totry. He moved into the blackness. Powerful as a small tank, thekiller robot was equipped tocrush, slash, and burn its waythrough undergrowth. Nevertheless,it was slowed by thelarger trees and the thick, clingingvines, and Alan found thathe could manage to keep aheadof it, barely out of blaster range.Only, the robot didn't get tired.Alan did. The twin moons cast pale, deceptiveshadows that waveredand danced across the junglefloor, hiding debris that trippedhim and often sent him sprawlinginto the dark. Sharp-edgedgrowths tore at his face andclothes, and insects attracted bythe blood matted against hispants and shirt. Behind, the robotcrashed imperturbably afterhim, lighting the night with fitfulblaster flashes as somewinged or legged life came withinits range. There was movement also, inthe darkness beside him, scrapingsand rustlings and an occasionallow, throaty sound like anangry cat. Alan's fingers tensedon his pocket blaster. Swiftshadowy forms moved quickly inthe shrubs and the growling becamesuddenly louder. He firedtwice, blindly, into the undergrowth.Sharp screams punctuatedthe electric blue discharge asa pack of small feline creaturesleaped snarling and clawingback into the night. Mentally, Alan tried to figurethe charge remaining in his blaster.There wouldn't be much.Enough for a few more shots,maybe. Why the devil didn't Iload in fresh cells this morning! The robot crashed on, loudernow, gaining on the tired human.Legs aching and bruised,stinging from insect bites, Alantried to force himself to runholding his hands in front ofhim like a child in the dark. Hisfoot tripped on a barely visibleinsect hill and a winged swarmexploded around him. Startled,Alan jerked sideways, crashinghis head against a tree. Heclutched at the bark for a second,dazed, then his kneesbuckled. His blaster fell into theshadows. The robot crashed loudly behindhim now. Without stoppingto think, Alan fumbled along theground after his gun, straininghis eyes in the darkness. Hefound it just a couple of feet toone side, against the base of asmall bush. Just as his fingersclosed upon the barrel his otherhand slipped into somethingsticky that splashed over hisforearm. He screamed in painand leaped back, trying franticallyto wipe the clinging,burning blackness off his arm.Patches of black scraped off ontobranches and vines, but the restspread slowly over his arm asagonizing as hot acid, or as fleshbeing ripped away layer bylayer. Almost blinded by pain, whimpering,Alan stumbled forward.Sharp muscle spasms shot fromhis shoulder across his back andchest. Tears streamed across hischeeks. A blue arc slashed at the treesa mere hundred yards behind.He screamed at the blast. Damnyou, Pete! Damn your robots!Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!He stepped into emptiness. Coolness. Wet. Slowly, washedby the water, the pain began tofall away. He wanted to lie thereforever in the dark, cool, wetness.For ever, and ever, and ...The air thundered. In the dim light he could seethe banks of the stream, higherthan a man, muddy and loose.Growing right to the edge of thebanks, the jungle reached outwith hairy, disjointed arms asif to snag even the dirty littlestream that passed so timidlythrough its domain. Alan, lying in the mud of thestream bed, felt the earth shakeas the heavy little robot rolledslowly and inexorably towardshim. The Lord High Executioner,he thought, in battledress. He tried to stand but hislegs were almost too weak andhis arm felt numb. I'll drownhim, he said aloud. I'll drownthe Lord High Executioner. Helaughed. Then his mind cleared.He remembered where he was. Alan trembled. For the firsttime in his life he understoodwhat it was to live, because forthe first time he realized that hewould sometime die. In othertimes and circumstances hemight put it off for a while, formonths or years, but eventually,as now, he would have to watch,still and helpless, while deathcame creeping. Then, at thirty,Alan became a man. Dammit, no law says I haveto flame-out now ! He forcedhimself to rise, forced his legsto stand, struggling painfully inthe shin-deep ooze. He workedhis way to the bank and began todig frenziedly, chest high, abouttwo feet below the edge. His arm where the black thinghad been was swollen and tender,but he forced his hands to dig,dig, dig, cursing and crying tohide the pain, and biting hislips, ignoring the salty taste ofblood. The soft earth crumbledunder his hands until he had asmall cave about three feet deepin the bank. Beyond that thesoil was held too tightly by theroots from above and he had tostop. The air crackled blue and atree crashed heavily past Alaninto the stream. Above him onthe bank, silhouetting againstthe moons, the killer robot stoppedand its blaster swivelledslowly down. Frantically, Alanhugged the bank as a shaft ofpure electricity arced over him,sliced into the water, and explodedin a cloud of steam. Therobot shook for a second, itsblaster muzzle lifted erraticallyand for an instant it seemed almostout of control, then itquieted and the muzzle againpointed down. Pressing with all his might,Alan slid slowly along the bankinches at a time, away from themachine above. Its muzzle turnedto follow him but the edge ofthe bank blocked its aim. Grindingforward a couple of feet,slightly overhanging the bank,the robot fired again. For a splitsecond Alan seemed engulfed inflame; the heat of hell singed hishead and back, and mud boiledin the bank by his arm. Again the robot trembled. Itjerked forward a foot and itsblaster swung slightly away. Butonly for a moment. Then the gunswung back again. Suddenly, as if sensing somethingwrong, its tracks slammedinto reverse. It stood poised fora second, its treads spinningcrazily as the earth collapsed underneathit, where Alan haddug, then it fell with a heavysplash into the mud, ten feetfrom where Alan stood. Without hesitation Alanthrew himself across the blasterhousing, frantically locking hisarms around the barrel as therobot's treads churned furiouslyin the sticky mud, causing it tobuck and plunge like a Brahmabull. The treads stopped and theblaster jerked upwards wrenchingAlan's arms, then slammeddown. Then the whole housingwhirled around and around, tiltingalternately up and down likea steel-skinned water monstertrying to dislodge a tenaciouscrab, while Alan, arms and legswrapped tightly around the blasterbarrel and housing, pressedfiercely against the robot's metalskin. Slowly, trying to anticipateand shift his weight with thespinning plunges, Alan workedhis hand down to his right hip.He fumbled for the sheath clippedto his belt, found it, and extracteda stubby hunting knife.Sweat and blood in his eyes,hardly able to move on the wildlyswinging turret, he felt downthe sides to the thin crack betweenthe revolving housing andthe stationary portion of the robot.With a quick prayer hejammed in the knife blade—andwas whipped headlong into themud as the turret literally snappedto a stop. The earth, jungle and moonsspun in a pinwheeled blur,slowed, and settled to their properplaces. Standing in the sticky,sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyedthe robot apprehensively. Halfburied in mud, it stood quiet inthe shadowy light except for anoccasional, almost spasmodicjerk of its blaster barrel. Forthe first time that night Alanallowed himself a slight smile.A blade in the old gear box,eh? How does that feel, boy? He turned. Well, I'd betterget out of here before the knifeslips or the monster cooks upsome more tricks with whateverit's got for a brain. Digginglittle footholds in the soft bank,he climbed up and stood onceagain in the rustling jungledarkness. I wonder, he thought, howPete could cram enough braininto one of those things to makeit hunt and track so perfectly.He tried to visualize the computingcircuits needed for theoperation of its tracking mechanismalone. There just isn'troom for the electronics. You'dneed a computer as big as theone at camp headquarters. In the distance the sky blazedas a blaster roared in the jungle.Then Alan heard the approachingrobot, crunching and snappingits way through the undergrowthlike an onrushing forestfire. He froze. Good Lord!They communicate with eachother! The one I jammed mustbe calling others to help. He began to move along thebank, away from the crashingsounds. Suddenly he stopped, hiseyes widened. Of course! Radio!I'll bet anything they'reautomatically controlled by thecamp computer. That's wheretheir brain is! He paused.Then, if that were put out ofcommission ... He jerked awayfrom the bank and half ran, halfpulled himself through the undergrowthtowards the camp. Trees exploded to his left asanother robot fired in his direction,too far away to be effectivebut churning towards himthrough the blackness. Alan changed direction slightlyto follow a line between thetwo robots coming up fromeither side, behind him. His eyeswere well accustomed to the darknow, and he managed to dodgemost of the shadowy vines andbranches before they could snagor trip him. Even so, he stumbledin the wiry underbrush andhis legs were a mass of stingingslashes from ankle to thigh. The crashing rumble of thekiller robots shook the night behindhim, nearer sometimes,then falling slightly back, butfollowing constantly, moreunshakable than bloodhoundsbecause a man can sometimes covera scent, but no man can stop histhoughts. Intermittently, likephotographers' strobes, blueflashes would light the jungleabout him. Then, for secondsafterwards his eyes would seedancing streaks of yellow andsharp multi-colored pinwheelsthat alternately shrunk and expandedas if in a surrealist'snightmare. Alan would have topause and squeeze his eyelidstight shut before he could seeagain, and the robots wouldmove a little closer. To his right the trees silhouettedbriefly against brilliance asa third robot slowly moved upin the distance. Without thinking,Alan turned slightly to theleft, then froze in momentarypanic. I should be at the campnow. Damn, what direction amI going? He tried to thinkback, to visualize the twists andturns he'd taken in the jungle.All I need is to get lost. He pictured the camp computerwith no one to stop it, automaticallysending its robots inwider and wider forays, slowlywiping every trace of life fromthe planet. Technologically advancedmachines doing the jobfor which they were built, completely,thoroughly, without feeling,and without human mastersto separate sense from futility.Finally parts would wear out,circuits would short, and one byone the killers would crunch toa halt. A few birds would stillfly then, but a unique animallife, rare in the universe, wouldexist no more. And the bones ofchildren, eager girls, and theirmen would also lie, beside arusty hulk, beneath the aliensun. Peggy! As if in answer, a tree besidehim breathed fire, then exploded.In the brief flash of theblaster shot, Alan saw the steelglint of a robot only a hundredyards away, much nearer thanhe had thought. Thank heavenfor trees! He stepped back, felthis foot catch in something,clutched futilely at some leavesand fell heavily. Pain danced up his leg as hegrabbed his ankle. Quickly hefelt the throbbing flesh. Damnthe rotten luck, anyway! Heblinked the pain tears from hiseyes and looked up—into a robot'sblaster, jutting out of thefoliage, thirty yards away. Instinctively, in one motionAlan grabbed his pocket blasterand fired. To his amazement therobot jerked back, its gun wobbledand started to tilt away.Then, getting itself under control,it swung back again to faceAlan. He fired again, and againthe robot reacted. It seemed familiarsomehow. Then he rememberedthe robot on the riverbank, jiggling and swaying forseconds after each shot. Ofcourse! He cursed himself formissing the obvious. The blasterstatic blanks out radiotransmission from the computerfor a few seconds. They even doit to themselves! Firing intermittently, hepulled himself upright and hobbledahead through the bush.The robot shook spasmodicallywith each shot, its gun tilted upwardat an awkward angle. Then, unexpectedly, Alan sawstars, real stars brilliant in thenight sky, and half dragging hisswelling leg he stumbled out ofthe jungle into the camp clearing.Ahead, across fifty yards ofgrass stood the headquartersbuilding, housing the robot-controllingcomputer. Still firing atshort intervals he started acrossthe clearing, gritting his teethat every step. Straining every muscle inspite of the agonizing pain, Alanforced himself to a limping runacross the uneven ground, carefullyavoiding the insect hillsthat jutted up through the grass.From the corner of his eye hesaw another of the robots standingshakily in the dark edge ofthe jungle waiting, it seemed,for his small blaster to run dry. Be damned! You can't winnow! Alan yelled between blastershots, almost irrational fromthe pain that ripped jaggedlythrough his leg. Then it happened.A few feet from thebuilding's door his blaster quit.A click. A faint hiss when hefrantically jerked the triggeragain and again, and the spentcells released themselves fromthe device, falling in the grassat his feet. He dropped the uselessgun. No! He threw himself onthe ground as a new robot suddenlyappeared around the edgeof the building a few feet away,aimed, and fired. Air burnedover Alan's back and ozone tingledin his nostrils. Blinding itself for a few secondswith its own blaster static,the robot paused momentarily,jiggling in place. In thisinstant, Alan jammed his handsinto an insect hill and hurled thepile of dirt and insects directlyat the robot's antenna. In a flash,hundreds of the winged thingserupted angrily from the hole ina swarming cloud, each part ofwhich was a speck of lifetransmitting mental energy to therobot's pickup devices. Confused by the sudden dispersionof mind impulses, therobot fired erratically as Alancrouched and raced painfully forthe door. It fired again, closer,as he fumbled with the lockrelease. Jagged bits of plastic andstone ripped past him, torn looseby the blast. Frantically, Alan slammedopen the door as the robot, sensinghim strongly now, aimedpoint blank. He saw nothing, hismind thought of nothing but thered-clad safety switch mountedbeside the computer. Time stopped.There was nothing else inthe world. He half-jumped, half-felltowards it, slowly, in tenthsof seconds that seemed measuredout in years. The universe went black. Later. Brilliance pressed uponhis eyes. Then pain returned, amulti-hurting thing that crawledthrough his body and draggedragged tentacles across hisbrain. He moaned. A voice spoke hollowly in thedistance. He's waking. Call hiswife. Alan opened his eyes in awhite room; a white light hungover his head. Beside him, lookingdown with a rueful smile,stood a young man wearingspace medical insignia. Yes,he acknowledged the question inAlan's eyes, you hit the switch.That was three days ago. Whenyou're up again we'd all like tothank you. Suddenly a sobbing-laughinggreen-eyed girl was pressedtightly against him. Neither ofthem spoke. They couldn't. Therewas too much to say. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are the features of the killer robots?

The killer robots work by homing in on the mind of animals’ impulses. However, due to mass production, robots are also capable of picking up human brain waves. The robots are also capable of firing beams from its blaster, as one had dissolved a cat creature’s entire lower half when it clung onto the robot. The blaster aim is almost always perfect unless the robot’s radio wave or discharge circuit is interrupted. One of its features is also a pickup device. The robots can move around quietly, too, as their original purpose was to guard the campsite. When Alan continues to escape from them, it is revealed that the robots can communicate with each other and the camp computer. The communication works by using radio waves, but it is possible to interrupt these waves using a pocket blaster.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> SURVIVAL TACTICS By AL SEVCIK ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK The robots were built to serveMan; to do his work, see to hiscomforts, make smooth his way.Then the robots figured out anadditional service—putting Manout of his misery. <doc-sep> There was a sudden crashthat hung sharply in the air,as if a tree had been hit bylightning some distance away.Then another. Alan stopped,puzzled. Two more blasts, quicklytogether, and the sound of ascream faintly. Frowning, worrying about thesounds, Alan momentarily forgotto watch his step until his footsuddenly plunged into an anthill, throwing him to the junglefloor. Damn! He cursed again,for the tenth time, and stooduncertainly in the dimness.From tall, moss-shrouded trees,wrist-thick vines hung quietly,scraping the spongy ground likethe tentacles of some monstroustree-bound octopus. Fitful littleplants grew straggly in theshadows of the mossy trunks,forming a dense underbrush thatmade walking difficult. At middaysome few of the blue sun'srays filtered through to thejungle floor, but now, late afternoonon the planet, the shadowswere long and gloomy. Alan peered around him at thevine-draped shadows, listeningto the soft rustlings and fainttwig-snappings of life in thejungle. Two short, poppingsounds echoed across the stillness,drowned out almost immediatelyand silenced by anexplosive crash. Alan started,Blaster fighting! But it can'tbe! Suddenly anxious, he slasheda hurried X in one of the treesto mark his position then turnedto follow a line of similar marksback through the jungle. Hetried to run, but vines blockedhis way and woody shrubscaught at his legs, tripping himand holding him back. Then,through the trees he saw theclearing of the camp site, thetemporary home for the scoutship and the eleven men who,with Alan, were the only humanson the jungle planet, Waiamea. Stepping through the lowshrubbery at the edge of thesite, he looked across the openarea to the two temporary structures,the camp headquarterswhere the power supplies andthe computer were; and thesleeping quarters. Beyond, nosehigh, stood the silver scout shipthat had brought the advanceexploratory party of scientistsand technicians to Waiameathree days before. Except for afew of the killer robots rollingslowly around the camp site ontheir quiet treads, there was noone about. So, they've finally got thosethings working. Alan smiledslightly. Guess that means Iowe Pete a bourbon-and-sodafor sure. Anybody who canbuild a robot that hunts by homingin on animals' mind impulses ...He stepped forwardjust as a roar of blue flame dissolvedthe branches of a tree,barely above his head. Without pausing to think,Alan leaped back, and fellsprawling over a bush just asone of the robots rolled silentlyup from the right, lowering itsblaster barrel to aim directly athis head. Alan froze. My God,Pete built those things wrong! Suddenly a screeching whirlwindof claws and teeth hurleditself from the smolderingbranches and crashed against therobot, clawing insanely at theantenna and blaster barrel.With an awkward jerk the robotswung around and fired its blaster,completely dissolving thelower half of the cat creaturewhich had clung across the barrel.But the back pressure of thecat's body overloaded the dischargecircuits. The robot startedto shake, then clicked sharplyas an overload relay snappedand shorted the blaster cells.The killer turned and rolled backtowards the camp, leaving Alanalone. Shakily, Alan crawled a fewfeet back into the undergrowthwhere he could lie and watch thecamp, but not himself be seen.Though visibility didn't makeany difference to the robots, hefelt safer, somehow, hidden. Heknew now what the shootingsounds had been and why therehadn't been anyone around thecamp site. A charred blob lyingin the grass of the clearing confirmedhis hypothesis. His stomachfelt sick. I suppose, he muttered tohimself, that Pete assembledthese robots in a batch and thenactivated them all at once, probablynever living to realize thatthey're tuned to pick up humanbrain waves, too. Damn!Damn! His eyes blurred andhe slammed his fist into the softearth. When he raised his eyes againthe jungle was perceptibly darker.Stealthy rustlings in theshadows grew louder with thesetting sun. Branches snappedunaccountably in the trees overheadand every now and thenleaves or a twig fell softly to theground, close to where he lay.Reaching into his jacket, Alanfingered his pocket blaster. Hepulled it out and held it in hisright hand. This pop gunwouldn't even singe a robot, butit just might stop one of thosepumas. They said the blast with your name on it would findyou anywhere. This looked like Alan's blast. Slowly Alan looked around,sizing up his situation. Behindhim the dark jungle rustled forbiddingly.He shuddered. Not avery healthy spot to spend thenight. On the other hand, I certainlycan't get to the camp witha pack of mind-activated mechanicalkillers running around.If I can just hold out until morning,when the big ship arrives ...The big ship! GoodLord, Peggy! He turned white;oily sweat punctuated his forehead.Peggy, arriving tomorrowwith the other colonists, thewives and kids! The metal killers,tuned to blast any livingflesh, would murder them theinstant they stepped from theship! A pretty girl, Peggy, the girlhe'd married just three weeksago. He still couldn't believe it.It was crazy, he supposed, tomarry a girl and then take offfor an unknown planet, with herto follow, to try to create a homein a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe,but Peggy and her green eyesthat changed color with thelight, with her soft brown hair,and her happy smile, had endedthirty years of loneliness andhad, at last, given him a reasonfor living. Not to be killed!Alan unclenched his fists andwiped his palms, bloody wherehis fingernails had dug into theflesh. There was a slight creak abovehim like the protesting of abranch too heavily laden. Blasterready, Alan rolled over onto hisback. In the movement, his elbowstruck the top of a smallearthy mound and he was instantlyengulfed in a swarm oflocust-like insects that beat disgustinglyagainst his eyes andmouth. Fagh! Waving hisarms before his face he jumpedup and backwards, away fromthe bugs. As he did so, a darkshapeless thing plopped fromthe trees onto the spot where hehad been lying stretched out.Then, like an ambient fungus,it slithered off into the jungleundergrowth. For a split second the junglestood frozen in a brilliant blueflash, followed by the sharp reportof a blaster. Then another.Alan whirled, startled. Theplanet's double moon had risenand he could see a robot rollingslowly across the clearing in hisgeneral direction, blasting indiscriminatelyat whatever mindimpulses came within its pickuprange, birds, insects, anything.Six or seven others also left thecamp headquarters area andheaded for the jungle, each to aslightly different spot. Apparently the robot hadn'tsensed him yet, but Alan didn'tknow what the effective rangeof its pickup devices was. Hebegan to slide back into thejungle. Minutes later, lookingback he saw that the machine,though several hundred yardsaway, had altered its course andwas now headed directly forhim. His stomach tightened. Panic.The dank, musty smell of thejungle seemed for an instant tothicken and choke in his throat.Then he thought of the big shiplanding in the morning, settlingdown slowly after a lonely two-weekvoyage. He thought of abrown-haired girl crowding withthe others to the gangway, eagerto embrace the new planet, andthe next instant a charred nothing,unrecognizable, the victimof a design error or a misplacedwire in a machine. I have totry, he said aloud. I have totry. He moved into the blackness. Powerful as a small tank, thekiller robot was equipped tocrush, slash, and burn its waythrough undergrowth. Nevertheless,it was slowed by thelarger trees and the thick, clingingvines, and Alan found thathe could manage to keep aheadof it, barely out of blaster range.Only, the robot didn't get tired.Alan did. The twin moons cast pale, deceptiveshadows that waveredand danced across the junglefloor, hiding debris that trippedhim and often sent him sprawlinginto the dark. Sharp-edgedgrowths tore at his face andclothes, and insects attracted bythe blood matted against hispants and shirt. Behind, the robotcrashed imperturbably afterhim, lighting the night with fitfulblaster flashes as somewinged or legged life came withinits range. There was movement also, inthe darkness beside him, scrapingsand rustlings and an occasionallow, throaty sound like anangry cat. Alan's fingers tensedon his pocket blaster. Swiftshadowy forms moved quickly inthe shrubs and the growling becamesuddenly louder. He firedtwice, blindly, into the undergrowth.Sharp screams punctuatedthe electric blue discharge asa pack of small feline creaturesleaped snarling and clawingback into the night. Mentally, Alan tried to figurethe charge remaining in his blaster.There wouldn't be much.Enough for a few more shots,maybe. Why the devil didn't Iload in fresh cells this morning! The robot crashed on, loudernow, gaining on the tired human.Legs aching and bruised,stinging from insect bites, Alantried to force himself to runholding his hands in front ofhim like a child in the dark. Hisfoot tripped on a barely visibleinsect hill and a winged swarmexploded around him. Startled,Alan jerked sideways, crashinghis head against a tree. Heclutched at the bark for a second,dazed, then his kneesbuckled. His blaster fell into theshadows. The robot crashed loudly behindhim now. Without stoppingto think, Alan fumbled along theground after his gun, straininghis eyes in the darkness. Hefound it just a couple of feet toone side, against the base of asmall bush. Just as his fingersclosed upon the barrel his otherhand slipped into somethingsticky that splashed over hisforearm. He screamed in painand leaped back, trying franticallyto wipe the clinging,burning blackness off his arm.Patches of black scraped off ontobranches and vines, but the restspread slowly over his arm asagonizing as hot acid, or as fleshbeing ripped away layer bylayer. Almost blinded by pain, whimpering,Alan stumbled forward.Sharp muscle spasms shot fromhis shoulder across his back andchest. Tears streamed across hischeeks. A blue arc slashed at the treesa mere hundred yards behind.He screamed at the blast. Damnyou, Pete! Damn your robots!Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!He stepped into emptiness. Coolness. Wet. Slowly, washedby the water, the pain began tofall away. He wanted to lie thereforever in the dark, cool, wetness.For ever, and ever, and ...The air thundered. In the dim light he could seethe banks of the stream, higherthan a man, muddy and loose.Growing right to the edge of thebanks, the jungle reached outwith hairy, disjointed arms asif to snag even the dirty littlestream that passed so timidlythrough its domain. Alan, lying in the mud of thestream bed, felt the earth shakeas the heavy little robot rolledslowly and inexorably towardshim. The Lord High Executioner,he thought, in battledress. He tried to stand but hislegs were almost too weak andhis arm felt numb. I'll drownhim, he said aloud. I'll drownthe Lord High Executioner. Helaughed. Then his mind cleared.He remembered where he was. Alan trembled. For the firsttime in his life he understoodwhat it was to live, because forthe first time he realized that hewould sometime die. In othertimes and circumstances hemight put it off for a while, formonths or years, but eventually,as now, he would have to watch,still and helpless, while deathcame creeping. Then, at thirty,Alan became a man. Dammit, no law says I haveto flame-out now ! He forcedhimself to rise, forced his legsto stand, struggling painfully inthe shin-deep ooze. He workedhis way to the bank and began todig frenziedly, chest high, abouttwo feet below the edge. His arm where the black thinghad been was swollen and tender,but he forced his hands to dig,dig, dig, cursing and crying tohide the pain, and biting hislips, ignoring the salty taste ofblood. The soft earth crumbledunder his hands until he had asmall cave about three feet deepin the bank. Beyond that thesoil was held too tightly by theroots from above and he had tostop. The air crackled blue and atree crashed heavily past Alaninto the stream. Above him onthe bank, silhouetting againstthe moons, the killer robot stoppedand its blaster swivelledslowly down. Frantically, Alanhugged the bank as a shaft ofpure electricity arced over him,sliced into the water, and explodedin a cloud of steam. Therobot shook for a second, itsblaster muzzle lifted erraticallyand for an instant it seemed almostout of control, then itquieted and the muzzle againpointed down. Pressing with all his might,Alan slid slowly along the bankinches at a time, away from themachine above. Its muzzle turnedto follow him but the edge ofthe bank blocked its aim. Grindingforward a couple of feet,slightly overhanging the bank,the robot fired again. For a splitsecond Alan seemed engulfed inflame; the heat of hell singed hishead and back, and mud boiledin the bank by his arm. Again the robot trembled. Itjerked forward a foot and itsblaster swung slightly away. Butonly for a moment. Then the gunswung back again. Suddenly, as if sensing somethingwrong, its tracks slammedinto reverse. It stood poised fora second, its treads spinningcrazily as the earth collapsed underneathit, where Alan haddug, then it fell with a heavysplash into the mud, ten feetfrom where Alan stood. Without hesitation Alanthrew himself across the blasterhousing, frantically locking hisarms around the barrel as therobot's treads churned furiouslyin the sticky mud, causing it tobuck and plunge like a Brahmabull. The treads stopped and theblaster jerked upwards wrenchingAlan's arms, then slammeddown. Then the whole housingwhirled around and around, tiltingalternately up and down likea steel-skinned water monstertrying to dislodge a tenaciouscrab, while Alan, arms and legswrapped tightly around the blasterbarrel and housing, pressedfiercely against the robot's metalskin. Slowly, trying to anticipateand shift his weight with thespinning plunges, Alan workedhis hand down to his right hip.He fumbled for the sheath clippedto his belt, found it, and extracteda stubby hunting knife.Sweat and blood in his eyes,hardly able to move on the wildlyswinging turret, he felt downthe sides to the thin crack betweenthe revolving housing andthe stationary portion of the robot.With a quick prayer hejammed in the knife blade—andwas whipped headlong into themud as the turret literally snappedto a stop. The earth, jungle and moonsspun in a pinwheeled blur,slowed, and settled to their properplaces. Standing in the sticky,sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyedthe robot apprehensively. Halfburied in mud, it stood quiet inthe shadowy light except for anoccasional, almost spasmodicjerk of its blaster barrel. Forthe first time that night Alanallowed himself a slight smile.A blade in the old gear box,eh? How does that feel, boy? He turned. Well, I'd betterget out of here before the knifeslips or the monster cooks upsome more tricks with whateverit's got for a brain. Digginglittle footholds in the soft bank,he climbed up and stood onceagain in the rustling jungledarkness. I wonder, he thought, howPete could cram enough braininto one of those things to makeit hunt and track so perfectly.He tried to visualize the computingcircuits needed for theoperation of its tracking mechanismalone. There just isn'troom for the electronics. You'dneed a computer as big as theone at camp headquarters. In the distance the sky blazedas a blaster roared in the jungle.Then Alan heard the approachingrobot, crunching and snappingits way through the undergrowthlike an onrushing forestfire. He froze. Good Lord!They communicate with eachother! The one I jammed mustbe calling others to help. He began to move along thebank, away from the crashingsounds. Suddenly he stopped, hiseyes widened. Of course! Radio!I'll bet anything they'reautomatically controlled by thecamp computer. That's wheretheir brain is! He paused.Then, if that were put out ofcommission ... He jerked awayfrom the bank and half ran, halfpulled himself through the undergrowthtowards the camp. Trees exploded to his left asanother robot fired in his direction,too far away to be effectivebut churning towards himthrough the blackness. Alan changed direction slightlyto follow a line between thetwo robots coming up fromeither side, behind him. His eyeswere well accustomed to the darknow, and he managed to dodgemost of the shadowy vines andbranches before they could snagor trip him. Even so, he stumbledin the wiry underbrush andhis legs were a mass of stingingslashes from ankle to thigh. The crashing rumble of thekiller robots shook the night behindhim, nearer sometimes,then falling slightly back, butfollowing constantly, moreunshakable than bloodhoundsbecause a man can sometimes covera scent, but no man can stop histhoughts. Intermittently, likephotographers' strobes, blueflashes would light the jungleabout him. Then, for secondsafterwards his eyes would seedancing streaks of yellow andsharp multi-colored pinwheelsthat alternately shrunk and expandedas if in a surrealist'snightmare. Alan would have topause and squeeze his eyelidstight shut before he could seeagain, and the robots wouldmove a little closer. To his right the trees silhouettedbriefly against brilliance asa third robot slowly moved upin the distance. Without thinking,Alan turned slightly to theleft, then froze in momentarypanic. I should be at the campnow. Damn, what direction amI going? He tried to thinkback, to visualize the twists andturns he'd taken in the jungle.All I need is to get lost. He pictured the camp computerwith no one to stop it, automaticallysending its robots inwider and wider forays, slowlywiping every trace of life fromthe planet. Technologically advancedmachines doing the jobfor which they were built, completely,thoroughly, without feeling,and without human mastersto separate sense from futility.Finally parts would wear out,circuits would short, and one byone the killers would crunch toa halt. A few birds would stillfly then, but a unique animallife, rare in the universe, wouldexist no more. And the bones ofchildren, eager girls, and theirmen would also lie, beside arusty hulk, beneath the aliensun. Peggy! As if in answer, a tree besidehim breathed fire, then exploded.In the brief flash of theblaster shot, Alan saw the steelglint of a robot only a hundredyards away, much nearer thanhe had thought. Thank heavenfor trees! He stepped back, felthis foot catch in something,clutched futilely at some leavesand fell heavily. Pain danced up his leg as hegrabbed his ankle. Quickly hefelt the throbbing flesh. Damnthe rotten luck, anyway! Heblinked the pain tears from hiseyes and looked up—into a robot'sblaster, jutting out of thefoliage, thirty yards away. Instinctively, in one motionAlan grabbed his pocket blasterand fired. To his amazement therobot jerked back, its gun wobbledand started to tilt away.Then, getting itself under control,it swung back again to faceAlan. He fired again, and againthe robot reacted. It seemed familiarsomehow. Then he rememberedthe robot on the riverbank, jiggling and swaying forseconds after each shot. Ofcourse! He cursed himself formissing the obvious. The blasterstatic blanks out radiotransmission from the computerfor a few seconds. They even doit to themselves! Firing intermittently, hepulled himself upright and hobbledahead through the bush.The robot shook spasmodicallywith each shot, its gun tilted upwardat an awkward angle. Then, unexpectedly, Alan sawstars, real stars brilliant in thenight sky, and half dragging hisswelling leg he stumbled out ofthe jungle into the camp clearing.Ahead, across fifty yards ofgrass stood the headquartersbuilding, housing the robot-controllingcomputer. Still firing atshort intervals he started acrossthe clearing, gritting his teethat every step. Straining every muscle inspite of the agonizing pain, Alanforced himself to a limping runacross the uneven ground, carefullyavoiding the insect hillsthat jutted up through the grass.From the corner of his eye hesaw another of the robots standingshakily in the dark edge ofthe jungle waiting, it seemed,for his small blaster to run dry. Be damned! You can't winnow! Alan yelled between blastershots, almost irrational fromthe pain that ripped jaggedlythrough his leg. Then it happened.A few feet from thebuilding's door his blaster quit.A click. A faint hiss when hefrantically jerked the triggeragain and again, and the spentcells released themselves fromthe device, falling in the grassat his feet. He dropped the uselessgun. No! He threw himself onthe ground as a new robot suddenlyappeared around the edgeof the building a few feet away,aimed, and fired. Air burnedover Alan's back and ozone tingledin his nostrils. Blinding itself for a few secondswith its own blaster static,the robot paused momentarily,jiggling in place. In thisinstant, Alan jammed his handsinto an insect hill and hurled thepile of dirt and insects directlyat the robot's antenna. In a flash,hundreds of the winged thingserupted angrily from the hole ina swarming cloud, each part ofwhich was a speck of lifetransmitting mental energy to therobot's pickup devices. Confused by the sudden dispersionof mind impulses, therobot fired erratically as Alancrouched and raced painfully forthe door. It fired again, closer,as he fumbled with the lockrelease. Jagged bits of plastic andstone ripped past him, torn looseby the blast. Frantically, Alan slammedopen the door as the robot, sensinghim strongly now, aimedpoint blank. He saw nothing, hismind thought of nothing but thered-clad safety switch mountedbeside the computer. Time stopped.There was nothing else inthe world. He half-jumped, half-felltowards it, slowly, in tenthsof seconds that seemed measuredout in years. The universe went black. Later. Brilliance pressed uponhis eyes. Then pain returned, amulti-hurting thing that crawledthrough his body and draggedragged tentacles across hisbrain. He moaned. A voice spoke hollowly in thedistance. He's waking. Call hiswife. Alan opened his eyes in awhite room; a white light hungover his head. Beside him, lookingdown with a rueful smile,stood a young man wearingspace medical insignia. Yes,he acknowledged the question inAlan's eyes, you hit the switch.That was three days ago. Whenyou're up again we'd all like tothank you. Suddenly a sobbing-laughinggreen-eyed girl was pressedtightly against him. Neither ofthem spoke. They couldn't. Therewas too much to say. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The story is set on the jungle planet of Waiamea. There are tall moss-shrouded trees and wrist-thick vines that hang similar to a monstrous tree-bound octopus. Fitful little plants grow straggly in the shadows of the mossy trunks, and the sun is blue. The campsite that Alan goes to houses power supplies, one central computer, and sleeping quarters. There are also a variety of animals that live on the planet. Some of these animals include feline creatures and insects attracted by the scent of blood. The planet also has a double moon when it becomes night time. When Alan escapes from the robot, he ends up in a stream of water and mud. As he runs towards the headquarters building, there is a small insect pile that he takes advantage of against the robot. Inside of the headquarters building, there is a red-clad safety switch mounted beside the computer. During Alan’s recovery, he is in a white room with a white light hanging over him.

What is the significance of Alan’s realization that he must continue to live? [SEP] <s> SURVIVAL TACTICS By AL SEVCIK ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK The robots were built to serveMan; to do his work, see to hiscomforts, make smooth his way.Then the robots figured out anadditional service—putting Manout of his misery. <doc-sep> There was a sudden crashthat hung sharply in the air,as if a tree had been hit bylightning some distance away.Then another. Alan stopped,puzzled. Two more blasts, quicklytogether, and the sound of ascream faintly. Frowning, worrying about thesounds, Alan momentarily forgotto watch his step until his footsuddenly plunged into an anthill, throwing him to the junglefloor. Damn! He cursed again,for the tenth time, and stooduncertainly in the dimness.From tall, moss-shrouded trees,wrist-thick vines hung quietly,scraping the spongy ground likethe tentacles of some monstroustree-bound octopus. Fitful littleplants grew straggly in theshadows of the mossy trunks,forming a dense underbrush thatmade walking difficult. At middaysome few of the blue sun'srays filtered through to thejungle floor, but now, late afternoonon the planet, the shadowswere long and gloomy. Alan peered around him at thevine-draped shadows, listeningto the soft rustlings and fainttwig-snappings of life in thejungle. Two short, poppingsounds echoed across the stillness,drowned out almost immediatelyand silenced by anexplosive crash. Alan started,Blaster fighting! But it can'tbe! Suddenly anxious, he slasheda hurried X in one of the treesto mark his position then turnedto follow a line of similar marksback through the jungle. Hetried to run, but vines blockedhis way and woody shrubscaught at his legs, tripping himand holding him back. Then,through the trees he saw theclearing of the camp site, thetemporary home for the scoutship and the eleven men who,with Alan, were the only humanson the jungle planet, Waiamea. Stepping through the lowshrubbery at the edge of thesite, he looked across the openarea to the two temporary structures,the camp headquarterswhere the power supplies andthe computer were; and thesleeping quarters. Beyond, nosehigh, stood the silver scout shipthat had brought the advanceexploratory party of scientistsand technicians to Waiameathree days before. Except for afew of the killer robots rollingslowly around the camp site ontheir quiet treads, there was noone about. So, they've finally got thosethings working. Alan smiledslightly. Guess that means Iowe Pete a bourbon-and-sodafor sure. Anybody who canbuild a robot that hunts by homingin on animals' mind impulses ...He stepped forwardjust as a roar of blue flame dissolvedthe branches of a tree,barely above his head. Without pausing to think,Alan leaped back, and fellsprawling over a bush just asone of the robots rolled silentlyup from the right, lowering itsblaster barrel to aim directly athis head. Alan froze. My God,Pete built those things wrong! Suddenly a screeching whirlwindof claws and teeth hurleditself from the smolderingbranches and crashed against therobot, clawing insanely at theantenna and blaster barrel.With an awkward jerk the robotswung around and fired its blaster,completely dissolving thelower half of the cat creaturewhich had clung across the barrel.But the back pressure of thecat's body overloaded the dischargecircuits. The robot startedto shake, then clicked sharplyas an overload relay snappedand shorted the blaster cells.The killer turned and rolled backtowards the camp, leaving Alanalone. Shakily, Alan crawled a fewfeet back into the undergrowthwhere he could lie and watch thecamp, but not himself be seen.Though visibility didn't makeany difference to the robots, hefelt safer, somehow, hidden. Heknew now what the shootingsounds had been and why therehadn't been anyone around thecamp site. A charred blob lyingin the grass of the clearing confirmedhis hypothesis. His stomachfelt sick. I suppose, he muttered tohimself, that Pete assembledthese robots in a batch and thenactivated them all at once, probablynever living to realize thatthey're tuned to pick up humanbrain waves, too. Damn!Damn! His eyes blurred andhe slammed his fist into the softearth. When he raised his eyes againthe jungle was perceptibly darker.Stealthy rustlings in theshadows grew louder with thesetting sun. Branches snappedunaccountably in the trees overheadand every now and thenleaves or a twig fell softly to theground, close to where he lay.Reaching into his jacket, Alanfingered his pocket blaster. Hepulled it out and held it in hisright hand. This pop gunwouldn't even singe a robot, butit just might stop one of thosepumas. They said the blast with your name on it would findyou anywhere. This looked like Alan's blast. Slowly Alan looked around,sizing up his situation. Behindhim the dark jungle rustled forbiddingly.He shuddered. Not avery healthy spot to spend thenight. On the other hand, I certainlycan't get to the camp witha pack of mind-activated mechanicalkillers running around.If I can just hold out until morning,when the big ship arrives ...The big ship! GoodLord, Peggy! He turned white;oily sweat punctuated his forehead.Peggy, arriving tomorrowwith the other colonists, thewives and kids! The metal killers,tuned to blast any livingflesh, would murder them theinstant they stepped from theship! A pretty girl, Peggy, the girlhe'd married just three weeksago. He still couldn't believe it.It was crazy, he supposed, tomarry a girl and then take offfor an unknown planet, with herto follow, to try to create a homein a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe,but Peggy and her green eyesthat changed color with thelight, with her soft brown hair,and her happy smile, had endedthirty years of loneliness andhad, at last, given him a reasonfor living. Not to be killed!Alan unclenched his fists andwiped his palms, bloody wherehis fingernails had dug into theflesh. There was a slight creak abovehim like the protesting of abranch too heavily laden. Blasterready, Alan rolled over onto hisback. In the movement, his elbowstruck the top of a smallearthy mound and he was instantlyengulfed in a swarm oflocust-like insects that beat disgustinglyagainst his eyes andmouth. Fagh! Waving hisarms before his face he jumpedup and backwards, away fromthe bugs. As he did so, a darkshapeless thing plopped fromthe trees onto the spot where hehad been lying stretched out.Then, like an ambient fungus,it slithered off into the jungleundergrowth. For a split second the junglestood frozen in a brilliant blueflash, followed by the sharp reportof a blaster. Then another.Alan whirled, startled. Theplanet's double moon had risenand he could see a robot rollingslowly across the clearing in hisgeneral direction, blasting indiscriminatelyat whatever mindimpulses came within its pickuprange, birds, insects, anything.Six or seven others also left thecamp headquarters area andheaded for the jungle, each to aslightly different spot. Apparently the robot hadn'tsensed him yet, but Alan didn'tknow what the effective rangeof its pickup devices was. Hebegan to slide back into thejungle. Minutes later, lookingback he saw that the machine,though several hundred yardsaway, had altered its course andwas now headed directly forhim. His stomach tightened. Panic.The dank, musty smell of thejungle seemed for an instant tothicken and choke in his throat.Then he thought of the big shiplanding in the morning, settlingdown slowly after a lonely two-weekvoyage. He thought of abrown-haired girl crowding withthe others to the gangway, eagerto embrace the new planet, andthe next instant a charred nothing,unrecognizable, the victimof a design error or a misplacedwire in a machine. I have totry, he said aloud. I have totry. He moved into the blackness. Powerful as a small tank, thekiller robot was equipped tocrush, slash, and burn its waythrough undergrowth. Nevertheless,it was slowed by thelarger trees and the thick, clingingvines, and Alan found thathe could manage to keep aheadof it, barely out of blaster range.Only, the robot didn't get tired.Alan did. The twin moons cast pale, deceptiveshadows that waveredand danced across the junglefloor, hiding debris that trippedhim and often sent him sprawlinginto the dark. Sharp-edgedgrowths tore at his face andclothes, and insects attracted bythe blood matted against hispants and shirt. Behind, the robotcrashed imperturbably afterhim, lighting the night with fitfulblaster flashes as somewinged or legged life came withinits range. There was movement also, inthe darkness beside him, scrapingsand rustlings and an occasionallow, throaty sound like anangry cat. Alan's fingers tensedon his pocket blaster. Swiftshadowy forms moved quickly inthe shrubs and the growling becamesuddenly louder. He firedtwice, blindly, into the undergrowth.Sharp screams punctuatedthe electric blue discharge asa pack of small feline creaturesleaped snarling and clawingback into the night. Mentally, Alan tried to figurethe charge remaining in his blaster.There wouldn't be much.Enough for a few more shots,maybe. Why the devil didn't Iload in fresh cells this morning! The robot crashed on, loudernow, gaining on the tired human.Legs aching and bruised,stinging from insect bites, Alantried to force himself to runholding his hands in front ofhim like a child in the dark. Hisfoot tripped on a barely visibleinsect hill and a winged swarmexploded around him. Startled,Alan jerked sideways, crashinghis head against a tree. Heclutched at the bark for a second,dazed, then his kneesbuckled. His blaster fell into theshadows. The robot crashed loudly behindhim now. Without stoppingto think, Alan fumbled along theground after his gun, straininghis eyes in the darkness. Hefound it just a couple of feet toone side, against the base of asmall bush. Just as his fingersclosed upon the barrel his otherhand slipped into somethingsticky that splashed over hisforearm. He screamed in painand leaped back, trying franticallyto wipe the clinging,burning blackness off his arm.Patches of black scraped off ontobranches and vines, but the restspread slowly over his arm asagonizing as hot acid, or as fleshbeing ripped away layer bylayer. Almost blinded by pain, whimpering,Alan stumbled forward.Sharp muscle spasms shot fromhis shoulder across his back andchest. Tears streamed across hischeeks. A blue arc slashed at the treesa mere hundred yards behind.He screamed at the blast. Damnyou, Pete! Damn your robots!Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!He stepped into emptiness. Coolness. Wet. Slowly, washedby the water, the pain began tofall away. He wanted to lie thereforever in the dark, cool, wetness.For ever, and ever, and ...The air thundered. In the dim light he could seethe banks of the stream, higherthan a man, muddy and loose.Growing right to the edge of thebanks, the jungle reached outwith hairy, disjointed arms asif to snag even the dirty littlestream that passed so timidlythrough its domain. Alan, lying in the mud of thestream bed, felt the earth shakeas the heavy little robot rolledslowly and inexorably towardshim. The Lord High Executioner,he thought, in battledress. He tried to stand but hislegs were almost too weak andhis arm felt numb. I'll drownhim, he said aloud. I'll drownthe Lord High Executioner. Helaughed. Then his mind cleared.He remembered where he was. Alan trembled. For the firsttime in his life he understoodwhat it was to live, because forthe first time he realized that hewould sometime die. In othertimes and circumstances hemight put it off for a while, formonths or years, but eventually,as now, he would have to watch,still and helpless, while deathcame creeping. Then, at thirty,Alan became a man. Dammit, no law says I haveto flame-out now ! He forcedhimself to rise, forced his legsto stand, struggling painfully inthe shin-deep ooze. He workedhis way to the bank and began todig frenziedly, chest high, abouttwo feet below the edge. His arm where the black thinghad been was swollen and tender,but he forced his hands to dig,dig, dig, cursing and crying tohide the pain, and biting hislips, ignoring the salty taste ofblood. The soft earth crumbledunder his hands until he had asmall cave about three feet deepin the bank. Beyond that thesoil was held too tightly by theroots from above and he had tostop. The air crackled blue and atree crashed heavily past Alaninto the stream. Above him onthe bank, silhouetting againstthe moons, the killer robot stoppedand its blaster swivelledslowly down. Frantically, Alanhugged the bank as a shaft ofpure electricity arced over him,sliced into the water, and explodedin a cloud of steam. Therobot shook for a second, itsblaster muzzle lifted erraticallyand for an instant it seemed almostout of control, then itquieted and the muzzle againpointed down. Pressing with all his might,Alan slid slowly along the bankinches at a time, away from themachine above. Its muzzle turnedto follow him but the edge ofthe bank blocked its aim. Grindingforward a couple of feet,slightly overhanging the bank,the robot fired again. For a splitsecond Alan seemed engulfed inflame; the heat of hell singed hishead and back, and mud boiledin the bank by his arm. Again the robot trembled. Itjerked forward a foot and itsblaster swung slightly away. Butonly for a moment. Then the gunswung back again. Suddenly, as if sensing somethingwrong, its tracks slammedinto reverse. It stood poised fora second, its treads spinningcrazily as the earth collapsed underneathit, where Alan haddug, then it fell with a heavysplash into the mud, ten feetfrom where Alan stood. Without hesitation Alanthrew himself across the blasterhousing, frantically locking hisarms around the barrel as therobot's treads churned furiouslyin the sticky mud, causing it tobuck and plunge like a Brahmabull. The treads stopped and theblaster jerked upwards wrenchingAlan's arms, then slammeddown. Then the whole housingwhirled around and around, tiltingalternately up and down likea steel-skinned water monstertrying to dislodge a tenaciouscrab, while Alan, arms and legswrapped tightly around the blasterbarrel and housing, pressedfiercely against the robot's metalskin. Slowly, trying to anticipateand shift his weight with thespinning plunges, Alan workedhis hand down to his right hip.He fumbled for the sheath clippedto his belt, found it, and extracteda stubby hunting knife.Sweat and blood in his eyes,hardly able to move on the wildlyswinging turret, he felt downthe sides to the thin crack betweenthe revolving housing andthe stationary portion of the robot.With a quick prayer hejammed in the knife blade—andwas whipped headlong into themud as the turret literally snappedto a stop. The earth, jungle and moonsspun in a pinwheeled blur,slowed, and settled to their properplaces. Standing in the sticky,sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyedthe robot apprehensively. Halfburied in mud, it stood quiet inthe shadowy light except for anoccasional, almost spasmodicjerk of its blaster barrel. Forthe first time that night Alanallowed himself a slight smile.A blade in the old gear box,eh? How does that feel, boy? He turned. Well, I'd betterget out of here before the knifeslips or the monster cooks upsome more tricks with whateverit's got for a brain. Digginglittle footholds in the soft bank,he climbed up and stood onceagain in the rustling jungledarkness. I wonder, he thought, howPete could cram enough braininto one of those things to makeit hunt and track so perfectly.He tried to visualize the computingcircuits needed for theoperation of its tracking mechanismalone. There just isn'troom for the electronics. You'dneed a computer as big as theone at camp headquarters. In the distance the sky blazedas a blaster roared in the jungle.Then Alan heard the approachingrobot, crunching and snappingits way through the undergrowthlike an onrushing forestfire. He froze. Good Lord!They communicate with eachother! The one I jammed mustbe calling others to help. He began to move along thebank, away from the crashingsounds. Suddenly he stopped, hiseyes widened. Of course! Radio!I'll bet anything they'reautomatically controlled by thecamp computer. That's wheretheir brain is! He paused.Then, if that were put out ofcommission ... He jerked awayfrom the bank and half ran, halfpulled himself through the undergrowthtowards the camp. Trees exploded to his left asanother robot fired in his direction,too far away to be effectivebut churning towards himthrough the blackness. Alan changed direction slightlyto follow a line between thetwo robots coming up fromeither side, behind him. His eyeswere well accustomed to the darknow, and he managed to dodgemost of the shadowy vines andbranches before they could snagor trip him. Even so, he stumbledin the wiry underbrush andhis legs were a mass of stingingslashes from ankle to thigh. The crashing rumble of thekiller robots shook the night behindhim, nearer sometimes,then falling slightly back, butfollowing constantly, moreunshakable than bloodhoundsbecause a man can sometimes covera scent, but no man can stop histhoughts. Intermittently, likephotographers' strobes, blueflashes would light the jungleabout him. Then, for secondsafterwards his eyes would seedancing streaks of yellow andsharp multi-colored pinwheelsthat alternately shrunk and expandedas if in a surrealist'snightmare. Alan would have topause and squeeze his eyelidstight shut before he could seeagain, and the robots wouldmove a little closer. To his right the trees silhouettedbriefly against brilliance asa third robot slowly moved upin the distance. Without thinking,Alan turned slightly to theleft, then froze in momentarypanic. I should be at the campnow. Damn, what direction amI going? He tried to thinkback, to visualize the twists andturns he'd taken in the jungle.All I need is to get lost. He pictured the camp computerwith no one to stop it, automaticallysending its robots inwider and wider forays, slowlywiping every trace of life fromthe planet. Technologically advancedmachines doing the jobfor which they were built, completely,thoroughly, without feeling,and without human mastersto separate sense from futility.Finally parts would wear out,circuits would short, and one byone the killers would crunch toa halt. A few birds would stillfly then, but a unique animallife, rare in the universe, wouldexist no more. And the bones ofchildren, eager girls, and theirmen would also lie, beside arusty hulk, beneath the aliensun. Peggy! As if in answer, a tree besidehim breathed fire, then exploded.In the brief flash of theblaster shot, Alan saw the steelglint of a robot only a hundredyards away, much nearer thanhe had thought. Thank heavenfor trees! He stepped back, felthis foot catch in something,clutched futilely at some leavesand fell heavily. Pain danced up his leg as hegrabbed his ankle. Quickly hefelt the throbbing flesh. Damnthe rotten luck, anyway! Heblinked the pain tears from hiseyes and looked up—into a robot'sblaster, jutting out of thefoliage, thirty yards away. Instinctively, in one motionAlan grabbed his pocket blasterand fired. To his amazement therobot jerked back, its gun wobbledand started to tilt away.Then, getting itself under control,it swung back again to faceAlan. He fired again, and againthe robot reacted. It seemed familiarsomehow. Then he rememberedthe robot on the riverbank, jiggling and swaying forseconds after each shot. Ofcourse! He cursed himself formissing the obvious. The blasterstatic blanks out radiotransmission from the computerfor a few seconds. They even doit to themselves! Firing intermittently, hepulled himself upright and hobbledahead through the bush.The robot shook spasmodicallywith each shot, its gun tilted upwardat an awkward angle. Then, unexpectedly, Alan sawstars, real stars brilliant in thenight sky, and half dragging hisswelling leg he stumbled out ofthe jungle into the camp clearing.Ahead, across fifty yards ofgrass stood the headquartersbuilding, housing the robot-controllingcomputer. Still firing atshort intervals he started acrossthe clearing, gritting his teethat every step. Straining every muscle inspite of the agonizing pain, Alanforced himself to a limping runacross the uneven ground, carefullyavoiding the insect hillsthat jutted up through the grass.From the corner of his eye hesaw another of the robots standingshakily in the dark edge ofthe jungle waiting, it seemed,for his small blaster to run dry. Be damned! You can't winnow! Alan yelled between blastershots, almost irrational fromthe pain that ripped jaggedlythrough his leg. Then it happened.A few feet from thebuilding's door his blaster quit.A click. A faint hiss when hefrantically jerked the triggeragain and again, and the spentcells released themselves fromthe device, falling in the grassat his feet. He dropped the uselessgun. No! He threw himself onthe ground as a new robot suddenlyappeared around the edgeof the building a few feet away,aimed, and fired. Air burnedover Alan's back and ozone tingledin his nostrils. Blinding itself for a few secondswith its own blaster static,the robot paused momentarily,jiggling in place. In thisinstant, Alan jammed his handsinto an insect hill and hurled thepile of dirt and insects directlyat the robot's antenna. In a flash,hundreds of the winged thingserupted angrily from the hole ina swarming cloud, each part ofwhich was a speck of lifetransmitting mental energy to therobot's pickup devices. Confused by the sudden dispersionof mind impulses, therobot fired erratically as Alancrouched and raced painfully forthe door. It fired again, closer,as he fumbled with the lockrelease. Jagged bits of plastic andstone ripped past him, torn looseby the blast. Frantically, Alan slammedopen the door as the robot, sensinghim strongly now, aimedpoint blank. He saw nothing, hismind thought of nothing but thered-clad safety switch mountedbeside the computer. Time stopped.There was nothing else inthe world. He half-jumped, half-felltowards it, slowly, in tenthsof seconds that seemed measuredout in years. The universe went black. Later. Brilliance pressed uponhis eyes. Then pain returned, amulti-hurting thing that crawledthrough his body and draggedragged tentacles across hisbrain. He moaned. A voice spoke hollowly in thedistance. He's waking. Call hiswife. Alan opened his eyes in awhite room; a white light hungover his head. Beside him, lookingdown with a rueful smile,stood a young man wearingspace medical insignia. Yes,he acknowledged the question inAlan's eyes, you hit the switch.That was three days ago. Whenyou're up again we'd all like tothank you. Suddenly a sobbing-laughinggreen-eyed girl was pressedtightly against him. Neither ofthem spoke. They couldn't. Therewas too much to say. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of Alan’s realization that he must continue to live?

Alan’s realization that he must continue to live makes him become a man at thirty. Not only does it fill him with determination, but it is also what fuels him to stop the robots and end up saving everybody. He declares that no law says he has to flame-out at this age, so he continues to work his way through the jungle and against the robots. Without this realization, he would not have been motivated to use his pocket blaster against the robots and knife. Alan would also not have lived long enough to figure out the control of the robots as the computer in the headquarters building. This, itself, also lets him actually choose to go back to the area at the risk of death to find the safety button. Finally, his will to live lets him put aside his fear and goes to push the button, which ends up saving everybody.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> Nuts to wild talents! Mine was no satisfaction, never earned me a penny—and now it had me fighting for my life in ... THE LITTLE RED BAG By JERRY SOHL [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] About an hour out of San Francisco on the flight to Los Angeles, I madethe discovery. I had finished reading the Chronicle , folded and putit beside me, turned and looked out the window, expecting to see theSan Joaquin Valley but finding only a sea of clouds instead. So Ireturned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffedgray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seatsbefore me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde. I had seen her in the concourse and at the gate, a shapely thing. Nowshe had crossed her legs and I was privileged to view a trim ankle andcalf, and her profile as she stared moodily across the aisle and out awindow where there was nothing to see. I slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, atogetherness-type-magazine reader. Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing Ishould be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angelesfor, and not wanting to. So I started going through the purse of the woman next to me. Perhapsthat sounds bad. It wasn't. I'd been doing it for years and nobody evercomplained. It started when I was a kid, this business of being able to explorethe insides of things like purses and sealed boxes and locked drawersand—well, human beings. But human beings aren't worth the trouble.It's like swimming through spaghetti. And I've got to stay away fromelectric wires. They hurt. Now don't ask me how they hurt. Maybe you think it's fun. For the most part, it really isn't. I alwaysknew what was in Christmas presents before I unwrapped them, andtherefore Christmas was always spoiled for me as a kid. I can't feelthe color of anything, just its consistency. An apple senses about thesame as a potato, except for the core and the stem. I can't even tellif there's writing on a piece of paper. So you see it isn't much. Justthe feel of shapes, the hardnesses and softnesses. But I've learned tobecome pretty good at guessing. Like this woman next to me. She had a short, cylindrical metal objectin her purse with waxlike stuff inside it—a lipstick. A round, hardobject with dust inside—a compact. Handkerchief, chewing gum, a smallbook, probably an address book, money in a change purse—a few billsand coins. Not much else. I was a little disappointed. I've run across a gun or two in my time.But I never say anything. <doc-sep>I learned the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut in the fourth grade whenMiss Winters, a stern, white-haired disciplinarian, ordered me to eatmy sack lunch in the classroom with her instead of outside with someof the other kids. This was the punishment for some minor infraction.Lunchtime was nearly over and we'd both finished eating; she said she'dbe gone for a few moments and that I was to erase the blackboard duringher absence, which I dutifully did. Class had hardly resumed when she started looking around the desk forher favorite mechanical pencil, asking if any of us had seen it, andlooking straight at me. I didn't want her to think I had taken it whileshe was out of the room, so I probed the contents of her purse, whichshe always kept in the upper right drawer of her desk. It's in your purse, I blurted out. I was sent home with a stinging note. Since then I've kept quiet. At one time I assumed everybody was ableto sense. I've known better for years. Still, I wonder how many otherpeople are as close-mouthed about their special gift as I am about mine. I used to think that some day I'd make a lot of money out of it, buthow? I can't read thoughts. I can't even be sure what some of thethings I sense in probing really are. But I've learned to move things. Ever so little. A piece of paper. Afeather. Once I stopped one of those little glass-enclosed light orheat-powered devices with vanes you see now and then in a jeweler'swindow. And I can stop clocks. Take this morning, for example. I had set my alarm for five-thirtybecause I had to catch the seven o'clock plane at San FranciscoInternational Airport. This being earlier than I usually get up, itseems all I did during the night was feel my way past the escapementand balance wheel to see where the notch for the alarm was. The lasttime I did it there was just the merest fraction of an inch between thepawl and the notch. So I sighed and moved to the balance wheel and itsdelicate ribbon of spiraling steel. I hung onto the wheel, exertinginfluence to decrease the restoring torque. The wheel slowed down until there was no more ticking. It took quitea bit of effort, as it always does, but I did it, as I usually do. Ican't stand the alarm. When I first learned to do this, I thought I had it made. I even wentto Las Vegas to try my hand, so to speak, with the ratchets and pawlsand cams and springs on the slot machines. But there's nothing delicateabout a slot machine, and the spring tensions are too strong. I droppedquite a lot of nickels before I finally gave up. So I'm stuck with a talent I've found little real use for. Except thatit amuses me. Sometimes. Not like this time on the plane. The woman beside me stirred, sat up suddenly and looked across me outthe window. Where are we? she asked in a surprised voice. I told herwe were probably a little north of Bakersfield. She said, Oh, glancedat her wristwatch and sank back again. Soon the stewardesses would bring coffee and doughnuts around, so Icontented myself with looking at the clouds and trying to think aboutAmos Magaffey, who was purchasing agent for a Los Angeles amusementchain, and how I was going to convince him our printing prices weremaybe a little higher but the quality and service were better. My mindwandered below where I was sitting, idly moving from one piece ofluggage to another, looking for my beat-up suitcase. I went throughslips and slippers, lingerie and laundry, a jig saw puzzle and aukulele. I never did find my suitcase because I found the bomb first. The bomb was in a small bag—a woman's bag judging by the soft,flimsy things you'd never find in a man's—and I didn't know it was abomb right away. I thought it was just a clock, one of those small,quiet alarms. I was going to pass it by and go on, but what held mewas that something was taped to it. By the feel, I knew it must beelectrician's tape. Interested and curious, I explored the clock moreclosely, found two wires. One went to a battery and the other to hardround cylinders taped together. The hairs stood up at the base of myneck when I suddenly realized what it was. The clock's balance wheel was rocking merrily. Quickly I went up pastthe train of gears to the alarm wheel. If this was anything like my ownalarm clock, this one had something like ten minutes to go. It was forty minutes to Burbank and Lockheed Air Terminal. My mind was churning when I turned from the window to look aroundat the unconcerned passengers, the woman at my side asleep again. Ithought: Which one of these.... No, none of them would know it wasthere. I glanced out the window again; clouds were still in the way.We'd be leaving the valley for the mountain range north of Los Angelessoon, if we hadn't left it already. No place to land the plane there. But of course that had been the plan! My heart was beating in jackhammer rhythm; my mouth was dry and my mindwas numb. Tell somebody about the bomb before it's too late! No, they'dthink I put it there. Besides, what good would it do? There would bepanic and they'd never get the plane down in time—if they believed me. Sir. My head jerked around. The stewardess stood in the aisle,smiling, extending a tray to me, a brown plastic tray bearing a smallpaper cup of tomato juice, a cup of coffee, a cellophane-wrappeddoughnut, paper spoon, sugar and dehydrated cream envelopes, and anapkin. I goggled at her, managed to croak, No, thanks. She gave me an oddlook and moved along. My seatmate had accepted hers and was tearing atthe cellophane. I couldn't bear to watch her. I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spenta frantic moment before I found the bag again. I had to stop thatbalance wheel, just as I stopped my alarm clock every morning. I triedto close everything off—the throb of engines, the rush of air, thewoman sipping coffee noisily beside me—and I went into the clock andsurrounded the seesawing wheel. When it went forward, I pulled it back;when it went back, I pulled it forward. I struggled with it, and it waslike trying to work with greasy hands, and I was afraid I wasn't goingto be able to stop it. Then, little by little, it started to slow its beat. But I could notafford to relax. I pushed and pulled and didn't dare release my holduntil it came to a dead stop. Anything the matter? My eyelids flew open and I looked into the eyes of the woman next tome. There was sugar from the doughnut around her mouth and she wasstill chewing. No, I said, letting out my breath. I'm all right. You were moaning, it sounded like. And you kept moving your head backand forth. Must have been dreaming, I said as I rang for the stewardess. Whenshe came I told her I'd take some of that coffee now. No, nothing else,just coffee. I didn't tell her how much I needed it. I sat there clammywith sweat until she returned. Coffee never tasted so good. <doc-sep>All right, so I had stopped the bomb's timer. My mind raced ahead tothe landing. When they unloaded the luggage, the balance wheel wouldstart again. I wouldn't be able to stay with it, keeping it still.I considered telling the authorities as soon as we landed, or maybecalling in ahead, but wouldn't that just bring suspicion, questions.Maybe I could convince them I could stop a clock—but not before thebomb exploded. And then what? My secret would be out and my life wouldbe changed. I'd be a man not to be trusted, a prying man, a manliterally with gimlet eyes. Mountain crags jutted through the clouds. We were in the range north ofthe city. Here and there were clear spots and I could see roads below,but there were also clouds far above us. It was very beautiful, but itwas also very bumpy, and we started to slip and slide. To my horror I found that the balance wheel was rocking again. Closingmy eyes and gritting my teeth, I forced my senses to the wheel, tuggingand pulling and shoving and pushing until it finally stopped. A jab in the shoulder. I jumped, startled. Your cup, my seat partner said, pointing. I looked down at the coffee cup I had crushed in my hands. Then Ilooked up into the eyes of the stewardess. I handed it to her. She tookit without a word and went away. Were you really asleep that time? Not really, I said. I was tempted to tell the woman I was subject tofits, but I didn't. It was only a few minutes to landing, but they became the longestminutes of my life as time after time I stopped the rocking wheel whenthe plane dipped and bumped to a landing. Leaving the apron with the other passengers, I tried to walk asunconcernedly as they through the exit gate. I would have liked walkingthrough the terminal and out the entrance and away, but I could not. Ihad my suitcase to get, for one thing. The damned bomb was the other.So I strolled out into the concourse again to look at the plane andwatch the baggagemen at work, transferring the luggage to two airfieldcarts. They weren't as careful as I would have been. It was impossible to tell from this distance just which bag containedthe bomb; I could hardly identify my own scarred suitcase. Theassortment of bags—a strange conglomeration of sizes and colors—waspacked in some places six deep, and it rolled toward the gate whereI was standing. I didn't know whether to stay or run, imagining thebalance wheel now happily rocking again. The load went past me down aramp to the front of the air terminal where the luggage was unloadedand placed in a long rack. I went with it. There was a flurry of ticket matching, hands grabbing for suitcases,and a general exodus on the part of my fellow passengers, too fast todetermine who had got the one with the bomb. Now all that was left wasthe attendant and I had two bags—my own battered veteran of years, anda fine new red overnight case, small enough to be the one. I lit a cigarette, reached out. Inside were a woman's things and—aclock. The escapement was clicking vigorously. I didn't moan this time. I just closed my eyes, stretched towardand grabbed the balance wheel I was getting to know like my own. Ientered into a union with it so strong that after I had reduced it toimmobility, it was like waking when I opened my eyes. <doc-sep>The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment Istared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presentedit to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and Iwas ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags withhis eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed ittoward me. Thanks, I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward theremaining bag. One left over, eh? Yeah. He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. Buthe was eying me with a well-why-don't-you-get-along? look. I said, What happens if nobody claims it? Take it inside. Why? He was getting too curious. Oh, I just wondered, that's all. I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entranceand put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurryingover. Cab? I shook my head. Just waiting. Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb. I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggageclaim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ranthrough my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfiedme. I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with aman named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussingsomething very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what couldI do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take thebag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able tolive with myself. No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—untilwhat? A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out ofthe entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on apair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I couldtell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain thewhole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my ownbusiness. But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and startedacross the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag. ButI didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claimcounter out of the side of my eye. The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the rampto the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I wentinside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bagon the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. Theclerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room. I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. Howmany minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to thecounter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. Ihad to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop theclock again. Can I help you? the clerk asked. No. I'm waiting for someone. I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against thecounter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach thedevice, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheelescaped my grasp. Do you have my suitcase? I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stoodthere looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right handshe had a green baggage claim check. The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnightcase and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it. Just a moment, I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurryingafter her. <doc-sep>At her side and a little ahead of her, I said, Listen to me. She looked annoyed and increased her stride toward the door. It's a matter of life or death, I said. I wanted to wrest the bagfrom her and hurl it out through the doorway into the street, but Irestrained myself. She stopped and stared. I noticed a short, fat man in a rumpledsuitcoat and unpressed pants staring, too. Ignoring him, I said,Please put the bag down. Over there. I indicated a spot beside atelephone booth where it would be out of the way. She didn't move. She just said, Why? For God's sake! I took the case. She offered no resistance. I put herbag and mine next to the booth. When I turned around she was standingthere looking at me as if I had gone out of my mind. Her eyes were blueand brown-flecked, very pretty eyes, and my thought at the moment was,I'm glad the bomb didn't go off; these eyes wouldn't be looking at meor anything else right now if it had. I've got to talk to you. It's very important. The girl said, Why? I was beginning to think it was the only word sheknew. At the same time I was wondering why anyone would want to killsomeone so lovely. I'll explain in a moment. Please stand right here while I make atelephone call. I moved toward the phone booth, paused and said, Anddon't ask me why. She gave me a speculative look. I must not have seemed a complete idiot because she said, All right,but— I didn't listen for the rest. I went into the booth, closed the door,pretended to drop a coin and dial a number. But all the time I was inthere, I was reaching out through the glass for the clock. At thisrange it wasn't difficult to stop the balance wheel. Just the same, when I came out I was wringing wet. Now will you please tell me what this is all about? she said stiffly. Gladly. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I'll explain. She glanced at the bags. I told her they'd be all right. We followedthe short, fat man into the coffee shop. Over coffee I explained it all to her, how I had this extrasensoryability, how she was the first person I had ever revealed it to, andhow I had discovered what was in her overnight bag. During the telling, her untouched coffee grew a skin, her face grewpale, her eyes grew less curious and more troubled. There were tearsthere when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag. Joe did, she said in a toneless voice, not looking at me any more butstaring vacantly across the room. Joe put it there. Behind her eyesshe was reliving some recent scene. Who is Joe? My husband. I thought she was going to really bawl, but she gotcontrol again. This trip was his idea, my coming down here to visit mysister. Her smile was bleak. I see now why he wanted to put in thosebooks. I'd finished packing and was in the bathroom. He said he'd putin some books we'd both finished reading—for my sister. That's when hemust have put the—put it in there. I said gently, Why would he want to do a thing like that? I don't know. She shook her head. I just don't know. And she wasclose to bawling again. Then she recovered and said, I'm not sure Iwant to know. I admired her for saying it. Joe must have been crazy. It's all right now? she asked. I nodded. As long as we don't move it. I told her I didn't know how much more time there was, that I'd beenthinking it over and that the only way out seemed to be to tell theairport policeman. After I explained it to her, the girl—she said hername was Julia Claremont—agreed to tell him she thought there was abomb in her bag, that she had noticed a ticking and had become worriedbecause she knew she hadn't packed a clock. It wasn't good, but itwould have to do. We've got to get it deactivated, I said, watching the fat man pay forhis coffee and leave. The sooner the better. <doc-sep>I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her.I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the otherpeople had. She said she had called her sister and the phone was busyfor a long while. She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried.She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab. She smileda little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was allfor me. That's where I was going when you caught up with me. It had become a very nice day. But the bottom dropped out of it againwhen we reached the lobby. The two bags weren't there. I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap. See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old batteredsuitcase? Bag? Suitcase? he mumbled. Then he became excited. Why, a man juststepped out of here— He turned to look down the street. That's him. The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry. Hey! I shouted, starting toward him. The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He cameabreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the doorand threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in. The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time Ireached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, thenwalked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with theredcap, who said, That man steal them suitcases? That he did, I said. Just then the airport policeman started across the street from theparking lot. Redcap said, Better tell him about it. The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, We'd better getover to the office. But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distantshattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard. Jets, the redcap said, eying the sky. I don't know, the policeman said. Didn't sound much like a jet tome. We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupein the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. Thatwas all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia wasthinking. She said, About those bags, and looked at me. The officer said, Yes, miss? I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it. I feel the same way, I said. Would it be all right if we didn'tbother to report it? Well, the policeman said, I can't make you report it. I'd rather not then, Julia said. She turned to me. I'd like someair. Can't we walk a little? Sure, I said. We started down the street, her arm in mine, as the air began to fillwith the distant sounds of sirens. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

On a seemingly normal flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles sits our protagonist, on his way to complete a printing order. In his initial musings, we find out that his curiosity and intuition about his fellow passengers come out of his extrasensory ability to see inside objects and human beings. The protagonist is also revealed to be able to manipulate time by stopping clocks, which he uses to his benefit with early wake-up calls. Despite his unique abilities, he laments that it renders largely useless and mundane as it often ruins surprises like Christmas gifts, requires a bit of guessing, and fails to work as gimmicks in manipulating games like Vegas slot machines. And so with his seemingly useless but curious gaze, the protagonist ponders about his seat-mate’s purse, Amos Magaffey the purchasing agent, and rifling through luggages and identifying his own. All of sudden, his musings are halted by the discovery of a bomb in one of the luggages, with a countdown timer ticking with 10 minutes or less. The flight is still 40 minutes away from its destination and so with great effort and increasing suspicion from his seat-mate, the protagonist uses his ability to stop the ticking bomb. The flight lands safely with the bomb remaining inactivated, but the protgaonist now worries between alerting authorities - which may cast suspicion upon himself - or follow the luggage and identify who picks it up. With no one initially picking up the luggage with the bomb - the little red bag - it is delivered by the flight attendant to the rear room. Soon, a young lady arrives to pick it up. It is then that the protagonist hurries over to her in hopes of warning her of the ticking time bomb. It turns out that the likely culprit of planting the bomb is the young lady’s - Julia Claremont - husband, whose motives are unknown but nevertheless unhinged. Armed with this information and a false story about the bag’s suspicion, the pair decides to approach an airport policeman and inform them of the bomb. However, as they return to where they left their bags, they find that both his and Julia’s luggages have been stolen by a strange man entering his grey vehicle. Turning to the airport policeman in reporting this stolen luggage, they are interrupted by an explosion in a grey vehicle. Shocked and somber, Julia and the protagonist inform the policeman that they no longer wish to report the stolen luggage, and the two begin to walk away from the airport.

Who is Julia Claremont and what happens to her in the story? [SEP] <s> Nuts to wild talents! Mine was no satisfaction, never earned me a penny—and now it had me fighting for my life in ... THE LITTLE RED BAG By JERRY SOHL [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] About an hour out of San Francisco on the flight to Los Angeles, I madethe discovery. I had finished reading the Chronicle , folded and putit beside me, turned and looked out the window, expecting to see theSan Joaquin Valley but finding only a sea of clouds instead. So Ireturned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffedgray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seatsbefore me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde. I had seen her in the concourse and at the gate, a shapely thing. Nowshe had crossed her legs and I was privileged to view a trim ankle andcalf, and her profile as she stared moodily across the aisle and out awindow where there was nothing to see. I slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, atogetherness-type-magazine reader. Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing Ishould be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angelesfor, and not wanting to. So I started going through the purse of the woman next to me. Perhapsthat sounds bad. It wasn't. I'd been doing it for years and nobody evercomplained. It started when I was a kid, this business of being able to explorethe insides of things like purses and sealed boxes and locked drawersand—well, human beings. But human beings aren't worth the trouble.It's like swimming through spaghetti. And I've got to stay away fromelectric wires. They hurt. Now don't ask me how they hurt. Maybe you think it's fun. For the most part, it really isn't. I alwaysknew what was in Christmas presents before I unwrapped them, andtherefore Christmas was always spoiled for me as a kid. I can't feelthe color of anything, just its consistency. An apple senses about thesame as a potato, except for the core and the stem. I can't even tellif there's writing on a piece of paper. So you see it isn't much. Justthe feel of shapes, the hardnesses and softnesses. But I've learned tobecome pretty good at guessing. Like this woman next to me. She had a short, cylindrical metal objectin her purse with waxlike stuff inside it—a lipstick. A round, hardobject with dust inside—a compact. Handkerchief, chewing gum, a smallbook, probably an address book, money in a change purse—a few billsand coins. Not much else. I was a little disappointed. I've run across a gun or two in my time.But I never say anything. <doc-sep>I learned the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut in the fourth grade whenMiss Winters, a stern, white-haired disciplinarian, ordered me to eatmy sack lunch in the classroom with her instead of outside with someof the other kids. This was the punishment for some minor infraction.Lunchtime was nearly over and we'd both finished eating; she said she'dbe gone for a few moments and that I was to erase the blackboard duringher absence, which I dutifully did. Class had hardly resumed when she started looking around the desk forher favorite mechanical pencil, asking if any of us had seen it, andlooking straight at me. I didn't want her to think I had taken it whileshe was out of the room, so I probed the contents of her purse, whichshe always kept in the upper right drawer of her desk. It's in your purse, I blurted out. I was sent home with a stinging note. Since then I've kept quiet. At one time I assumed everybody was ableto sense. I've known better for years. Still, I wonder how many otherpeople are as close-mouthed about their special gift as I am about mine. I used to think that some day I'd make a lot of money out of it, buthow? I can't read thoughts. I can't even be sure what some of thethings I sense in probing really are. But I've learned to move things. Ever so little. A piece of paper. Afeather. Once I stopped one of those little glass-enclosed light orheat-powered devices with vanes you see now and then in a jeweler'swindow. And I can stop clocks. Take this morning, for example. I had set my alarm for five-thirtybecause I had to catch the seven o'clock plane at San FranciscoInternational Airport. This being earlier than I usually get up, itseems all I did during the night was feel my way past the escapementand balance wheel to see where the notch for the alarm was. The lasttime I did it there was just the merest fraction of an inch between thepawl and the notch. So I sighed and moved to the balance wheel and itsdelicate ribbon of spiraling steel. I hung onto the wheel, exertinginfluence to decrease the restoring torque. The wheel slowed down until there was no more ticking. It took quitea bit of effort, as it always does, but I did it, as I usually do. Ican't stand the alarm. When I first learned to do this, I thought I had it made. I even wentto Las Vegas to try my hand, so to speak, with the ratchets and pawlsand cams and springs on the slot machines. But there's nothing delicateabout a slot machine, and the spring tensions are too strong. I droppedquite a lot of nickels before I finally gave up. So I'm stuck with a talent I've found little real use for. Except thatit amuses me. Sometimes. Not like this time on the plane. The woman beside me stirred, sat up suddenly and looked across me outthe window. Where are we? she asked in a surprised voice. I told herwe were probably a little north of Bakersfield. She said, Oh, glancedat her wristwatch and sank back again. Soon the stewardesses would bring coffee and doughnuts around, so Icontented myself with looking at the clouds and trying to think aboutAmos Magaffey, who was purchasing agent for a Los Angeles amusementchain, and how I was going to convince him our printing prices weremaybe a little higher but the quality and service were better. My mindwandered below where I was sitting, idly moving from one piece ofluggage to another, looking for my beat-up suitcase. I went throughslips and slippers, lingerie and laundry, a jig saw puzzle and aukulele. I never did find my suitcase because I found the bomb first. The bomb was in a small bag—a woman's bag judging by the soft,flimsy things you'd never find in a man's—and I didn't know it was abomb right away. I thought it was just a clock, one of those small,quiet alarms. I was going to pass it by and go on, but what held mewas that something was taped to it. By the feel, I knew it must beelectrician's tape. Interested and curious, I explored the clock moreclosely, found two wires. One went to a battery and the other to hardround cylinders taped together. The hairs stood up at the base of myneck when I suddenly realized what it was. The clock's balance wheel was rocking merrily. Quickly I went up pastthe train of gears to the alarm wheel. If this was anything like my ownalarm clock, this one had something like ten minutes to go. It was forty minutes to Burbank and Lockheed Air Terminal. My mind was churning when I turned from the window to look aroundat the unconcerned passengers, the woman at my side asleep again. Ithought: Which one of these.... No, none of them would know it wasthere. I glanced out the window again; clouds were still in the way.We'd be leaving the valley for the mountain range north of Los Angelessoon, if we hadn't left it already. No place to land the plane there. But of course that had been the plan! My heart was beating in jackhammer rhythm; my mouth was dry and my mindwas numb. Tell somebody about the bomb before it's too late! No, they'dthink I put it there. Besides, what good would it do? There would bepanic and they'd never get the plane down in time—if they believed me. Sir. My head jerked around. The stewardess stood in the aisle,smiling, extending a tray to me, a brown plastic tray bearing a smallpaper cup of tomato juice, a cup of coffee, a cellophane-wrappeddoughnut, paper spoon, sugar and dehydrated cream envelopes, and anapkin. I goggled at her, managed to croak, No, thanks. She gave me an oddlook and moved along. My seatmate had accepted hers and was tearing atthe cellophane. I couldn't bear to watch her. I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spenta frantic moment before I found the bag again. I had to stop thatbalance wheel, just as I stopped my alarm clock every morning. I triedto close everything off—the throb of engines, the rush of air, thewoman sipping coffee noisily beside me—and I went into the clock andsurrounded the seesawing wheel. When it went forward, I pulled it back;when it went back, I pulled it forward. I struggled with it, and it waslike trying to work with greasy hands, and I was afraid I wasn't goingto be able to stop it. Then, little by little, it started to slow its beat. But I could notafford to relax. I pushed and pulled and didn't dare release my holduntil it came to a dead stop. Anything the matter? My eyelids flew open and I looked into the eyes of the woman next tome. There was sugar from the doughnut around her mouth and she wasstill chewing. No, I said, letting out my breath. I'm all right. You were moaning, it sounded like. And you kept moving your head backand forth. Must have been dreaming, I said as I rang for the stewardess. Whenshe came I told her I'd take some of that coffee now. No, nothing else,just coffee. I didn't tell her how much I needed it. I sat there clammywith sweat until she returned. Coffee never tasted so good. <doc-sep>All right, so I had stopped the bomb's timer. My mind raced ahead tothe landing. When they unloaded the luggage, the balance wheel wouldstart again. I wouldn't be able to stay with it, keeping it still.I considered telling the authorities as soon as we landed, or maybecalling in ahead, but wouldn't that just bring suspicion, questions.Maybe I could convince them I could stop a clock—but not before thebomb exploded. And then what? My secret would be out and my life wouldbe changed. I'd be a man not to be trusted, a prying man, a manliterally with gimlet eyes. Mountain crags jutted through the clouds. We were in the range north ofthe city. Here and there were clear spots and I could see roads below,but there were also clouds far above us. It was very beautiful, but itwas also very bumpy, and we started to slip and slide. To my horror I found that the balance wheel was rocking again. Closingmy eyes and gritting my teeth, I forced my senses to the wheel, tuggingand pulling and shoving and pushing until it finally stopped. A jab in the shoulder. I jumped, startled. Your cup, my seat partner said, pointing. I looked down at the coffee cup I had crushed in my hands. Then Ilooked up into the eyes of the stewardess. I handed it to her. She tookit without a word and went away. Were you really asleep that time? Not really, I said. I was tempted to tell the woman I was subject tofits, but I didn't. It was only a few minutes to landing, but they became the longestminutes of my life as time after time I stopped the rocking wheel whenthe plane dipped and bumped to a landing. Leaving the apron with the other passengers, I tried to walk asunconcernedly as they through the exit gate. I would have liked walkingthrough the terminal and out the entrance and away, but I could not. Ihad my suitcase to get, for one thing. The damned bomb was the other.So I strolled out into the concourse again to look at the plane andwatch the baggagemen at work, transferring the luggage to two airfieldcarts. They weren't as careful as I would have been. It was impossible to tell from this distance just which bag containedthe bomb; I could hardly identify my own scarred suitcase. Theassortment of bags—a strange conglomeration of sizes and colors—waspacked in some places six deep, and it rolled toward the gate whereI was standing. I didn't know whether to stay or run, imagining thebalance wheel now happily rocking again. The load went past me down aramp to the front of the air terminal where the luggage was unloadedand placed in a long rack. I went with it. There was a flurry of ticket matching, hands grabbing for suitcases,and a general exodus on the part of my fellow passengers, too fast todetermine who had got the one with the bomb. Now all that was left wasthe attendant and I had two bags—my own battered veteran of years, anda fine new red overnight case, small enough to be the one. I lit a cigarette, reached out. Inside were a woman's things and—aclock. The escapement was clicking vigorously. I didn't moan this time. I just closed my eyes, stretched towardand grabbed the balance wheel I was getting to know like my own. Ientered into a union with it so strong that after I had reduced it toimmobility, it was like waking when I opened my eyes. <doc-sep>The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment Istared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presentedit to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and Iwas ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags withhis eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed ittoward me. Thanks, I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward theremaining bag. One left over, eh? Yeah. He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. Buthe was eying me with a well-why-don't-you-get-along? look. I said, What happens if nobody claims it? Take it inside. Why? He was getting too curious. Oh, I just wondered, that's all. I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entranceand put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurryingover. Cab? I shook my head. Just waiting. Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb. I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggageclaim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ranthrough my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfiedme. I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with aman named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussingsomething very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what couldI do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take thebag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able tolive with myself. No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—untilwhat? A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out ofthe entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on apair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I couldtell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain thewhole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my ownbusiness. But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and startedacross the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag. ButI didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claimcounter out of the side of my eye. The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the rampto the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I wentinside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bagon the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. Theclerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room. I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. Howmany minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to thecounter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. Ihad to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop theclock again. Can I help you? the clerk asked. No. I'm waiting for someone. I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against thecounter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach thedevice, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheelescaped my grasp. Do you have my suitcase? I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stoodthere looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right handshe had a green baggage claim check. The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnightcase and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it. Just a moment, I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurryingafter her. <doc-sep>At her side and a little ahead of her, I said, Listen to me. She looked annoyed and increased her stride toward the door. It's a matter of life or death, I said. I wanted to wrest the bagfrom her and hurl it out through the doorway into the street, but Irestrained myself. She stopped and stared. I noticed a short, fat man in a rumpledsuitcoat and unpressed pants staring, too. Ignoring him, I said,Please put the bag down. Over there. I indicated a spot beside atelephone booth where it would be out of the way. She didn't move. She just said, Why? For God's sake! I took the case. She offered no resistance. I put herbag and mine next to the booth. When I turned around she was standingthere looking at me as if I had gone out of my mind. Her eyes were blueand brown-flecked, very pretty eyes, and my thought at the moment was,I'm glad the bomb didn't go off; these eyes wouldn't be looking at meor anything else right now if it had. I've got to talk to you. It's very important. The girl said, Why? I was beginning to think it was the only word sheknew. At the same time I was wondering why anyone would want to killsomeone so lovely. I'll explain in a moment. Please stand right here while I make atelephone call. I moved toward the phone booth, paused and said, Anddon't ask me why. She gave me a speculative look. I must not have seemed a complete idiot because she said, All right,but— I didn't listen for the rest. I went into the booth, closed the door,pretended to drop a coin and dial a number. But all the time I was inthere, I was reaching out through the glass for the clock. At thisrange it wasn't difficult to stop the balance wheel. Just the same, when I came out I was wringing wet. Now will you please tell me what this is all about? she said stiffly. Gladly. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I'll explain. She glanced at the bags. I told her they'd be all right. We followedthe short, fat man into the coffee shop. Over coffee I explained it all to her, how I had this extrasensoryability, how she was the first person I had ever revealed it to, andhow I had discovered what was in her overnight bag. During the telling, her untouched coffee grew a skin, her face grewpale, her eyes grew less curious and more troubled. There were tearsthere when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag. Joe did, she said in a toneless voice, not looking at me any more butstaring vacantly across the room. Joe put it there. Behind her eyesshe was reliving some recent scene. Who is Joe? My husband. I thought she was going to really bawl, but she gotcontrol again. This trip was his idea, my coming down here to visit mysister. Her smile was bleak. I see now why he wanted to put in thosebooks. I'd finished packing and was in the bathroom. He said he'd putin some books we'd both finished reading—for my sister. That's when hemust have put the—put it in there. I said gently, Why would he want to do a thing like that? I don't know. She shook her head. I just don't know. And she wasclose to bawling again. Then she recovered and said, I'm not sure Iwant to know. I admired her for saying it. Joe must have been crazy. It's all right now? she asked. I nodded. As long as we don't move it. I told her I didn't know how much more time there was, that I'd beenthinking it over and that the only way out seemed to be to tell theairport policeman. After I explained it to her, the girl—she said hername was Julia Claremont—agreed to tell him she thought there was abomb in her bag, that she had noticed a ticking and had become worriedbecause she knew she hadn't packed a clock. It wasn't good, but itwould have to do. We've got to get it deactivated, I said, watching the fat man pay forhis coffee and leave. The sooner the better. <doc-sep>I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her.I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the otherpeople had. She said she had called her sister and the phone was busyfor a long while. She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried.She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab. She smileda little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was allfor me. That's where I was going when you caught up with me. It had become a very nice day. But the bottom dropped out of it againwhen we reached the lobby. The two bags weren't there. I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap. See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old batteredsuitcase? Bag? Suitcase? he mumbled. Then he became excited. Why, a man juststepped out of here— He turned to look down the street. That's him. The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry. Hey! I shouted, starting toward him. The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He cameabreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the doorand threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in. The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time Ireached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, thenwalked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with theredcap, who said, That man steal them suitcases? That he did, I said. Just then the airport policeman started across the street from theparking lot. Redcap said, Better tell him about it. The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, We'd better getover to the office. But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distantshattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard. Jets, the redcap said, eying the sky. I don't know, the policeman said. Didn't sound much like a jet tome. We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupein the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. Thatwas all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia wasthinking. She said, About those bags, and looked at me. The officer said, Yes, miss? I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it. I feel the same way, I said. Would it be all right if we didn'tbother to report it? Well, the policeman said, I can't make you report it. I'd rather not then, Julia said. She turned to me. I'd like someair. Can't we walk a little? Sure, I said. We started down the street, her arm in mine, as the air began to fillwith the distant sounds of sirens. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Julia Claremont and what happens to her in the story?

Julia Claremont is a young blonde in the plane that initially peaks the protagonist's interest with her attractive profile, who later is identified as the owner of the little red bag that houses the ticking bomb. Flying from San Francisco to Los Angeles to visit her sister on her husband’s suggestion, she is the first person that the protagonist reveals his extrasensory abilities to. Despite the extraordinary tale, Claremont believes him and reveals herself that the likely culprit of the bomb to be her husband. Under the guise of putting in books for her sister to read, she surmises that her husband likely used that opportunity to plant the bomb. However, she is unable to identify the motives of her husband or more likely, she would rather not to. Despite this shock, Claremont and the protagonist devise a somewhat likely story to alert the airport policeman of her suspicious of a bomb in her luggage in order to quickly deactivate it as well as divert attention from how the protgaonist was able to sense it. On their way over to where they left their bags, they noticed them to be stolen and identified a dumpy man as the thief, heading over to his grey vehicle to take off with them. As they approach an airport policeman to report this theft instead, they are interrupted by an explosion - the bomb having gone off. Seemingly on the same page, Claremont turns to the policeman as she retracts her desire to report the theft - with the protagonist doing the same - and turns to walk away, leaving the mayhem of the explosion at the airport behind them.

Q3. Why is the protagonist reluctant to reveal his extraordinary ability? [SEP] <s> Nuts to wild talents! Mine was no satisfaction, never earned me a penny—and now it had me fighting for my life in ... THE LITTLE RED BAG By JERRY SOHL [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] About an hour out of San Francisco on the flight to Los Angeles, I madethe discovery. I had finished reading the Chronicle , folded and putit beside me, turned and looked out the window, expecting to see theSan Joaquin Valley but finding only a sea of clouds instead. So Ireturned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffedgray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seatsbefore me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde. I had seen her in the concourse and at the gate, a shapely thing. Nowshe had crossed her legs and I was privileged to view a trim ankle andcalf, and her profile as she stared moodily across the aisle and out awindow where there was nothing to see. I slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, atogetherness-type-magazine reader. Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing Ishould be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angelesfor, and not wanting to. So I started going through the purse of the woman next to me. Perhapsthat sounds bad. It wasn't. I'd been doing it for years and nobody evercomplained. It started when I was a kid, this business of being able to explorethe insides of things like purses and sealed boxes and locked drawersand—well, human beings. But human beings aren't worth the trouble.It's like swimming through spaghetti. And I've got to stay away fromelectric wires. They hurt. Now don't ask me how they hurt. Maybe you think it's fun. For the most part, it really isn't. I alwaysknew what was in Christmas presents before I unwrapped them, andtherefore Christmas was always spoiled for me as a kid. I can't feelthe color of anything, just its consistency. An apple senses about thesame as a potato, except for the core and the stem. I can't even tellif there's writing on a piece of paper. So you see it isn't much. Justthe feel of shapes, the hardnesses and softnesses. But I've learned tobecome pretty good at guessing. Like this woman next to me. She had a short, cylindrical metal objectin her purse with waxlike stuff inside it—a lipstick. A round, hardobject with dust inside—a compact. Handkerchief, chewing gum, a smallbook, probably an address book, money in a change purse—a few billsand coins. Not much else. I was a little disappointed. I've run across a gun or two in my time.But I never say anything. <doc-sep>I learned the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut in the fourth grade whenMiss Winters, a stern, white-haired disciplinarian, ordered me to eatmy sack lunch in the classroom with her instead of outside with someof the other kids. This was the punishment for some minor infraction.Lunchtime was nearly over and we'd both finished eating; she said she'dbe gone for a few moments and that I was to erase the blackboard duringher absence, which I dutifully did. Class had hardly resumed when she started looking around the desk forher favorite mechanical pencil, asking if any of us had seen it, andlooking straight at me. I didn't want her to think I had taken it whileshe was out of the room, so I probed the contents of her purse, whichshe always kept in the upper right drawer of her desk. It's in your purse, I blurted out. I was sent home with a stinging note. Since then I've kept quiet. At one time I assumed everybody was ableto sense. I've known better for years. Still, I wonder how many otherpeople are as close-mouthed about their special gift as I am about mine. I used to think that some day I'd make a lot of money out of it, buthow? I can't read thoughts. I can't even be sure what some of thethings I sense in probing really are. But I've learned to move things. Ever so little. A piece of paper. Afeather. Once I stopped one of those little glass-enclosed light orheat-powered devices with vanes you see now and then in a jeweler'swindow. And I can stop clocks. Take this morning, for example. I had set my alarm for five-thirtybecause I had to catch the seven o'clock plane at San FranciscoInternational Airport. This being earlier than I usually get up, itseems all I did during the night was feel my way past the escapementand balance wheel to see where the notch for the alarm was. The lasttime I did it there was just the merest fraction of an inch between thepawl and the notch. So I sighed and moved to the balance wheel and itsdelicate ribbon of spiraling steel. I hung onto the wheel, exertinginfluence to decrease the restoring torque. The wheel slowed down until there was no more ticking. It took quitea bit of effort, as it always does, but I did it, as I usually do. Ican't stand the alarm. When I first learned to do this, I thought I had it made. I even wentto Las Vegas to try my hand, so to speak, with the ratchets and pawlsand cams and springs on the slot machines. But there's nothing delicateabout a slot machine, and the spring tensions are too strong. I droppedquite a lot of nickels before I finally gave up. So I'm stuck with a talent I've found little real use for. Except thatit amuses me. Sometimes. Not like this time on the plane. The woman beside me stirred, sat up suddenly and looked across me outthe window. Where are we? she asked in a surprised voice. I told herwe were probably a little north of Bakersfield. She said, Oh, glancedat her wristwatch and sank back again. Soon the stewardesses would bring coffee and doughnuts around, so Icontented myself with looking at the clouds and trying to think aboutAmos Magaffey, who was purchasing agent for a Los Angeles amusementchain, and how I was going to convince him our printing prices weremaybe a little higher but the quality and service were better. My mindwandered below where I was sitting, idly moving from one piece ofluggage to another, looking for my beat-up suitcase. I went throughslips and slippers, lingerie and laundry, a jig saw puzzle and aukulele. I never did find my suitcase because I found the bomb first. The bomb was in a small bag—a woman's bag judging by the soft,flimsy things you'd never find in a man's—and I didn't know it was abomb right away. I thought it was just a clock, one of those small,quiet alarms. I was going to pass it by and go on, but what held mewas that something was taped to it. By the feel, I knew it must beelectrician's tape. Interested and curious, I explored the clock moreclosely, found two wires. One went to a battery and the other to hardround cylinders taped together. The hairs stood up at the base of myneck when I suddenly realized what it was. The clock's balance wheel was rocking merrily. Quickly I went up pastthe train of gears to the alarm wheel. If this was anything like my ownalarm clock, this one had something like ten minutes to go. It was forty minutes to Burbank and Lockheed Air Terminal. My mind was churning when I turned from the window to look aroundat the unconcerned passengers, the woman at my side asleep again. Ithought: Which one of these.... No, none of them would know it wasthere. I glanced out the window again; clouds were still in the way.We'd be leaving the valley for the mountain range north of Los Angelessoon, if we hadn't left it already. No place to land the plane there. But of course that had been the plan! My heart was beating in jackhammer rhythm; my mouth was dry and my mindwas numb. Tell somebody about the bomb before it's too late! No, they'dthink I put it there. Besides, what good would it do? There would bepanic and they'd never get the plane down in time—if they believed me. Sir. My head jerked around. The stewardess stood in the aisle,smiling, extending a tray to me, a brown plastic tray bearing a smallpaper cup of tomato juice, a cup of coffee, a cellophane-wrappeddoughnut, paper spoon, sugar and dehydrated cream envelopes, and anapkin. I goggled at her, managed to croak, No, thanks. She gave me an oddlook and moved along. My seatmate had accepted hers and was tearing atthe cellophane. I couldn't bear to watch her. I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spenta frantic moment before I found the bag again. I had to stop thatbalance wheel, just as I stopped my alarm clock every morning. I triedto close everything off—the throb of engines, the rush of air, thewoman sipping coffee noisily beside me—and I went into the clock andsurrounded the seesawing wheel. When it went forward, I pulled it back;when it went back, I pulled it forward. I struggled with it, and it waslike trying to work with greasy hands, and I was afraid I wasn't goingto be able to stop it. Then, little by little, it started to slow its beat. But I could notafford to relax. I pushed and pulled and didn't dare release my holduntil it came to a dead stop. Anything the matter? My eyelids flew open and I looked into the eyes of the woman next tome. There was sugar from the doughnut around her mouth and she wasstill chewing. No, I said, letting out my breath. I'm all right. You were moaning, it sounded like. And you kept moving your head backand forth. Must have been dreaming, I said as I rang for the stewardess. Whenshe came I told her I'd take some of that coffee now. No, nothing else,just coffee. I didn't tell her how much I needed it. I sat there clammywith sweat until she returned. Coffee never tasted so good. <doc-sep>All right, so I had stopped the bomb's timer. My mind raced ahead tothe landing. When they unloaded the luggage, the balance wheel wouldstart again. I wouldn't be able to stay with it, keeping it still.I considered telling the authorities as soon as we landed, or maybecalling in ahead, but wouldn't that just bring suspicion, questions.Maybe I could convince them I could stop a clock—but not before thebomb exploded. And then what? My secret would be out and my life wouldbe changed. I'd be a man not to be trusted, a prying man, a manliterally with gimlet eyes. Mountain crags jutted through the clouds. We were in the range north ofthe city. Here and there were clear spots and I could see roads below,but there were also clouds far above us. It was very beautiful, but itwas also very bumpy, and we started to slip and slide. To my horror I found that the balance wheel was rocking again. Closingmy eyes and gritting my teeth, I forced my senses to the wheel, tuggingand pulling and shoving and pushing until it finally stopped. A jab in the shoulder. I jumped, startled. Your cup, my seat partner said, pointing. I looked down at the coffee cup I had crushed in my hands. Then Ilooked up into the eyes of the stewardess. I handed it to her. She tookit without a word and went away. Were you really asleep that time? Not really, I said. I was tempted to tell the woman I was subject tofits, but I didn't. It was only a few minutes to landing, but they became the longestminutes of my life as time after time I stopped the rocking wheel whenthe plane dipped and bumped to a landing. Leaving the apron with the other passengers, I tried to walk asunconcernedly as they through the exit gate. I would have liked walkingthrough the terminal and out the entrance and away, but I could not. Ihad my suitcase to get, for one thing. The damned bomb was the other.So I strolled out into the concourse again to look at the plane andwatch the baggagemen at work, transferring the luggage to two airfieldcarts. They weren't as careful as I would have been. It was impossible to tell from this distance just which bag containedthe bomb; I could hardly identify my own scarred suitcase. Theassortment of bags—a strange conglomeration of sizes and colors—waspacked in some places six deep, and it rolled toward the gate whereI was standing. I didn't know whether to stay or run, imagining thebalance wheel now happily rocking again. The load went past me down aramp to the front of the air terminal where the luggage was unloadedand placed in a long rack. I went with it. There was a flurry of ticket matching, hands grabbing for suitcases,and a general exodus on the part of my fellow passengers, too fast todetermine who had got the one with the bomb. Now all that was left wasthe attendant and I had two bags—my own battered veteran of years, anda fine new red overnight case, small enough to be the one. I lit a cigarette, reached out. Inside were a woman's things and—aclock. The escapement was clicking vigorously. I didn't moan this time. I just closed my eyes, stretched towardand grabbed the balance wheel I was getting to know like my own. Ientered into a union with it so strong that after I had reduced it toimmobility, it was like waking when I opened my eyes. <doc-sep>The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment Istared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presentedit to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and Iwas ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags withhis eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed ittoward me. Thanks, I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward theremaining bag. One left over, eh? Yeah. He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. Buthe was eying me with a well-why-don't-you-get-along? look. I said, What happens if nobody claims it? Take it inside. Why? He was getting too curious. Oh, I just wondered, that's all. I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entranceand put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurryingover. Cab? I shook my head. Just waiting. Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb. I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggageclaim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ranthrough my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfiedme. I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with aman named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussingsomething very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what couldI do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take thebag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able tolive with myself. No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—untilwhat? A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out ofthe entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on apair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I couldtell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain thewhole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my ownbusiness. But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and startedacross the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag. ButI didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claimcounter out of the side of my eye. The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the rampto the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I wentinside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bagon the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. Theclerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room. I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. Howmany minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to thecounter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. Ihad to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop theclock again. Can I help you? the clerk asked. No. I'm waiting for someone. I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against thecounter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach thedevice, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheelescaped my grasp. Do you have my suitcase? I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stoodthere looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right handshe had a green baggage claim check. The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnightcase and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it. Just a moment, I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurryingafter her. <doc-sep>At her side and a little ahead of her, I said, Listen to me. She looked annoyed and increased her stride toward the door. It's a matter of life or death, I said. I wanted to wrest the bagfrom her and hurl it out through the doorway into the street, but Irestrained myself. She stopped and stared. I noticed a short, fat man in a rumpledsuitcoat and unpressed pants staring, too. Ignoring him, I said,Please put the bag down. Over there. I indicated a spot beside atelephone booth where it would be out of the way. She didn't move. She just said, Why? For God's sake! I took the case. She offered no resistance. I put herbag and mine next to the booth. When I turned around she was standingthere looking at me as if I had gone out of my mind. Her eyes were blueand brown-flecked, very pretty eyes, and my thought at the moment was,I'm glad the bomb didn't go off; these eyes wouldn't be looking at meor anything else right now if it had. I've got to talk to you. It's very important. The girl said, Why? I was beginning to think it was the only word sheknew. At the same time I was wondering why anyone would want to killsomeone so lovely. I'll explain in a moment. Please stand right here while I make atelephone call. I moved toward the phone booth, paused and said, Anddon't ask me why. She gave me a speculative look. I must not have seemed a complete idiot because she said, All right,but— I didn't listen for the rest. I went into the booth, closed the door,pretended to drop a coin and dial a number. But all the time I was inthere, I was reaching out through the glass for the clock. At thisrange it wasn't difficult to stop the balance wheel. Just the same, when I came out I was wringing wet. Now will you please tell me what this is all about? she said stiffly. Gladly. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I'll explain. She glanced at the bags. I told her they'd be all right. We followedthe short, fat man into the coffee shop. Over coffee I explained it all to her, how I had this extrasensoryability, how she was the first person I had ever revealed it to, andhow I had discovered what was in her overnight bag. During the telling, her untouched coffee grew a skin, her face grewpale, her eyes grew less curious and more troubled. There were tearsthere when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag. Joe did, she said in a toneless voice, not looking at me any more butstaring vacantly across the room. Joe put it there. Behind her eyesshe was reliving some recent scene. Who is Joe? My husband. I thought she was going to really bawl, but she gotcontrol again. This trip was his idea, my coming down here to visit mysister. Her smile was bleak. I see now why he wanted to put in thosebooks. I'd finished packing and was in the bathroom. He said he'd putin some books we'd both finished reading—for my sister. That's when hemust have put the—put it in there. I said gently, Why would he want to do a thing like that? I don't know. She shook her head. I just don't know. And she wasclose to bawling again. Then she recovered and said, I'm not sure Iwant to know. I admired her for saying it. Joe must have been crazy. It's all right now? she asked. I nodded. As long as we don't move it. I told her I didn't know how much more time there was, that I'd beenthinking it over and that the only way out seemed to be to tell theairport policeman. After I explained it to her, the girl—she said hername was Julia Claremont—agreed to tell him she thought there was abomb in her bag, that she had noticed a ticking and had become worriedbecause she knew she hadn't packed a clock. It wasn't good, but itwould have to do. We've got to get it deactivated, I said, watching the fat man pay forhis coffee and leave. The sooner the better. <doc-sep>I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her.I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the otherpeople had. She said she had called her sister and the phone was busyfor a long while. She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried.She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab. She smileda little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was allfor me. That's where I was going when you caught up with me. It had become a very nice day. But the bottom dropped out of it againwhen we reached the lobby. The two bags weren't there. I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap. See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old batteredsuitcase? Bag? Suitcase? he mumbled. Then he became excited. Why, a man juststepped out of here— He turned to look down the street. That's him. The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry. Hey! I shouted, starting toward him. The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He cameabreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the doorand threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in. The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time Ireached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, thenwalked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with theredcap, who said, That man steal them suitcases? That he did, I said. Just then the airport policeman started across the street from theparking lot. Redcap said, Better tell him about it. The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, We'd better getover to the office. But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distantshattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard. Jets, the redcap said, eying the sky. I don't know, the policeman said. Didn't sound much like a jet tome. We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupein the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. Thatwas all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia wasthinking. She said, About those bags, and looked at me. The officer said, Yes, miss? I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it. I feel the same way, I said. Would it be all right if we didn'tbother to report it? Well, the policeman said, I can't make you report it. I'd rather not then, Julia said. She turned to me. I'd like someair. Can't we walk a little? Sure, I said. We started down the street, her arm in mine, as the air began to fillwith the distant sounds of sirens. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Q3. Why is the protagonist reluctant to reveal his extraordinary ability?

The protagonist finds out about his extraordinary ability at an early age and quickly finds out that it is better to keep this information to himself. One incident that drove this message home occured in the fourth grade with his teacher, Miss Winters. At the time, the protagonist was sentenced to eat lunch with her as a minor punishment. After the lunch period was over, Miss Winters found herself looking for her favorite mechanical pencil, asking the class if anyone had seen it while casting a suspicious eye at the protagonist. Aiming to maintain his innocence and help out his teacher, the protagonist used his ability to find the pencil - in Miss Winters’ purse all along - and let her know. Instead, he was rewarded with a note sent home. Ever since then, he found it to be safer to keep his ability a secret. Despite his curiosities about other potential extraordinary individuals, he recognizes that revealing any information gained from his ability would only cast suspicion upon himself from the authorities. For example, had the protagonist immediately alerted a flight attendant or the authorities about a bomb in one of the luggages the moment he discovered it on the plane, intrusive questions about how he knew or suspicions about him being the one to plant it were highly likely to arise.

Q4. Describe the setting(s) of the story. Why is it important? [SEP] <s> Nuts to wild talents! Mine was no satisfaction, never earned me a penny—and now it had me fighting for my life in ... THE LITTLE RED BAG By JERRY SOHL [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] About an hour out of San Francisco on the flight to Los Angeles, I madethe discovery. I had finished reading the Chronicle , folded and putit beside me, turned and looked out the window, expecting to see theSan Joaquin Valley but finding only a sea of clouds instead. So Ireturned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffedgray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seatsbefore me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde. I had seen her in the concourse and at the gate, a shapely thing. Nowshe had crossed her legs and I was privileged to view a trim ankle andcalf, and her profile as she stared moodily across the aisle and out awindow where there was nothing to see. I slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, atogetherness-type-magazine reader. Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing Ishould be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angelesfor, and not wanting to. So I started going through the purse of the woman next to me. Perhapsthat sounds bad. It wasn't. I'd been doing it for years and nobody evercomplained. It started when I was a kid, this business of being able to explorethe insides of things like purses and sealed boxes and locked drawersand—well, human beings. But human beings aren't worth the trouble.It's like swimming through spaghetti. And I've got to stay away fromelectric wires. They hurt. Now don't ask me how they hurt. Maybe you think it's fun. For the most part, it really isn't. I alwaysknew what was in Christmas presents before I unwrapped them, andtherefore Christmas was always spoiled for me as a kid. I can't feelthe color of anything, just its consistency. An apple senses about thesame as a potato, except for the core and the stem. I can't even tellif there's writing on a piece of paper. So you see it isn't much. Justthe feel of shapes, the hardnesses and softnesses. But I've learned tobecome pretty good at guessing. Like this woman next to me. She had a short, cylindrical metal objectin her purse with waxlike stuff inside it—a lipstick. A round, hardobject with dust inside—a compact. Handkerchief, chewing gum, a smallbook, probably an address book, money in a change purse—a few billsand coins. Not much else. I was a little disappointed. I've run across a gun or two in my time.But I never say anything. <doc-sep>I learned the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut in the fourth grade whenMiss Winters, a stern, white-haired disciplinarian, ordered me to eatmy sack lunch in the classroom with her instead of outside with someof the other kids. This was the punishment for some minor infraction.Lunchtime was nearly over and we'd both finished eating; she said she'dbe gone for a few moments and that I was to erase the blackboard duringher absence, which I dutifully did. Class had hardly resumed when she started looking around the desk forher favorite mechanical pencil, asking if any of us had seen it, andlooking straight at me. I didn't want her to think I had taken it whileshe was out of the room, so I probed the contents of her purse, whichshe always kept in the upper right drawer of her desk. It's in your purse, I blurted out. I was sent home with a stinging note. Since then I've kept quiet. At one time I assumed everybody was ableto sense. I've known better for years. Still, I wonder how many otherpeople are as close-mouthed about their special gift as I am about mine. I used to think that some day I'd make a lot of money out of it, buthow? I can't read thoughts. I can't even be sure what some of thethings I sense in probing really are. But I've learned to move things. Ever so little. A piece of paper. Afeather. Once I stopped one of those little glass-enclosed light orheat-powered devices with vanes you see now and then in a jeweler'swindow. And I can stop clocks. Take this morning, for example. I had set my alarm for five-thirtybecause I had to catch the seven o'clock plane at San FranciscoInternational Airport. This being earlier than I usually get up, itseems all I did during the night was feel my way past the escapementand balance wheel to see where the notch for the alarm was. The lasttime I did it there was just the merest fraction of an inch between thepawl and the notch. So I sighed and moved to the balance wheel and itsdelicate ribbon of spiraling steel. I hung onto the wheel, exertinginfluence to decrease the restoring torque. The wheel slowed down until there was no more ticking. It took quitea bit of effort, as it always does, but I did it, as I usually do. Ican't stand the alarm. When I first learned to do this, I thought I had it made. I even wentto Las Vegas to try my hand, so to speak, with the ratchets and pawlsand cams and springs on the slot machines. But there's nothing delicateabout a slot machine, and the spring tensions are too strong. I droppedquite a lot of nickels before I finally gave up. So I'm stuck with a talent I've found little real use for. Except thatit amuses me. Sometimes. Not like this time on the plane. The woman beside me stirred, sat up suddenly and looked across me outthe window. Where are we? she asked in a surprised voice. I told herwe were probably a little north of Bakersfield. She said, Oh, glancedat her wristwatch and sank back again. Soon the stewardesses would bring coffee and doughnuts around, so Icontented myself with looking at the clouds and trying to think aboutAmos Magaffey, who was purchasing agent for a Los Angeles amusementchain, and how I was going to convince him our printing prices weremaybe a little higher but the quality and service were better. My mindwandered below where I was sitting, idly moving from one piece ofluggage to another, looking for my beat-up suitcase. I went throughslips and slippers, lingerie and laundry, a jig saw puzzle and aukulele. I never did find my suitcase because I found the bomb first. The bomb was in a small bag—a woman's bag judging by the soft,flimsy things you'd never find in a man's—and I didn't know it was abomb right away. I thought it was just a clock, one of those small,quiet alarms. I was going to pass it by and go on, but what held mewas that something was taped to it. By the feel, I knew it must beelectrician's tape. Interested and curious, I explored the clock moreclosely, found two wires. One went to a battery and the other to hardround cylinders taped together. The hairs stood up at the base of myneck when I suddenly realized what it was. The clock's balance wheel was rocking merrily. Quickly I went up pastthe train of gears to the alarm wheel. If this was anything like my ownalarm clock, this one had something like ten minutes to go. It was forty minutes to Burbank and Lockheed Air Terminal. My mind was churning when I turned from the window to look aroundat the unconcerned passengers, the woman at my side asleep again. Ithought: Which one of these.... No, none of them would know it wasthere. I glanced out the window again; clouds were still in the way.We'd be leaving the valley for the mountain range north of Los Angelessoon, if we hadn't left it already. No place to land the plane there. But of course that had been the plan! My heart was beating in jackhammer rhythm; my mouth was dry and my mindwas numb. Tell somebody about the bomb before it's too late! No, they'dthink I put it there. Besides, what good would it do? There would bepanic and they'd never get the plane down in time—if they believed me. Sir. My head jerked around. The stewardess stood in the aisle,smiling, extending a tray to me, a brown plastic tray bearing a smallpaper cup of tomato juice, a cup of coffee, a cellophane-wrappeddoughnut, paper spoon, sugar and dehydrated cream envelopes, and anapkin. I goggled at her, managed to croak, No, thanks. She gave me an oddlook and moved along. My seatmate had accepted hers and was tearing atthe cellophane. I couldn't bear to watch her. I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spenta frantic moment before I found the bag again. I had to stop thatbalance wheel, just as I stopped my alarm clock every morning. I triedto close everything off—the throb of engines, the rush of air, thewoman sipping coffee noisily beside me—and I went into the clock andsurrounded the seesawing wheel. When it went forward, I pulled it back;when it went back, I pulled it forward. I struggled with it, and it waslike trying to work with greasy hands, and I was afraid I wasn't goingto be able to stop it. Then, little by little, it started to slow its beat. But I could notafford to relax. I pushed and pulled and didn't dare release my holduntil it came to a dead stop. Anything the matter? My eyelids flew open and I looked into the eyes of the woman next tome. There was sugar from the doughnut around her mouth and she wasstill chewing. No, I said, letting out my breath. I'm all right. You were moaning, it sounded like. And you kept moving your head backand forth. Must have been dreaming, I said as I rang for the stewardess. Whenshe came I told her I'd take some of that coffee now. No, nothing else,just coffee. I didn't tell her how much I needed it. I sat there clammywith sweat until she returned. Coffee never tasted so good. <doc-sep>All right, so I had stopped the bomb's timer. My mind raced ahead tothe landing. When they unloaded the luggage, the balance wheel wouldstart again. I wouldn't be able to stay with it, keeping it still.I considered telling the authorities as soon as we landed, or maybecalling in ahead, but wouldn't that just bring suspicion, questions.Maybe I could convince them I could stop a clock—but not before thebomb exploded. And then what? My secret would be out and my life wouldbe changed. I'd be a man not to be trusted, a prying man, a manliterally with gimlet eyes. Mountain crags jutted through the clouds. We were in the range north ofthe city. Here and there were clear spots and I could see roads below,but there were also clouds far above us. It was very beautiful, but itwas also very bumpy, and we started to slip and slide. To my horror I found that the balance wheel was rocking again. Closingmy eyes and gritting my teeth, I forced my senses to the wheel, tuggingand pulling and shoving and pushing until it finally stopped. A jab in the shoulder. I jumped, startled. Your cup, my seat partner said, pointing. I looked down at the coffee cup I had crushed in my hands. Then Ilooked up into the eyes of the stewardess. I handed it to her. She tookit without a word and went away. Were you really asleep that time? Not really, I said. I was tempted to tell the woman I was subject tofits, but I didn't. It was only a few minutes to landing, but they became the longestminutes of my life as time after time I stopped the rocking wheel whenthe plane dipped and bumped to a landing. Leaving the apron with the other passengers, I tried to walk asunconcernedly as they through the exit gate. I would have liked walkingthrough the terminal and out the entrance and away, but I could not. Ihad my suitcase to get, for one thing. The damned bomb was the other.So I strolled out into the concourse again to look at the plane andwatch the baggagemen at work, transferring the luggage to two airfieldcarts. They weren't as careful as I would have been. It was impossible to tell from this distance just which bag containedthe bomb; I could hardly identify my own scarred suitcase. Theassortment of bags—a strange conglomeration of sizes and colors—waspacked in some places six deep, and it rolled toward the gate whereI was standing. I didn't know whether to stay or run, imagining thebalance wheel now happily rocking again. The load went past me down aramp to the front of the air terminal where the luggage was unloadedand placed in a long rack. I went with it. There was a flurry of ticket matching, hands grabbing for suitcases,and a general exodus on the part of my fellow passengers, too fast todetermine who had got the one with the bomb. Now all that was left wasthe attendant and I had two bags—my own battered veteran of years, anda fine new red overnight case, small enough to be the one. I lit a cigarette, reached out. Inside were a woman's things and—aclock. The escapement was clicking vigorously. I didn't moan this time. I just closed my eyes, stretched towardand grabbed the balance wheel I was getting to know like my own. Ientered into a union with it so strong that after I had reduced it toimmobility, it was like waking when I opened my eyes. <doc-sep>The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment Istared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presentedit to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and Iwas ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags withhis eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed ittoward me. Thanks, I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward theremaining bag. One left over, eh? Yeah. He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. Buthe was eying me with a well-why-don't-you-get-along? look. I said, What happens if nobody claims it? Take it inside. Why? He was getting too curious. Oh, I just wondered, that's all. I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entranceand put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurryingover. Cab? I shook my head. Just waiting. Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb. I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggageclaim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ranthrough my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfiedme. I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with aman named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussingsomething very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what couldI do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take thebag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able tolive with myself. No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—untilwhat? A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out ofthe entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on apair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I couldtell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain thewhole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my ownbusiness. But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and startedacross the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag. ButI didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claimcounter out of the side of my eye. The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the rampto the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I wentinside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bagon the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. Theclerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room. I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. Howmany minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to thecounter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. Ihad to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop theclock again. Can I help you? the clerk asked. No. I'm waiting for someone. I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against thecounter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach thedevice, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheelescaped my grasp. Do you have my suitcase? I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stoodthere looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right handshe had a green baggage claim check. The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnightcase and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it. Just a moment, I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurryingafter her. <doc-sep>At her side and a little ahead of her, I said, Listen to me. She looked annoyed and increased her stride toward the door. It's a matter of life or death, I said. I wanted to wrest the bagfrom her and hurl it out through the doorway into the street, but Irestrained myself. She stopped and stared. I noticed a short, fat man in a rumpledsuitcoat and unpressed pants staring, too. Ignoring him, I said,Please put the bag down. Over there. I indicated a spot beside atelephone booth where it would be out of the way. She didn't move. She just said, Why? For God's sake! I took the case. She offered no resistance. I put herbag and mine next to the booth. When I turned around she was standingthere looking at me as if I had gone out of my mind. Her eyes were blueand brown-flecked, very pretty eyes, and my thought at the moment was,I'm glad the bomb didn't go off; these eyes wouldn't be looking at meor anything else right now if it had. I've got to talk to you. It's very important. The girl said, Why? I was beginning to think it was the only word sheknew. At the same time I was wondering why anyone would want to killsomeone so lovely. I'll explain in a moment. Please stand right here while I make atelephone call. I moved toward the phone booth, paused and said, Anddon't ask me why. She gave me a speculative look. I must not have seemed a complete idiot because she said, All right,but— I didn't listen for the rest. I went into the booth, closed the door,pretended to drop a coin and dial a number. But all the time I was inthere, I was reaching out through the glass for the clock. At thisrange it wasn't difficult to stop the balance wheel. Just the same, when I came out I was wringing wet. Now will you please tell me what this is all about? she said stiffly. Gladly. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I'll explain. She glanced at the bags. I told her they'd be all right. We followedthe short, fat man into the coffee shop. Over coffee I explained it all to her, how I had this extrasensoryability, how she was the first person I had ever revealed it to, andhow I had discovered what was in her overnight bag. During the telling, her untouched coffee grew a skin, her face grewpale, her eyes grew less curious and more troubled. There were tearsthere when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag. Joe did, she said in a toneless voice, not looking at me any more butstaring vacantly across the room. Joe put it there. Behind her eyesshe was reliving some recent scene. Who is Joe? My husband. I thought she was going to really bawl, but she gotcontrol again. This trip was his idea, my coming down here to visit mysister. Her smile was bleak. I see now why he wanted to put in thosebooks. I'd finished packing and was in the bathroom. He said he'd putin some books we'd both finished reading—for my sister. That's when hemust have put the—put it in there. I said gently, Why would he want to do a thing like that? I don't know. She shook her head. I just don't know. And she wasclose to bawling again. Then she recovered and said, I'm not sure Iwant to know. I admired her for saying it. Joe must have been crazy. It's all right now? she asked. I nodded. As long as we don't move it. I told her I didn't know how much more time there was, that I'd beenthinking it over and that the only way out seemed to be to tell theairport policeman. After I explained it to her, the girl—she said hername was Julia Claremont—agreed to tell him she thought there was abomb in her bag, that she had noticed a ticking and had become worriedbecause she knew she hadn't packed a clock. It wasn't good, but itwould have to do. We've got to get it deactivated, I said, watching the fat man pay forhis coffee and leave. The sooner the better. <doc-sep>I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her.I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the otherpeople had. She said she had called her sister and the phone was busyfor a long while. She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried.She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab. She smileda little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was allfor me. That's where I was going when you caught up with me. It had become a very nice day. But the bottom dropped out of it againwhen we reached the lobby. The two bags weren't there. I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap. See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old batteredsuitcase? Bag? Suitcase? he mumbled. Then he became excited. Why, a man juststepped out of here— He turned to look down the street. That's him. The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry. Hey! I shouted, starting toward him. The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He cameabreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the doorand threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in. The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time Ireached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, thenwalked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with theredcap, who said, That man steal them suitcases? That he did, I said. Just then the airport policeman started across the street from theparking lot. Redcap said, Better tell him about it. The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, We'd better getover to the office. But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distantshattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard. Jets, the redcap said, eying the sky. I don't know, the policeman said. Didn't sound much like a jet tome. We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupein the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. Thatwas all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia wasthinking. She said, About those bags, and looked at me. The officer said, Yes, miss? I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it. I feel the same way, I said. Would it be all right if we didn'tbother to report it? Well, the policeman said, I can't make you report it. I'd rather not then, Julia said. She turned to me. I'd like someair. Can't we walk a little? Sure, I said. We started down the street, her arm in mine, as the air began to fillwith the distant sounds of sirens. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Q4. Describe the setting(s) of the story. Why is it important?

This story has two settings: first, on an airplane from San Francisco to Los Angeles and second, at the Los Angeles airport in the baggage claim and arrivals terminal. The first setting - on the airplane mid flight - is highly important to the story because it is here that the protagonist discovered the bomb in the luggage. Not only that, he discovers that bomb is on a countdown with 10 minutes remaining before detonation while the flight still has 40 minutes before arrival. It is due to this fact that the protagonist utilizes his time manipulation ability to stop the clock successfully. In the second setting, the tensions in this story continue to rise. Despite the protagonist successfully stopping the clock in the air, it appears to continue on the ground. With both the anticipation of watching to see who picks up the little red bag and dodging suspicions from the airport policeman and workers, we can imagine the hectic and panicked energy that sometimes appears in baggage claims. Additionally, an airport is filled with many people arriving and departing, which adds to the pressure the protagonist is facing in dealing with deactivating the bomb before anyone gets hurt.

What is the relationship between the protagonist and authority figures like the airport policeman? [SEP] <s> Nuts to wild talents! Mine was no satisfaction, never earned me a penny—and now it had me fighting for my life in ... THE LITTLE RED BAG By JERRY SOHL [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] About an hour out of San Francisco on the flight to Los Angeles, I madethe discovery. I had finished reading the Chronicle , folded and putit beside me, turned and looked out the window, expecting to see theSan Joaquin Valley but finding only a sea of clouds instead. So Ireturned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffedgray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seatsbefore me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde. I had seen her in the concourse and at the gate, a shapely thing. Nowshe had crossed her legs and I was privileged to view a trim ankle andcalf, and her profile as she stared moodily across the aisle and out awindow where there was nothing to see. I slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, atogetherness-type-magazine reader. Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing Ishould be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angelesfor, and not wanting to. So I started going through the purse of the woman next to me. Perhapsthat sounds bad. It wasn't. I'd been doing it for years and nobody evercomplained. It started when I was a kid, this business of being able to explorethe insides of things like purses and sealed boxes and locked drawersand—well, human beings. But human beings aren't worth the trouble.It's like swimming through spaghetti. And I've got to stay away fromelectric wires. They hurt. Now don't ask me how they hurt. Maybe you think it's fun. For the most part, it really isn't. I alwaysknew what was in Christmas presents before I unwrapped them, andtherefore Christmas was always spoiled for me as a kid. I can't feelthe color of anything, just its consistency. An apple senses about thesame as a potato, except for the core and the stem. I can't even tellif there's writing on a piece of paper. So you see it isn't much. Justthe feel of shapes, the hardnesses and softnesses. But I've learned tobecome pretty good at guessing. Like this woman next to me. She had a short, cylindrical metal objectin her purse with waxlike stuff inside it—a lipstick. A round, hardobject with dust inside—a compact. Handkerchief, chewing gum, a smallbook, probably an address book, money in a change purse—a few billsand coins. Not much else. I was a little disappointed. I've run across a gun or two in my time.But I never say anything. <doc-sep>I learned the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut in the fourth grade whenMiss Winters, a stern, white-haired disciplinarian, ordered me to eatmy sack lunch in the classroom with her instead of outside with someof the other kids. This was the punishment for some minor infraction.Lunchtime was nearly over and we'd both finished eating; she said she'dbe gone for a few moments and that I was to erase the blackboard duringher absence, which I dutifully did. Class had hardly resumed when she started looking around the desk forher favorite mechanical pencil, asking if any of us had seen it, andlooking straight at me. I didn't want her to think I had taken it whileshe was out of the room, so I probed the contents of her purse, whichshe always kept in the upper right drawer of her desk. It's in your purse, I blurted out. I was sent home with a stinging note. Since then I've kept quiet. At one time I assumed everybody was ableto sense. I've known better for years. Still, I wonder how many otherpeople are as close-mouthed about their special gift as I am about mine. I used to think that some day I'd make a lot of money out of it, buthow? I can't read thoughts. I can't even be sure what some of thethings I sense in probing really are. But I've learned to move things. Ever so little. A piece of paper. Afeather. Once I stopped one of those little glass-enclosed light orheat-powered devices with vanes you see now and then in a jeweler'swindow. And I can stop clocks. Take this morning, for example. I had set my alarm for five-thirtybecause I had to catch the seven o'clock plane at San FranciscoInternational Airport. This being earlier than I usually get up, itseems all I did during the night was feel my way past the escapementand balance wheel to see where the notch for the alarm was. The lasttime I did it there was just the merest fraction of an inch between thepawl and the notch. So I sighed and moved to the balance wheel and itsdelicate ribbon of spiraling steel. I hung onto the wheel, exertinginfluence to decrease the restoring torque. The wheel slowed down until there was no more ticking. It took quitea bit of effort, as it always does, but I did it, as I usually do. Ican't stand the alarm. When I first learned to do this, I thought I had it made. I even wentto Las Vegas to try my hand, so to speak, with the ratchets and pawlsand cams and springs on the slot machines. But there's nothing delicateabout a slot machine, and the spring tensions are too strong. I droppedquite a lot of nickels before I finally gave up. So I'm stuck with a talent I've found little real use for. Except thatit amuses me. Sometimes. Not like this time on the plane. The woman beside me stirred, sat up suddenly and looked across me outthe window. Where are we? she asked in a surprised voice. I told herwe were probably a little north of Bakersfield. She said, Oh, glancedat her wristwatch and sank back again. Soon the stewardesses would bring coffee and doughnuts around, so Icontented myself with looking at the clouds and trying to think aboutAmos Magaffey, who was purchasing agent for a Los Angeles amusementchain, and how I was going to convince him our printing prices weremaybe a little higher but the quality and service were better. My mindwandered below where I was sitting, idly moving from one piece ofluggage to another, looking for my beat-up suitcase. I went throughslips and slippers, lingerie and laundry, a jig saw puzzle and aukulele. I never did find my suitcase because I found the bomb first. The bomb was in a small bag—a woman's bag judging by the soft,flimsy things you'd never find in a man's—and I didn't know it was abomb right away. I thought it was just a clock, one of those small,quiet alarms. I was going to pass it by and go on, but what held mewas that something was taped to it. By the feel, I knew it must beelectrician's tape. Interested and curious, I explored the clock moreclosely, found two wires. One went to a battery and the other to hardround cylinders taped together. The hairs stood up at the base of myneck when I suddenly realized what it was. The clock's balance wheel was rocking merrily. Quickly I went up pastthe train of gears to the alarm wheel. If this was anything like my ownalarm clock, this one had something like ten minutes to go. It was forty minutes to Burbank and Lockheed Air Terminal. My mind was churning when I turned from the window to look aroundat the unconcerned passengers, the woman at my side asleep again. Ithought: Which one of these.... No, none of them would know it wasthere. I glanced out the window again; clouds were still in the way.We'd be leaving the valley for the mountain range north of Los Angelessoon, if we hadn't left it already. No place to land the plane there. But of course that had been the plan! My heart was beating in jackhammer rhythm; my mouth was dry and my mindwas numb. Tell somebody about the bomb before it's too late! No, they'dthink I put it there. Besides, what good would it do? There would bepanic and they'd never get the plane down in time—if they believed me. Sir. My head jerked around. The stewardess stood in the aisle,smiling, extending a tray to me, a brown plastic tray bearing a smallpaper cup of tomato juice, a cup of coffee, a cellophane-wrappeddoughnut, paper spoon, sugar and dehydrated cream envelopes, and anapkin. I goggled at her, managed to croak, No, thanks. She gave me an oddlook and moved along. My seatmate had accepted hers and was tearing atthe cellophane. I couldn't bear to watch her. I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spenta frantic moment before I found the bag again. I had to stop thatbalance wheel, just as I stopped my alarm clock every morning. I triedto close everything off—the throb of engines, the rush of air, thewoman sipping coffee noisily beside me—and I went into the clock andsurrounded the seesawing wheel. When it went forward, I pulled it back;when it went back, I pulled it forward. I struggled with it, and it waslike trying to work with greasy hands, and I was afraid I wasn't goingto be able to stop it. Then, little by little, it started to slow its beat. But I could notafford to relax. I pushed and pulled and didn't dare release my holduntil it came to a dead stop. Anything the matter? My eyelids flew open and I looked into the eyes of the woman next tome. There was sugar from the doughnut around her mouth and she wasstill chewing. No, I said, letting out my breath. I'm all right. You were moaning, it sounded like. And you kept moving your head backand forth. Must have been dreaming, I said as I rang for the stewardess. Whenshe came I told her I'd take some of that coffee now. No, nothing else,just coffee. I didn't tell her how much I needed it. I sat there clammywith sweat until she returned. Coffee never tasted so good. <doc-sep>All right, so I had stopped the bomb's timer. My mind raced ahead tothe landing. When they unloaded the luggage, the balance wheel wouldstart again. I wouldn't be able to stay with it, keeping it still.I considered telling the authorities as soon as we landed, or maybecalling in ahead, but wouldn't that just bring suspicion, questions.Maybe I could convince them I could stop a clock—but not before thebomb exploded. And then what? My secret would be out and my life wouldbe changed. I'd be a man not to be trusted, a prying man, a manliterally with gimlet eyes. Mountain crags jutted through the clouds. We were in the range north ofthe city. Here and there were clear spots and I could see roads below,but there were also clouds far above us. It was very beautiful, but itwas also very bumpy, and we started to slip and slide. To my horror I found that the balance wheel was rocking again. Closingmy eyes and gritting my teeth, I forced my senses to the wheel, tuggingand pulling and shoving and pushing until it finally stopped. A jab in the shoulder. I jumped, startled. Your cup, my seat partner said, pointing. I looked down at the coffee cup I had crushed in my hands. Then Ilooked up into the eyes of the stewardess. I handed it to her. She tookit without a word and went away. Were you really asleep that time? Not really, I said. I was tempted to tell the woman I was subject tofits, but I didn't. It was only a few minutes to landing, but they became the longestminutes of my life as time after time I stopped the rocking wheel whenthe plane dipped and bumped to a landing. Leaving the apron with the other passengers, I tried to walk asunconcernedly as they through the exit gate. I would have liked walkingthrough the terminal and out the entrance and away, but I could not. Ihad my suitcase to get, for one thing. The damned bomb was the other.So I strolled out into the concourse again to look at the plane andwatch the baggagemen at work, transferring the luggage to two airfieldcarts. They weren't as careful as I would have been. It was impossible to tell from this distance just which bag containedthe bomb; I could hardly identify my own scarred suitcase. Theassortment of bags—a strange conglomeration of sizes and colors—waspacked in some places six deep, and it rolled toward the gate whereI was standing. I didn't know whether to stay or run, imagining thebalance wheel now happily rocking again. The load went past me down aramp to the front of the air terminal where the luggage was unloadedand placed in a long rack. I went with it. There was a flurry of ticket matching, hands grabbing for suitcases,and a general exodus on the part of my fellow passengers, too fast todetermine who had got the one with the bomb. Now all that was left wasthe attendant and I had two bags—my own battered veteran of years, anda fine new red overnight case, small enough to be the one. I lit a cigarette, reached out. Inside were a woman's things and—aclock. The escapement was clicking vigorously. I didn't moan this time. I just closed my eyes, stretched towardand grabbed the balance wheel I was getting to know like my own. Ientered into a union with it so strong that after I had reduced it toimmobility, it was like waking when I opened my eyes. <doc-sep>The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment Istared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presentedit to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and Iwas ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags withhis eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed ittoward me. Thanks, I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward theremaining bag. One left over, eh? Yeah. He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. Buthe was eying me with a well-why-don't-you-get-along? look. I said, What happens if nobody claims it? Take it inside. Why? He was getting too curious. Oh, I just wondered, that's all. I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entranceand put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurryingover. Cab? I shook my head. Just waiting. Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb. I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggageclaim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ranthrough my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfiedme. I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with aman named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussingsomething very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what couldI do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take thebag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able tolive with myself. No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—untilwhat? A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out ofthe entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on apair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I couldtell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain thewhole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my ownbusiness. But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and startedacross the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag. ButI didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claimcounter out of the side of my eye. The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the rampto the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I wentinside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bagon the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. Theclerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room. I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. Howmany minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to thecounter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. Ihad to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop theclock again. Can I help you? the clerk asked. No. I'm waiting for someone. I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against thecounter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach thedevice, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheelescaped my grasp. Do you have my suitcase? I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stoodthere looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right handshe had a green baggage claim check. The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnightcase and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it. Just a moment, I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurryingafter her. <doc-sep>At her side and a little ahead of her, I said, Listen to me. She looked annoyed and increased her stride toward the door. It's a matter of life or death, I said. I wanted to wrest the bagfrom her and hurl it out through the doorway into the street, but Irestrained myself. She stopped and stared. I noticed a short, fat man in a rumpledsuitcoat and unpressed pants staring, too. Ignoring him, I said,Please put the bag down. Over there. I indicated a spot beside atelephone booth where it would be out of the way. She didn't move. She just said, Why? For God's sake! I took the case. She offered no resistance. I put herbag and mine next to the booth. When I turned around she was standingthere looking at me as if I had gone out of my mind. Her eyes were blueand brown-flecked, very pretty eyes, and my thought at the moment was,I'm glad the bomb didn't go off; these eyes wouldn't be looking at meor anything else right now if it had. I've got to talk to you. It's very important. The girl said, Why? I was beginning to think it was the only word sheknew. At the same time I was wondering why anyone would want to killsomeone so lovely. I'll explain in a moment. Please stand right here while I make atelephone call. I moved toward the phone booth, paused and said, Anddon't ask me why. She gave me a speculative look. I must not have seemed a complete idiot because she said, All right,but— I didn't listen for the rest. I went into the booth, closed the door,pretended to drop a coin and dial a number. But all the time I was inthere, I was reaching out through the glass for the clock. At thisrange it wasn't difficult to stop the balance wheel. Just the same, when I came out I was wringing wet. Now will you please tell me what this is all about? she said stiffly. Gladly. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I'll explain. She glanced at the bags. I told her they'd be all right. We followedthe short, fat man into the coffee shop. Over coffee I explained it all to her, how I had this extrasensoryability, how she was the first person I had ever revealed it to, andhow I had discovered what was in her overnight bag. During the telling, her untouched coffee grew a skin, her face grewpale, her eyes grew less curious and more troubled. There were tearsthere when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag. Joe did, she said in a toneless voice, not looking at me any more butstaring vacantly across the room. Joe put it there. Behind her eyesshe was reliving some recent scene. Who is Joe? My husband. I thought she was going to really bawl, but she gotcontrol again. This trip was his idea, my coming down here to visit mysister. Her smile was bleak. I see now why he wanted to put in thosebooks. I'd finished packing and was in the bathroom. He said he'd putin some books we'd both finished reading—for my sister. That's when hemust have put the—put it in there. I said gently, Why would he want to do a thing like that? I don't know. She shook her head. I just don't know. And she wasclose to bawling again. Then she recovered and said, I'm not sure Iwant to know. I admired her for saying it. Joe must have been crazy. It's all right now? she asked. I nodded. As long as we don't move it. I told her I didn't know how much more time there was, that I'd beenthinking it over and that the only way out seemed to be to tell theairport policeman. After I explained it to her, the girl—she said hername was Julia Claremont—agreed to tell him she thought there was abomb in her bag, that she had noticed a ticking and had become worriedbecause she knew she hadn't packed a clock. It wasn't good, but itwould have to do. We've got to get it deactivated, I said, watching the fat man pay forhis coffee and leave. The sooner the better. <doc-sep>I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her.I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the otherpeople had. She said she had called her sister and the phone was busyfor a long while. She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried.She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab. She smileda little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was allfor me. That's where I was going when you caught up with me. It had become a very nice day. But the bottom dropped out of it againwhen we reached the lobby. The two bags weren't there. I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap. See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old batteredsuitcase? Bag? Suitcase? he mumbled. Then he became excited. Why, a man juststepped out of here— He turned to look down the street. That's him. The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry. Hey! I shouted, starting toward him. The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He cameabreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the doorand threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in. The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time Ireached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, thenwalked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with theredcap, who said, That man steal them suitcases? That he did, I said. Just then the airport policeman started across the street from theparking lot. Redcap said, Better tell him about it. The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, We'd better getover to the office. But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distantshattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard. Jets, the redcap said, eying the sky. I don't know, the policeman said. Didn't sound much like a jet tome. We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupein the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. Thatwas all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia wasthinking. She said, About those bags, and looked at me. The officer said, Yes, miss? I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it. I feel the same way, I said. Would it be all right if we didn'tbother to report it? Well, the policeman said, I can't make you report it. I'd rather not then, Julia said. She turned to me. I'd like someair. Can't we walk a little? Sure, I said. We started down the street, her arm in mine, as the air began to fillwith the distant sounds of sirens. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between the protagonist and authority figures like the airport policeman?

The protagonist’s relationship with authority figures - like the airport policeman in this story - is a double edged sword. On one hand, it is figures like the policeman who are the right figure to report his suspicions towards. They are the ones equipped with the knowledge and resources on how to deal with the bomb in the little red bag. More importantly, informing them is the right thing to do and would save the lives of everyone else at the airport. On the other hand, however, we can see that the protagonist has revealed that authority figures in the past often choose to cast suspicion upon him rather than appreciate the usefulness of the knowledge that comes about his ability. If the protagonist were to approach the policeman in a suspicious manner or reveal too much information about his know-how of the bomb, it is likely that they will suspect him to be the culprit and probe him on something he is unable to explain, and hence arrest him. The protagonist has to carefully consider the implications of either decision and try to optimize both the safety of others around him and his own. The protagonist chooses to inform the policeman of a suspicious baggage situation through the luggage’s owner, Julia Clarmeont, which would deflect any suspicion on himself. However, the bomb detonates before they are able to follow through with it.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> The Sense of Wonder By MILTON LESSER Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's going, how can they tell when it has arrived? Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown. If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim. Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport. If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it? Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls. In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars. Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending. Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache? Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too.... His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence. I'll go with you, Rikud told him. <doc-sep>A hardly perceptible purple glow pervaded the air in the room of thehealth-rays. Perhaps two score men lay about, naked, under the raytubes. Chuls stripped himself and selected the space under a vacanttube. Rikud, for his part, wanted to get back to the viewport and watchthe one new bright star. He had the distinct notion it was growinglarger every moment. He turned to go, but the door clicked shut and ametallic voice said. Fifteen minutes under the tubes, please. Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoyhim. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, whenhe wanted to do it? There was a strange thought, and Rikud's brainwhirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions andunsatisfactory answers. He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever gothurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurlhimself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had comeinto being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-beingagain, something which was as impalpable as air. Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no realauthority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt thatthere should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machinein the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who hadgoverned the world. They told you to do something and you did it, butthat was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You onlylistened to the buzzer. And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a termthat could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and theelders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The peoplehad decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, andthat it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They wereborn and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like littlecogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, buthe knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with thepeople against the elders, and it said the people had won. Now in the health room, Rikud felt a warmth in the rays. Grudgingly, hehad to admit to himself that it was not unpleasant. He could see thelook of easy contentment on Chuls' face as the rays fanned down uponhim, bathing his old body in a forgotten magic which, many generationsbefore Rikud's time, had negated the necessity for a knowledge ofmedicine. But when, in another ten years, Chuls would perish of oldage, the rays would no longer suffice. Nothing would, for Chuls. Rikudoften thought of his own death, still seventy-five years in the future,not without a sense of alarm. Yet old Chuls seemed heedless, with onlya decade to go. Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavythrough the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every timeRikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but itproved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he sawCrifer limp. But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer. <doc-sep>Now Crifer said, I've been reading again, Rikud. Yes? Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with thesmell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; itmeant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to thelibrary and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply satabout and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it. But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All thepeople ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and itwas always the same. Yes, said Crifer. I found a book about the stars. They're alsocalled astronomy, I think. This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on oneelbow. What did you find out? That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think. Well, where's the book? Rikud would read it tomorrow. I left it in the library. You can find several of them under'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymousterms. You know, Rikud said, sitting up now, the stars in the viewport arechanging. Changing? Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as hequestioned what it might mean in this particular case. Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than theothers. Astronomy says some stars are variable, Crifer offered, but Rikudknew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than hedid. Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. Variability, he toldthem, is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be. I'm only saying what I read in the book, Crifer protested mildly. Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words withoutmeaning. People grow old, Rikud suggested. A buzzer signified that his fifteen minutes under the rays were up, andChuls said, It's almost time for me to eat. Rikud frowned. Chuls hadn't even seen the connection between the twoconcepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago,but now it faded, and change and old were just two words. His own buzzer sounded a moment later, and it was with a strangefeeling of elation that he dressed and made his way back to theviewport. When he passed the door which led to the women's half of theworld, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman.He had been told about them and he had seen pictures, and he dimlyremembered his childhood among women. But his feelings had changed;this was different. Again there were inexplicable feelings—strangechannelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions. He shrugged and reserved the thought for later. He wanted to see thestars again. <doc-sep>The view had changed, and the strangeness of it made Rikud's pulsesleap with excitement. All the stars were paler now than before, andwhere Rikud had seen the one bright central star, he now saw a globe oflight, white with a tinge of blue in it, and so bright that it hurt hiseyes to look. Yes, hurt! Rikud looked and looked until his eyes teared and he had toturn away. Here was an unknown factor which the perfect world failedto control. But how could a star change into a blinking blue-whiteglobe—if, indeed, that was the star Rikud had seen earlier? Therewas that word change again. Didn't it have something to do with age?Rikud couldn't remember, and he suddenly wished he could read Crifer'sbook on astronomy, which meant the same as stars. Except that it wasvariable, which was like change, being tied up somehow with age. Presently Rikud became aware that his eyes were not tearing any longer,and he turned to look at the viewport. What he saw now was so new thathe couldn't at first accept it. Instead, he blinked and rubbed hiseyes, sure that the ball of blue-white fire somehow had damaged them.But the new view persisted. Of stars there were few, and of the blackness, almost nothing. Gone,too, was the burning globe. Something loomed there in the port, so hugethat it spread out over almost the entire surface. Something big andround, all grays and greens and browns, and something for which Rikudhad no name. A few moments more, and Rikud no longer could see the sphere. A sectionof it had expanded outward and assumed the rectangular shape of theviewport, and its size as well. It seemed neatly sheered down themiddle, so that on one side Rikud saw an expanse of brown and green,and on the other, blue. Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the worldhad ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regularintervals by a sharp booming. Change— Won't you eat, Rikud? Chuls called from somewhere down below. Damn the man, Rikud thought. Then aloud: Yes, I'll eat. Later. It's time.... Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently. But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had alwaysseen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps didnot exist in the viewport. Maybe it existed through the viewport. That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could seenothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, moreconfusing than ever. Chuls, he called, remembering, come here. I am here, said a voice at his elbow. Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud ofvapor. What do you see? Chuls looked. The viewport, of course. What else? Else? Nothing. Anger welled up inside Rikud. All right, he said, listen. What doyou hear? Broom, brroom, brrroom! Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting ofthe engines. I'm hungry, Rikud. The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the diningroom, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more. <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt. Rikud sat down hard. He blinked. The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. <doc-sep>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport. Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport? Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived. It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different. Then they've changed? No, merely different. Well, what about the viewport? It changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change? The stars come out at night. So there is a change from day to night! I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night? Once they shone all the time. Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable. <doc-sep>Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book onastronomy. He hadn't been reading too much lately. The voice of thereading machine had begun to bore him. He said, Well, variable or not,our whole perspective has changed. And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If onlythe man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed soobvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in thehealth-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through thevast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this alsowas purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. Butif everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how couldthey find the nature of that purpose? I will eat, Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery. Damn the man, all he did was eat! Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Becausehe was hungry. And Rikud, too, was hungry. Differently. <doc-sep>He had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, andnow, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, readingmachine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached thedoor. What's in here? he demanded. It's a door, I think, said Crifer. I know, but what's beyond it? Beyond it? Oh, you mean through the door. Yes. Well, Crifer scratched his head, I don't think anyone ever openedit. It's only a door. I will, said Rikud. You will what? Open it. Open the door and look inside. A long pause. Then, Can you do it? I think so. You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud. No— Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake ofbreath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,and Crifer said, Doors are variable, too, I think. Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the otherend of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine. He missed the beginning, but then: —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through thisdoor. The machinery in the next room is your protection against therigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you mayhave discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you havenot, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this shipis a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it ishuman-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will notpermit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, andto avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to bepermitted through this door— Rikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusingwords. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interestingthan that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to anothervoice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't. When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentlehumming, punctuated by a throb-throb-throb which sounded not unlikethe booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn'tblast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud'seyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs andgears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful becausethey shone with a luster unfamiliar to him. Odd, Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, Now there's a good word, butno one quite seems to know its meaning. Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there mightexist an endless succession of them, especially when the third oneopened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door. Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? Theviewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topographywas different. Then the garden extended even farther than he hadthought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds wayoff in the distance. And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put hishand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the newviewport. He began to turn the handle. Then he trembled. What would he do out in the garden? He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a sillythought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikudcouldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth feltdry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't. Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way backthrough the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finallythrough the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer. By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He didnot dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, andsweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at thegarden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he couldwalk and then might find himself in the garden. It was so big. <doc-sep>Three or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough totalk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at allinterested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope withthe situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variableand Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read thatbook on astronomy. Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. There are not that many doors inthe world, he said. The library has a door and there is a door to thewomen's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you throughthat. But there are no others. Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. Now, bythe world, there are two other doors! Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly. What are you doing that for? demanded Wilm, who was shorter even thanCrifer, but had no lame foot. Doing what? Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no troublehearing you. Maybe yelling will make him understand. Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.Why don't we go see? he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned. Well, I won't go, Chuls replied. There's no reason to go. If Rikudhas been imagining things, why should I? I imagined nothing. I'll show you— You'll show me nothing because I won't go. Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by whathe did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged atthe blouse. Stop that, said the older man, mildly. <doc-sep>Crifer hopped up and down. Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know whathe's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse. Stop that, repeated Chuls, his face reddening. Only if you'll go with me. Rikud was panting. Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some ofthem watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikudholding Chuls' blouse. I think I can do that, declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer'sshirt. Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, eachpartner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughedand some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done. A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls. Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, Time to retire. In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared histhroat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. Whatwould have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did thingspunctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with thebuzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it. What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing? This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the biggarden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because hecould huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone. <doc-sep>Rikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of themachinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gearsspinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then hebegan to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, hewas clearly an unauthorized person. He had heard the voice againupon entering the room. He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half aswide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires thatheld it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then heswung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbledunder his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm. Almost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were notcasual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikudsmashed everything in sight. When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the roomwas a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled inhis ears because now the throbbing had stopped. He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smallerviewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrainbeneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shoneclearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality. Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open thatdoor. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in thedarkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone. Whimpering, he fled. <doc-sep>All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer didnot sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went toeat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and thewhimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but thesmooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not runany more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food. Chuls said, over and over, I'm hungry. We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us, Wilm repliedconfidently. It won't any more, Rikud said. What won't? The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it. Crifer growled. I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a badthing you did, Rikud. It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and thestars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden therebeyond the viewport. That's ridiculous, Chuls said. Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. He broke the buzzer and no one caneat. I hate Rikud, I think. There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, Ihate Rikud. Then everyone was saying it. Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside withhim and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would havehad a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women'squarters. Did women eat? Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off afrond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe theplants in the viewport would even be better. We will not be hungry if we go outside, he said. We can eat there. We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken, Chuls said dully. Crifer shrilled, Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again. No, Rikud assured him. It won't. Then you broke it and I hate you, said Crifer. We should break you,too, to show you how it is to be broken. We must go outside—through the viewport. Rikud listened to the oddgurgling sound his stomach made. A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heardCrifer's voice. I have Rikud's head. The voice was nasty, hostile. Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he hadbroken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearerto understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud. The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.I hit him! I hit him! Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someonewas on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, andhe did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, Let usdo to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery. Rikud ran. In thedarkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were tooweak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawinghurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voicesand the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away. It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to runwas chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, andhow big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing himwere unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completelyand positively. He became sickly giddy thinking about it. But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he woulddie because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled andgrumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him. He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but thevoice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place ofmachinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, andhe thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heardCrifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage. Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch itwith his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet. He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him werecloser now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear thosebehind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were notfar away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted tobreak him. Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster oflow mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. Ifplants could live out there as they did within the world, then so couldpeople. Rikud and his people should . This was why the world had movedacross the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.But he was afraid. He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that hisfingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and fora long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside heheard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded onthe metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:There is Rikud on the floor! Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.Something small and brown scurried across the other side of theviewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideousred eyes. Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his facewas so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport thateveryone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of themachinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metalwhich he could see in the dim light through the open door. Where's the buzzer? he sobbed. I must find the buzzer. Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, You broke it. Youbroke it. And now we will break you— Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slippeddown against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footstepscame, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him. His head whirled and the viewport seemed to swim in a haze. Could itbe variable, as Crifer had suggested? He wondered if the scurryingbrown thing waited somewhere, and nausea struck at the pit of hisstomach. But if the plants could live out there and the scurrying thingcould live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness,then so could he live out there, and Crifer and all the others.... So tightly did he grip the handle that his fingers began to hurt. Andhis heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side ofhis neck. He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where theblue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the rowof mounds. <doc-sep>Crifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, andsomeone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kickedout and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved theweight of his body with all his strength against the door. It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth. The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. Hewalked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feelthe floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on thehorizon. It was all very beautiful. Near the ship, water that did not come from a machine gurgled acrossthe land, and Rikud lay down and drank. It was cool and good, and whenhe got up, Crifer and Wilm were outside the world, and some of theothers followed. They stood around for a long time before going to thewater to drink. Rikud sat down and tore off a piece of a plant, munching on it. It wasgood. Crifer picked his head up, from the water, his chin wet. Even feelingsare variable. I don't hate you now, Rikud. Rikud smiled, staring at the ship. People are variable, too, Crifer.That is, if those creatures coming from the ship are people. They're women, said Crifer. They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completelyhuman, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddlyexciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid. It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,frightening doors and women by appointment only. Rikud felt at home. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The story starts off with the main character, Rikud, watching space from a viewport that is located on what seems to be a spaceship. Rikud is part of a group of men that live on the spaceship under a strict set of unspoken rules. Rikud then connects with other characters named Chuls and Crifer while getting a bath of health-rays, an example of the high technology in the ship. After the stars in the viewport start changing, Rikud doubts the way of living that the men have taken. He starts to doubt the fact that they have a set span of years, and that they have to live separately from the women (even though he doesn't know what women are). When the view of the viewport changes to “gardens”, Rikud begins to question more and more, and ends up finding the machine room for the ship, as well as a control center that has another viewport. Unsuccessfully convincing the others to go outside with him, Rikud becomes enraged and breaks the machine room of the ship. After realizing that Rikud has messed up the buzzers that control the actions of the people, they begin to hurt Rikud and chase him through the ship. Rikud ends up opening the door that leads outside from the control room, and they discover a new world where they can live freely with the women.

What is the setting of the story? [SEP] <s> The Sense of Wonder By MILTON LESSER Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's going, how can they tell when it has arrived? Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown. If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim. Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport. If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it? Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls. In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars. Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending. Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache? Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too.... His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence. I'll go with you, Rikud told him. <doc-sep>A hardly perceptible purple glow pervaded the air in the room of thehealth-rays. Perhaps two score men lay about, naked, under the raytubes. Chuls stripped himself and selected the space under a vacanttube. Rikud, for his part, wanted to get back to the viewport and watchthe one new bright star. He had the distinct notion it was growinglarger every moment. He turned to go, but the door clicked shut and ametallic voice said. Fifteen minutes under the tubes, please. Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoyhim. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, whenhe wanted to do it? There was a strange thought, and Rikud's brainwhirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions andunsatisfactory answers. He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever gothurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurlhimself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had comeinto being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-beingagain, something which was as impalpable as air. Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no realauthority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt thatthere should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machinein the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who hadgoverned the world. They told you to do something and you did it, butthat was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You onlylistened to the buzzer. And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a termthat could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and theelders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The peoplehad decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, andthat it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They wereborn and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like littlecogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, buthe knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with thepeople against the elders, and it said the people had won. Now in the health room, Rikud felt a warmth in the rays. Grudgingly, hehad to admit to himself that it was not unpleasant. He could see thelook of easy contentment on Chuls' face as the rays fanned down uponhim, bathing his old body in a forgotten magic which, many generationsbefore Rikud's time, had negated the necessity for a knowledge ofmedicine. But when, in another ten years, Chuls would perish of oldage, the rays would no longer suffice. Nothing would, for Chuls. Rikudoften thought of his own death, still seventy-five years in the future,not without a sense of alarm. Yet old Chuls seemed heedless, with onlya decade to go. Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavythrough the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every timeRikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but itproved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he sawCrifer limp. But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer. <doc-sep>Now Crifer said, I've been reading again, Rikud. Yes? Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with thesmell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; itmeant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to thelibrary and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply satabout and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it. But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All thepeople ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and itwas always the same. Yes, said Crifer. I found a book about the stars. They're alsocalled astronomy, I think. This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on oneelbow. What did you find out? That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think. Well, where's the book? Rikud would read it tomorrow. I left it in the library. You can find several of them under'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymousterms. You know, Rikud said, sitting up now, the stars in the viewport arechanging. Changing? Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as hequestioned what it might mean in this particular case. Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than theothers. Astronomy says some stars are variable, Crifer offered, but Rikudknew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than hedid. Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. Variability, he toldthem, is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be. I'm only saying what I read in the book, Crifer protested mildly. Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words withoutmeaning. People grow old, Rikud suggested. A buzzer signified that his fifteen minutes under the rays were up, andChuls said, It's almost time for me to eat. Rikud frowned. Chuls hadn't even seen the connection between the twoconcepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago,but now it faded, and change and old were just two words. His own buzzer sounded a moment later, and it was with a strangefeeling of elation that he dressed and made his way back to theviewport. When he passed the door which led to the women's half of theworld, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman.He had been told about them and he had seen pictures, and he dimlyremembered his childhood among women. But his feelings had changed;this was different. Again there were inexplicable feelings—strangechannelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions. He shrugged and reserved the thought for later. He wanted to see thestars again. <doc-sep>The view had changed, and the strangeness of it made Rikud's pulsesleap with excitement. All the stars were paler now than before, andwhere Rikud had seen the one bright central star, he now saw a globe oflight, white with a tinge of blue in it, and so bright that it hurt hiseyes to look. Yes, hurt! Rikud looked and looked until his eyes teared and he had toturn away. Here was an unknown factor which the perfect world failedto control. But how could a star change into a blinking blue-whiteglobe—if, indeed, that was the star Rikud had seen earlier? Therewas that word change again. Didn't it have something to do with age?Rikud couldn't remember, and he suddenly wished he could read Crifer'sbook on astronomy, which meant the same as stars. Except that it wasvariable, which was like change, being tied up somehow with age. Presently Rikud became aware that his eyes were not tearing any longer,and he turned to look at the viewport. What he saw now was so new thathe couldn't at first accept it. Instead, he blinked and rubbed hiseyes, sure that the ball of blue-white fire somehow had damaged them.But the new view persisted. Of stars there were few, and of the blackness, almost nothing. Gone,too, was the burning globe. Something loomed there in the port, so hugethat it spread out over almost the entire surface. Something big andround, all grays and greens and browns, and something for which Rikudhad no name. A few moments more, and Rikud no longer could see the sphere. A sectionof it had expanded outward and assumed the rectangular shape of theviewport, and its size as well. It seemed neatly sheered down themiddle, so that on one side Rikud saw an expanse of brown and green,and on the other, blue. Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the worldhad ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regularintervals by a sharp booming. Change— Won't you eat, Rikud? Chuls called from somewhere down below. Damn the man, Rikud thought. Then aloud: Yes, I'll eat. Later. It's time.... Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently. But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had alwaysseen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps didnot exist in the viewport. Maybe it existed through the viewport. That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could seenothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, moreconfusing than ever. Chuls, he called, remembering, come here. I am here, said a voice at his elbow. Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud ofvapor. What do you see? Chuls looked. The viewport, of course. What else? Else? Nothing. Anger welled up inside Rikud. All right, he said, listen. What doyou hear? Broom, brroom, brrroom! Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting ofthe engines. I'm hungry, Rikud. The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the diningroom, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more. <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt. Rikud sat down hard. He blinked. The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. <doc-sep>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport. Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport? Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived. It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different. Then they've changed? No, merely different. Well, what about the viewport? It changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change? The stars come out at night. So there is a change from day to night! I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night? Once they shone all the time. Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable. <doc-sep>Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book onastronomy. He hadn't been reading too much lately. The voice of thereading machine had begun to bore him. He said, Well, variable or not,our whole perspective has changed. And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If onlythe man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed soobvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in thehealth-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through thevast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this alsowas purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. Butif everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how couldthey find the nature of that purpose? I will eat, Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery. Damn the man, all he did was eat! Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Becausehe was hungry. And Rikud, too, was hungry. Differently. <doc-sep>He had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, andnow, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, readingmachine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached thedoor. What's in here? he demanded. It's a door, I think, said Crifer. I know, but what's beyond it? Beyond it? Oh, you mean through the door. Yes. Well, Crifer scratched his head, I don't think anyone ever openedit. It's only a door. I will, said Rikud. You will what? Open it. Open the door and look inside. A long pause. Then, Can you do it? I think so. You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud. No— Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake ofbreath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,and Crifer said, Doors are variable, too, I think. Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the otherend of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine. He missed the beginning, but then: —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through thisdoor. The machinery in the next room is your protection against therigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you mayhave discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you havenot, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this shipis a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it ishuman-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will notpermit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, andto avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to bepermitted through this door— Rikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusingwords. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interestingthan that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to anothervoice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't. When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentlehumming, punctuated by a throb-throb-throb which sounded not unlikethe booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn'tblast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud'seyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs andgears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful becausethey shone with a luster unfamiliar to him. Odd, Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, Now there's a good word, butno one quite seems to know its meaning. Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there mightexist an endless succession of them, especially when the third oneopened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door. Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? Theviewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topographywas different. Then the garden extended even farther than he hadthought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds wayoff in the distance. And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put hishand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the newviewport. He began to turn the handle. Then he trembled. What would he do out in the garden? He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a sillythought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikudcouldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth feltdry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't. Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way backthrough the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finallythrough the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer. By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He didnot dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, andsweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at thegarden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he couldwalk and then might find himself in the garden. It was so big. <doc-sep>Three or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough totalk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at allinterested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope withthe situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variableand Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read thatbook on astronomy. Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. There are not that many doors inthe world, he said. The library has a door and there is a door to thewomen's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you throughthat. But there are no others. Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. Now, bythe world, there are two other doors! Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly. What are you doing that for? demanded Wilm, who was shorter even thanCrifer, but had no lame foot. Doing what? Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no troublehearing you. Maybe yelling will make him understand. Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.Why don't we go see? he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned. Well, I won't go, Chuls replied. There's no reason to go. If Rikudhas been imagining things, why should I? I imagined nothing. I'll show you— You'll show me nothing because I won't go. Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by whathe did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged atthe blouse. Stop that, said the older man, mildly. <doc-sep>Crifer hopped up and down. Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know whathe's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse. Stop that, repeated Chuls, his face reddening. Only if you'll go with me. Rikud was panting. Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some ofthem watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikudholding Chuls' blouse. I think I can do that, declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer'sshirt. Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, eachpartner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughedand some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done. A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls. Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, Time to retire. In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared histhroat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. Whatwould have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did thingspunctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with thebuzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it. What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing? This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the biggarden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because hecould huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone. <doc-sep>Rikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of themachinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gearsspinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then hebegan to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, hewas clearly an unauthorized person. He had heard the voice againupon entering the room. He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half aswide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires thatheld it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then heswung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbledunder his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm. Almost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were notcasual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikudsmashed everything in sight. When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the roomwas a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled inhis ears because now the throbbing had stopped. He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smallerviewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrainbeneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shoneclearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality. Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open thatdoor. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in thedarkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone. Whimpering, he fled. <doc-sep>All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer didnot sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went toeat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and thewhimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but thesmooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not runany more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food. Chuls said, over and over, I'm hungry. We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us, Wilm repliedconfidently. It won't any more, Rikud said. What won't? The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it. Crifer growled. I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a badthing you did, Rikud. It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and thestars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden therebeyond the viewport. That's ridiculous, Chuls said. Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. He broke the buzzer and no one caneat. I hate Rikud, I think. There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, Ihate Rikud. Then everyone was saying it. Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside withhim and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would havehad a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women'squarters. Did women eat? Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off afrond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe theplants in the viewport would even be better. We will not be hungry if we go outside, he said. We can eat there. We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken, Chuls said dully. Crifer shrilled, Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again. No, Rikud assured him. It won't. Then you broke it and I hate you, said Crifer. We should break you,too, to show you how it is to be broken. We must go outside—through the viewport. Rikud listened to the oddgurgling sound his stomach made. A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heardCrifer's voice. I have Rikud's head. The voice was nasty, hostile. Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he hadbroken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearerto understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud. The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.I hit him! I hit him! Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someonewas on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, andhe did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, Let usdo to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery. Rikud ran. In thedarkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were tooweak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawinghurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voicesand the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away. It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to runwas chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, andhow big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing himwere unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completelyand positively. He became sickly giddy thinking about it. But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he woulddie because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled andgrumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him. He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but thevoice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place ofmachinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, andhe thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heardCrifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage. Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch itwith his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet. He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him werecloser now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear thosebehind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were notfar away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted tobreak him. Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster oflow mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. Ifplants could live out there as they did within the world, then so couldpeople. Rikud and his people should . This was why the world had movedacross the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.But he was afraid. He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that hisfingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and fora long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside heheard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded onthe metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:There is Rikud on the floor! Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.Something small and brown scurried across the other side of theviewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideousred eyes. Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his facewas so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport thateveryone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of themachinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metalwhich he could see in the dim light through the open door. Where's the buzzer? he sobbed. I must find the buzzer. Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, You broke it. Youbroke it. And now we will break you— Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slippeddown against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footstepscame, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him. His head whirled and the viewport seemed to swim in a haze. Could itbe variable, as Crifer had suggested? He wondered if the scurryingbrown thing waited somewhere, and nausea struck at the pit of hisstomach. But if the plants could live out there and the scurrying thingcould live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness,then so could he live out there, and Crifer and all the others.... So tightly did he grip the handle that his fingers began to hurt. Andhis heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side ofhis neck. He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where theblue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the rowof mounds. <doc-sep>Crifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, andsomeone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kickedout and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved theweight of his body with all his strength against the door. It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth. The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. Hewalked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feelthe floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on thehorizon. It was all very beautiful. Near the ship, water that did not come from a machine gurgled acrossthe land, and Rikud lay down and drank. It was cool and good, and whenhe got up, Crifer and Wilm were outside the world, and some of theothers followed. They stood around for a long time before going to thewater to drink. Rikud sat down and tore off a piece of a plant, munching on it. It wasgood. Crifer picked his head up, from the water, his chin wet. Even feelingsare variable. I don't hate you now, Rikud. Rikud smiled, staring at the ship. People are variable, too, Crifer.That is, if those creatures coming from the ship are people. They're women, said Crifer. They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completelyhuman, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddlyexciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid. It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,frightening doors and women by appointment only. Rikud felt at home. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the setting of the story?

The story is located in space, inside of a large spaceship. The ship has a viewport that looks outside of the ship, and is where Rikad spends most of his time. The ship also seems to have high tech, showcased in the med room. Here is where the men go to stay healthy by being showered under health rays. The ship also has a library, which is where Crifer and Rikud read about astronomy and stars, and where Rikud started to doubt more and more about their lifestyle. The ship then arrives at a planet, full of lush greenery, making Rikud more and more suspicious of the changing view. After exploring the back of the room Rikud finds a series of rooms. These rooms include both a machinery room that is full of gears and tubes as well as a control room that has a smaller viewport. The story ends in the new planet, after Rikud opened the door that led outside, knowing that they would be able to survive after he compared the new planet to the gardens that the ship had.

What is the significance of "variability" in the story? [SEP] <s> The Sense of Wonder By MILTON LESSER Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's going, how can they tell when it has arrived? Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown. If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim. Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport. If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it? Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls. In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars. Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending. Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache? Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too.... His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence. I'll go with you, Rikud told him. <doc-sep>A hardly perceptible purple glow pervaded the air in the room of thehealth-rays. Perhaps two score men lay about, naked, under the raytubes. Chuls stripped himself and selected the space under a vacanttube. Rikud, for his part, wanted to get back to the viewport and watchthe one new bright star. He had the distinct notion it was growinglarger every moment. He turned to go, but the door clicked shut and ametallic voice said. Fifteen minutes under the tubes, please. Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoyhim. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, whenhe wanted to do it? There was a strange thought, and Rikud's brainwhirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions andunsatisfactory answers. He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever gothurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurlhimself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had comeinto being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-beingagain, something which was as impalpable as air. Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no realauthority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt thatthere should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machinein the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who hadgoverned the world. They told you to do something and you did it, butthat was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You onlylistened to the buzzer. And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a termthat could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and theelders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The peoplehad decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, andthat it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They wereborn and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like littlecogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, buthe knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with thepeople against the elders, and it said the people had won. Now in the health room, Rikud felt a warmth in the rays. Grudgingly, hehad to admit to himself that it was not unpleasant. He could see thelook of easy contentment on Chuls' face as the rays fanned down uponhim, bathing his old body in a forgotten magic which, many generationsbefore Rikud's time, had negated the necessity for a knowledge ofmedicine. But when, in another ten years, Chuls would perish of oldage, the rays would no longer suffice. Nothing would, for Chuls. Rikudoften thought of his own death, still seventy-five years in the future,not without a sense of alarm. Yet old Chuls seemed heedless, with onlya decade to go. Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavythrough the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every timeRikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but itproved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he sawCrifer limp. But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer. <doc-sep>Now Crifer said, I've been reading again, Rikud. Yes? Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with thesmell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; itmeant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to thelibrary and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply satabout and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it. But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All thepeople ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and itwas always the same. Yes, said Crifer. I found a book about the stars. They're alsocalled astronomy, I think. This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on oneelbow. What did you find out? That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think. Well, where's the book? Rikud would read it tomorrow. I left it in the library. You can find several of them under'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymousterms. You know, Rikud said, sitting up now, the stars in the viewport arechanging. Changing? Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as hequestioned what it might mean in this particular case. Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than theothers. Astronomy says some stars are variable, Crifer offered, but Rikudknew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than hedid. Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. Variability, he toldthem, is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be. I'm only saying what I read in the book, Crifer protested mildly. Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words withoutmeaning. People grow old, Rikud suggested. A buzzer signified that his fifteen minutes under the rays were up, andChuls said, It's almost time for me to eat. Rikud frowned. Chuls hadn't even seen the connection between the twoconcepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago,but now it faded, and change and old were just two words. His own buzzer sounded a moment later, and it was with a strangefeeling of elation that he dressed and made his way back to theviewport. When he passed the door which led to the women's half of theworld, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman.He had been told about them and he had seen pictures, and he dimlyremembered his childhood among women. But his feelings had changed;this was different. Again there were inexplicable feelings—strangechannelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions. He shrugged and reserved the thought for later. He wanted to see thestars again. <doc-sep>The view had changed, and the strangeness of it made Rikud's pulsesleap with excitement. All the stars were paler now than before, andwhere Rikud had seen the one bright central star, he now saw a globe oflight, white with a tinge of blue in it, and so bright that it hurt hiseyes to look. Yes, hurt! Rikud looked and looked until his eyes teared and he had toturn away. Here was an unknown factor which the perfect world failedto control. But how could a star change into a blinking blue-whiteglobe—if, indeed, that was the star Rikud had seen earlier? Therewas that word change again. Didn't it have something to do with age?Rikud couldn't remember, and he suddenly wished he could read Crifer'sbook on astronomy, which meant the same as stars. Except that it wasvariable, which was like change, being tied up somehow with age. Presently Rikud became aware that his eyes were not tearing any longer,and he turned to look at the viewport. What he saw now was so new thathe couldn't at first accept it. Instead, he blinked and rubbed hiseyes, sure that the ball of blue-white fire somehow had damaged them.But the new view persisted. Of stars there were few, and of the blackness, almost nothing. Gone,too, was the burning globe. Something loomed there in the port, so hugethat it spread out over almost the entire surface. Something big andround, all grays and greens and browns, and something for which Rikudhad no name. A few moments more, and Rikud no longer could see the sphere. A sectionof it had expanded outward and assumed the rectangular shape of theviewport, and its size as well. It seemed neatly sheered down themiddle, so that on one side Rikud saw an expanse of brown and green,and on the other, blue. Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the worldhad ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regularintervals by a sharp booming. Change— Won't you eat, Rikud? Chuls called from somewhere down below. Damn the man, Rikud thought. Then aloud: Yes, I'll eat. Later. It's time.... Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently. But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had alwaysseen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps didnot exist in the viewport. Maybe it existed through the viewport. That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could seenothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, moreconfusing than ever. Chuls, he called, remembering, come here. I am here, said a voice at his elbow. Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud ofvapor. What do you see? Chuls looked. The viewport, of course. What else? Else? Nothing. Anger welled up inside Rikud. All right, he said, listen. What doyou hear? Broom, brroom, brrroom! Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting ofthe engines. I'm hungry, Rikud. The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the diningroom, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more. <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt. Rikud sat down hard. He blinked. The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. <doc-sep>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport. Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport? Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived. It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different. Then they've changed? No, merely different. Well, what about the viewport? It changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change? The stars come out at night. So there is a change from day to night! I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night? Once they shone all the time. Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable. <doc-sep>Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book onastronomy. He hadn't been reading too much lately. The voice of thereading machine had begun to bore him. He said, Well, variable or not,our whole perspective has changed. And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If onlythe man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed soobvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in thehealth-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through thevast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this alsowas purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. Butif everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how couldthey find the nature of that purpose? I will eat, Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery. Damn the man, all he did was eat! Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Becausehe was hungry. And Rikud, too, was hungry. Differently. <doc-sep>He had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, andnow, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, readingmachine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached thedoor. What's in here? he demanded. It's a door, I think, said Crifer. I know, but what's beyond it? Beyond it? Oh, you mean through the door. Yes. Well, Crifer scratched his head, I don't think anyone ever openedit. It's only a door. I will, said Rikud. You will what? Open it. Open the door and look inside. A long pause. Then, Can you do it? I think so. You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud. No— Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake ofbreath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,and Crifer said, Doors are variable, too, I think. Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the otherend of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine. He missed the beginning, but then: —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through thisdoor. The machinery in the next room is your protection against therigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you mayhave discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you havenot, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this shipis a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it ishuman-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will notpermit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, andto avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to bepermitted through this door— Rikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusingwords. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interestingthan that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to anothervoice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't. When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentlehumming, punctuated by a throb-throb-throb which sounded not unlikethe booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn'tblast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud'seyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs andgears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful becausethey shone with a luster unfamiliar to him. Odd, Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, Now there's a good word, butno one quite seems to know its meaning. Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there mightexist an endless succession of them, especially when the third oneopened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door. Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? Theviewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topographywas different. Then the garden extended even farther than he hadthought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds wayoff in the distance. And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put hishand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the newviewport. He began to turn the handle. Then he trembled. What would he do out in the garden? He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a sillythought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikudcouldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth feltdry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't. Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way backthrough the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finallythrough the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer. By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He didnot dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, andsweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at thegarden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he couldwalk and then might find himself in the garden. It was so big. <doc-sep>Three or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough totalk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at allinterested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope withthe situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variableand Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read thatbook on astronomy. Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. There are not that many doors inthe world, he said. The library has a door and there is a door to thewomen's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you throughthat. But there are no others. Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. Now, bythe world, there are two other doors! Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly. What are you doing that for? demanded Wilm, who was shorter even thanCrifer, but had no lame foot. Doing what? Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no troublehearing you. Maybe yelling will make him understand. Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.Why don't we go see? he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned. Well, I won't go, Chuls replied. There's no reason to go. If Rikudhas been imagining things, why should I? I imagined nothing. I'll show you— You'll show me nothing because I won't go. Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by whathe did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged atthe blouse. Stop that, said the older man, mildly. <doc-sep>Crifer hopped up and down. Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know whathe's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse. Stop that, repeated Chuls, his face reddening. Only if you'll go with me. Rikud was panting. Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some ofthem watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikudholding Chuls' blouse. I think I can do that, declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer'sshirt. Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, eachpartner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughedand some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done. A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls. Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, Time to retire. In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared histhroat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. Whatwould have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did thingspunctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with thebuzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it. What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing? This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the biggarden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because hecould huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone. <doc-sep>Rikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of themachinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gearsspinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then hebegan to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, hewas clearly an unauthorized person. He had heard the voice againupon entering the room. He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half aswide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires thatheld it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then heswung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbledunder his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm. Almost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were notcasual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikudsmashed everything in sight. When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the roomwas a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled inhis ears because now the throbbing had stopped. He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smallerviewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrainbeneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shoneclearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality. Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open thatdoor. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in thedarkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone. Whimpering, he fled. <doc-sep>All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer didnot sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went toeat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and thewhimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but thesmooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not runany more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food. Chuls said, over and over, I'm hungry. We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us, Wilm repliedconfidently. It won't any more, Rikud said. What won't? The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it. Crifer growled. I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a badthing you did, Rikud. It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and thestars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden therebeyond the viewport. That's ridiculous, Chuls said. Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. He broke the buzzer and no one caneat. I hate Rikud, I think. There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, Ihate Rikud. Then everyone was saying it. Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside withhim and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would havehad a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women'squarters. Did women eat? Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off afrond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe theplants in the viewport would even be better. We will not be hungry if we go outside, he said. We can eat there. We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken, Chuls said dully. Crifer shrilled, Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again. No, Rikud assured him. It won't. Then you broke it and I hate you, said Crifer. We should break you,too, to show you how it is to be broken. We must go outside—through the viewport. Rikud listened to the oddgurgling sound his stomach made. A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heardCrifer's voice. I have Rikud's head. The voice was nasty, hostile. Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he hadbroken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearerto understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud. The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.I hit him! I hit him! Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someonewas on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, andhe did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, Let usdo to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery. Rikud ran. In thedarkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were tooweak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawinghurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voicesand the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away. It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to runwas chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, andhow big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing himwere unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completelyand positively. He became sickly giddy thinking about it. But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he woulddie because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled andgrumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him. He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but thevoice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place ofmachinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, andhe thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heardCrifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage. Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch itwith his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet. He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him werecloser now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear thosebehind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were notfar away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted tobreak him. Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster oflow mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. Ifplants could live out there as they did within the world, then so couldpeople. Rikud and his people should . This was why the world had movedacross the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.But he was afraid. He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that hisfingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and fora long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside heheard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded onthe metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:There is Rikud on the floor! Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.Something small and brown scurried across the other side of theviewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideousred eyes. Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his facewas so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport thateveryone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of themachinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metalwhich he could see in the dim light through the open door. Where's the buzzer? he sobbed. I must find the buzzer. Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, You broke it. Youbroke it. And now we will break you— Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slippeddown against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footstepscame, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him. His head whirled and the viewport seemed to swim in a haze. Could itbe variable, as Crifer had suggested? He wondered if the scurryingbrown thing waited somewhere, and nausea struck at the pit of hisstomach. But if the plants could live out there and the scurrying thingcould live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness,then so could he live out there, and Crifer and all the others.... So tightly did he grip the handle that his fingers began to hurt. Andhis heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side ofhis neck. He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where theblue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the rowof mounds. <doc-sep>Crifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, andsomeone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kickedout and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved theweight of his body with all his strength against the door. It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth. The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. Hewalked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feelthe floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on thehorizon. It was all very beautiful. Near the ship, water that did not come from a machine gurgled acrossthe land, and Rikud lay down and drank. It was cool and good, and whenhe got up, Crifer and Wilm were outside the world, and some of theothers followed. They stood around for a long time before going to thewater to drink. Rikud sat down and tore off a piece of a plant, munching on it. It wasgood. Crifer picked his head up, from the water, his chin wet. Even feelingsare variable. I don't hate you now, Rikud. Rikud smiled, staring at the ship. People are variable, too, Crifer.That is, if those creatures coming from the ship are people. They're women, said Crifer. They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completelyhuman, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddlyexciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid. It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,frightening doors and women by appointment only. Rikud felt at home. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of "variability" in the story?

Variability is a big part of the story. The inhabitants of the ship have always lived the same routine, the same life, and when things start to change they don’t know how to react. First, when the view of the ship starts to change, Rikud doesn’t understand what it means, and begins to think about the meaning of change. These thoughts are enhanced when Crifer told him that he had been reading Astronomy, and that stars are variable. When the ship lands on the new planet, and Rikud begins to explore, he starts to think about the variability of doors, and the meaning of going through doors and how it relates to the viewport. In the end, the change from having the buzzers to not knowing how to act is what sparks the violence of the men towards Rikud. This is due to the fact that he changed their routine, and having never experienced it, they don’t know how to react to change.

Describe the relationship between Rikud and Chuls [SEP] <s> The Sense of Wonder By MILTON LESSER Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's going, how can they tell when it has arrived? Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown. If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim. Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport. If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it? Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls. In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars. Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending. Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache? Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too.... His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence. I'll go with you, Rikud told him. <doc-sep>A hardly perceptible purple glow pervaded the air in the room of thehealth-rays. Perhaps two score men lay about, naked, under the raytubes. Chuls stripped himself and selected the space under a vacanttube. Rikud, for his part, wanted to get back to the viewport and watchthe one new bright star. He had the distinct notion it was growinglarger every moment. He turned to go, but the door clicked shut and ametallic voice said. Fifteen minutes under the tubes, please. Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoyhim. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, whenhe wanted to do it? There was a strange thought, and Rikud's brainwhirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions andunsatisfactory answers. He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever gothurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurlhimself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had comeinto being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-beingagain, something which was as impalpable as air. Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no realauthority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt thatthere should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machinein the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who hadgoverned the world. They told you to do something and you did it, butthat was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You onlylistened to the buzzer. And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a termthat could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and theelders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The peoplehad decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, andthat it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They wereborn and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like littlecogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, buthe knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with thepeople against the elders, and it said the people had won. Now in the health room, Rikud felt a warmth in the rays. Grudgingly, hehad to admit to himself that it was not unpleasant. He could see thelook of easy contentment on Chuls' face as the rays fanned down uponhim, bathing his old body in a forgotten magic which, many generationsbefore Rikud's time, had negated the necessity for a knowledge ofmedicine. But when, in another ten years, Chuls would perish of oldage, the rays would no longer suffice. Nothing would, for Chuls. Rikudoften thought of his own death, still seventy-five years in the future,not without a sense of alarm. Yet old Chuls seemed heedless, with onlya decade to go. Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavythrough the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every timeRikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but itproved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he sawCrifer limp. But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer. <doc-sep>Now Crifer said, I've been reading again, Rikud. Yes? Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with thesmell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; itmeant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to thelibrary and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply satabout and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it. But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All thepeople ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and itwas always the same. Yes, said Crifer. I found a book about the stars. They're alsocalled astronomy, I think. This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on oneelbow. What did you find out? That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think. Well, where's the book? Rikud would read it tomorrow. I left it in the library. You can find several of them under'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymousterms. You know, Rikud said, sitting up now, the stars in the viewport arechanging. Changing? Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as hequestioned what it might mean in this particular case. Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than theothers. Astronomy says some stars are variable, Crifer offered, but Rikudknew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than hedid. Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. Variability, he toldthem, is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be. I'm only saying what I read in the book, Crifer protested mildly. Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words withoutmeaning. People grow old, Rikud suggested. A buzzer signified that his fifteen minutes under the rays were up, andChuls said, It's almost time for me to eat. Rikud frowned. Chuls hadn't even seen the connection between the twoconcepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago,but now it faded, and change and old were just two words. His own buzzer sounded a moment later, and it was with a strangefeeling of elation that he dressed and made his way back to theviewport. When he passed the door which led to the women's half of theworld, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman.He had been told about them and he had seen pictures, and he dimlyremembered his childhood among women. But his feelings had changed;this was different. Again there were inexplicable feelings—strangechannelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions. He shrugged and reserved the thought for later. He wanted to see thestars again. <doc-sep>The view had changed, and the strangeness of it made Rikud's pulsesleap with excitement. All the stars were paler now than before, andwhere Rikud had seen the one bright central star, he now saw a globe oflight, white with a tinge of blue in it, and so bright that it hurt hiseyes to look. Yes, hurt! Rikud looked and looked until his eyes teared and he had toturn away. Here was an unknown factor which the perfect world failedto control. But how could a star change into a blinking blue-whiteglobe—if, indeed, that was the star Rikud had seen earlier? Therewas that word change again. Didn't it have something to do with age?Rikud couldn't remember, and he suddenly wished he could read Crifer'sbook on astronomy, which meant the same as stars. Except that it wasvariable, which was like change, being tied up somehow with age. Presently Rikud became aware that his eyes were not tearing any longer,and he turned to look at the viewport. What he saw now was so new thathe couldn't at first accept it. Instead, he blinked and rubbed hiseyes, sure that the ball of blue-white fire somehow had damaged them.But the new view persisted. Of stars there were few, and of the blackness, almost nothing. Gone,too, was the burning globe. Something loomed there in the port, so hugethat it spread out over almost the entire surface. Something big andround, all grays and greens and browns, and something for which Rikudhad no name. A few moments more, and Rikud no longer could see the sphere. A sectionof it had expanded outward and assumed the rectangular shape of theviewport, and its size as well. It seemed neatly sheered down themiddle, so that on one side Rikud saw an expanse of brown and green,and on the other, blue. Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the worldhad ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regularintervals by a sharp booming. Change— Won't you eat, Rikud? Chuls called from somewhere down below. Damn the man, Rikud thought. Then aloud: Yes, I'll eat. Later. It's time.... Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently. But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had alwaysseen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps didnot exist in the viewport. Maybe it existed through the viewport. That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could seenothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, moreconfusing than ever. Chuls, he called, remembering, come here. I am here, said a voice at his elbow. Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud ofvapor. What do you see? Chuls looked. The viewport, of course. What else? Else? Nothing. Anger welled up inside Rikud. All right, he said, listen. What doyou hear? Broom, brroom, brrroom! Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting ofthe engines. I'm hungry, Rikud. The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the diningroom, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more. <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt. Rikud sat down hard. He blinked. The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. <doc-sep>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport. Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport? Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived. It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different. Then they've changed? No, merely different. Well, what about the viewport? It changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change? The stars come out at night. So there is a change from day to night! I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night? Once they shone all the time. Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable. <doc-sep>Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book onastronomy. He hadn't been reading too much lately. The voice of thereading machine had begun to bore him. He said, Well, variable or not,our whole perspective has changed. And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If onlythe man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed soobvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in thehealth-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through thevast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this alsowas purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. Butif everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how couldthey find the nature of that purpose? I will eat, Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery. Damn the man, all he did was eat! Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Becausehe was hungry. And Rikud, too, was hungry. Differently. <doc-sep>He had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, andnow, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, readingmachine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached thedoor. What's in here? he demanded. It's a door, I think, said Crifer. I know, but what's beyond it? Beyond it? Oh, you mean through the door. Yes. Well, Crifer scratched his head, I don't think anyone ever openedit. It's only a door. I will, said Rikud. You will what? Open it. Open the door and look inside. A long pause. Then, Can you do it? I think so. You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud. No— Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake ofbreath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,and Crifer said, Doors are variable, too, I think. Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the otherend of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine. He missed the beginning, but then: —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through thisdoor. The machinery in the next room is your protection against therigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you mayhave discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you havenot, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this shipis a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it ishuman-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will notpermit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, andto avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to bepermitted through this door— Rikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusingwords. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interestingthan that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to anothervoice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't. When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentlehumming, punctuated by a throb-throb-throb which sounded not unlikethe booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn'tblast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud'seyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs andgears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful becausethey shone with a luster unfamiliar to him. Odd, Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, Now there's a good word, butno one quite seems to know its meaning. Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there mightexist an endless succession of them, especially when the third oneopened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door. Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? Theviewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topographywas different. Then the garden extended even farther than he hadthought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds wayoff in the distance. And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put hishand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the newviewport. He began to turn the handle. Then he trembled. What would he do out in the garden? He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a sillythought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikudcouldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth feltdry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't. Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way backthrough the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finallythrough the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer. By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He didnot dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, andsweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at thegarden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he couldwalk and then might find himself in the garden. It was so big. <doc-sep>Three or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough totalk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at allinterested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope withthe situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variableand Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read thatbook on astronomy. Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. There are not that many doors inthe world, he said. The library has a door and there is a door to thewomen's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you throughthat. But there are no others. Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. Now, bythe world, there are two other doors! Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly. What are you doing that for? demanded Wilm, who was shorter even thanCrifer, but had no lame foot. Doing what? Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no troublehearing you. Maybe yelling will make him understand. Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.Why don't we go see? he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned. Well, I won't go, Chuls replied. There's no reason to go. If Rikudhas been imagining things, why should I? I imagined nothing. I'll show you— You'll show me nothing because I won't go. Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by whathe did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged atthe blouse. Stop that, said the older man, mildly. <doc-sep>Crifer hopped up and down. Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know whathe's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse. Stop that, repeated Chuls, his face reddening. Only if you'll go with me. Rikud was panting. Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some ofthem watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikudholding Chuls' blouse. I think I can do that, declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer'sshirt. Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, eachpartner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughedand some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done. A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls. Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, Time to retire. In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared histhroat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. Whatwould have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did thingspunctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with thebuzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it. What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing? This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the biggarden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because hecould huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone. <doc-sep>Rikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of themachinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gearsspinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then hebegan to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, hewas clearly an unauthorized person. He had heard the voice againupon entering the room. He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half aswide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires thatheld it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then heswung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbledunder his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm. Almost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were notcasual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikudsmashed everything in sight. When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the roomwas a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled inhis ears because now the throbbing had stopped. He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smallerviewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrainbeneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shoneclearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality. Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open thatdoor. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in thedarkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone. Whimpering, he fled. <doc-sep>All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer didnot sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went toeat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and thewhimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but thesmooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not runany more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food. Chuls said, over and over, I'm hungry. We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us, Wilm repliedconfidently. It won't any more, Rikud said. What won't? The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it. Crifer growled. I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a badthing you did, Rikud. It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and thestars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden therebeyond the viewport. That's ridiculous, Chuls said. Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. He broke the buzzer and no one caneat. I hate Rikud, I think. There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, Ihate Rikud. Then everyone was saying it. Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside withhim and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would havehad a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women'squarters. Did women eat? Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off afrond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe theplants in the viewport would even be better. We will not be hungry if we go outside, he said. We can eat there. We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken, Chuls said dully. Crifer shrilled, Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again. No, Rikud assured him. It won't. Then you broke it and I hate you, said Crifer. We should break you,too, to show you how it is to be broken. We must go outside—through the viewport. Rikud listened to the oddgurgling sound his stomach made. A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heardCrifer's voice. I have Rikud's head. The voice was nasty, hostile. Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he hadbroken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearerto understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud. The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.I hit him! I hit him! Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someonewas on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, andhe did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, Let usdo to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery. Rikud ran. In thedarkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were tooweak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawinghurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voicesand the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away. It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to runwas chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, andhow big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing himwere unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completelyand positively. He became sickly giddy thinking about it. But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he woulddie because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled andgrumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him. He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but thevoice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place ofmachinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, andhe thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heardCrifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage. Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch itwith his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet. He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him werecloser now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear thosebehind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were notfar away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted tobreak him. Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster oflow mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. Ifplants could live out there as they did within the world, then so couldpeople. Rikud and his people should . This was why the world had movedacross the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.But he was afraid. He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that hisfingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and fora long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside heheard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded onthe metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:There is Rikud on the floor! Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.Something small and brown scurried across the other side of theviewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideousred eyes. Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his facewas so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport thateveryone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of themachinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metalwhich he could see in the dim light through the open door. Where's the buzzer? he sobbed. I must find the buzzer. Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, You broke it. Youbroke it. And now we will break you— Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slippeddown against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footstepscame, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him. His head whirled and the viewport seemed to swim in a haze. Could itbe variable, as Crifer had suggested? He wondered if the scurryingbrown thing waited somewhere, and nausea struck at the pit of hisstomach. But if the plants could live out there and the scurrying thingcould live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness,then so could he live out there, and Crifer and all the others.... So tightly did he grip the handle that his fingers began to hurt. Andhis heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side ofhis neck. He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where theblue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the rowof mounds. <doc-sep>Crifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, andsomeone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kickedout and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved theweight of his body with all his strength against the door. It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth. The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. Hewalked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feelthe floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on thehorizon. It was all very beautiful. Near the ship, water that did not come from a machine gurgled acrossthe land, and Rikud lay down and drank. It was cool and good, and whenhe got up, Crifer and Wilm were outside the world, and some of theothers followed. They stood around for a long time before going to thewater to drink. Rikud sat down and tore off a piece of a plant, munching on it. It wasgood. Crifer picked his head up, from the water, his chin wet. Even feelingsare variable. I don't hate you now, Rikud. Rikud smiled, staring at the ship. People are variable, too, Crifer.That is, if those creatures coming from the ship are people. They're women, said Crifer. They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completelyhuman, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddlyexciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid. It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,frightening doors and women by appointment only. Rikud felt at home. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the relationship between Rikud and Chuls

At the beginning of the story, the relationship between Rikud and Chuls seemed like a mentor-mentee or like a father-son relationship. Rikud was a young forward-thinker, and Chuls was an older man who had already lived a lot and tried to guide Rikud on how he should live. As the story progresses more, Rikud seems to stray from Chuls’ guidance and tries to figure out what to think on his own. When Rikud tries to explain his reasoning, Chuls doesn’t understand because he has lived so much time inside of the ship and its routine that he can’t seem to doubt it. This led to Rikud getting mildly violent at Chuls because he couldn’t understand why Chuls didn’t believe him.

Describe the significance of the viewport in the story? [SEP] <s> The Sense of Wonder By MILTON LESSER Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's going, how can they tell when it has arrived? Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown. If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim. Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport. If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it? Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls. In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars. Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending. Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache? Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too.... His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence. I'll go with you, Rikud told him. <doc-sep>A hardly perceptible purple glow pervaded the air in the room of thehealth-rays. Perhaps two score men lay about, naked, under the raytubes. Chuls stripped himself and selected the space under a vacanttube. Rikud, for his part, wanted to get back to the viewport and watchthe one new bright star. He had the distinct notion it was growinglarger every moment. He turned to go, but the door clicked shut and ametallic voice said. Fifteen minutes under the tubes, please. Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoyhim. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, whenhe wanted to do it? There was a strange thought, and Rikud's brainwhirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions andunsatisfactory answers. He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever gothurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurlhimself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had comeinto being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-beingagain, something which was as impalpable as air. Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no realauthority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt thatthere should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machinein the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who hadgoverned the world. They told you to do something and you did it, butthat was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You onlylistened to the buzzer. And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a termthat could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and theelders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The peoplehad decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, andthat it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They wereborn and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like littlecogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, buthe knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with thepeople against the elders, and it said the people had won. Now in the health room, Rikud felt a warmth in the rays. Grudgingly, hehad to admit to himself that it was not unpleasant. He could see thelook of easy contentment on Chuls' face as the rays fanned down uponhim, bathing his old body in a forgotten magic which, many generationsbefore Rikud's time, had negated the necessity for a knowledge ofmedicine. But when, in another ten years, Chuls would perish of oldage, the rays would no longer suffice. Nothing would, for Chuls. Rikudoften thought of his own death, still seventy-five years in the future,not without a sense of alarm. Yet old Chuls seemed heedless, with onlya decade to go. Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavythrough the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every timeRikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but itproved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he sawCrifer limp. But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer. <doc-sep>Now Crifer said, I've been reading again, Rikud. Yes? Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with thesmell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; itmeant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to thelibrary and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply satabout and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it. But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All thepeople ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and itwas always the same. Yes, said Crifer. I found a book about the stars. They're alsocalled astronomy, I think. This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on oneelbow. What did you find out? That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think. Well, where's the book? Rikud would read it tomorrow. I left it in the library. You can find several of them under'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymousterms. You know, Rikud said, sitting up now, the stars in the viewport arechanging. Changing? Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as hequestioned what it might mean in this particular case. Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than theothers. Astronomy says some stars are variable, Crifer offered, but Rikudknew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than hedid. Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. Variability, he toldthem, is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be. I'm only saying what I read in the book, Crifer protested mildly. Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words withoutmeaning. People grow old, Rikud suggested. A buzzer signified that his fifteen minutes under the rays were up, andChuls said, It's almost time for me to eat. Rikud frowned. Chuls hadn't even seen the connection between the twoconcepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago,but now it faded, and change and old were just two words. His own buzzer sounded a moment later, and it was with a strangefeeling of elation that he dressed and made his way back to theviewport. When he passed the door which led to the women's half of theworld, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman.He had been told about them and he had seen pictures, and he dimlyremembered his childhood among women. But his feelings had changed;this was different. Again there were inexplicable feelings—strangechannelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions. He shrugged and reserved the thought for later. He wanted to see thestars again. <doc-sep>The view had changed, and the strangeness of it made Rikud's pulsesleap with excitement. All the stars were paler now than before, andwhere Rikud had seen the one bright central star, he now saw a globe oflight, white with a tinge of blue in it, and so bright that it hurt hiseyes to look. Yes, hurt! Rikud looked and looked until his eyes teared and he had toturn away. Here was an unknown factor which the perfect world failedto control. But how could a star change into a blinking blue-whiteglobe—if, indeed, that was the star Rikud had seen earlier? Therewas that word change again. Didn't it have something to do with age?Rikud couldn't remember, and he suddenly wished he could read Crifer'sbook on astronomy, which meant the same as stars. Except that it wasvariable, which was like change, being tied up somehow with age. Presently Rikud became aware that his eyes were not tearing any longer,and he turned to look at the viewport. What he saw now was so new thathe couldn't at first accept it. Instead, he blinked and rubbed hiseyes, sure that the ball of blue-white fire somehow had damaged them.But the new view persisted. Of stars there were few, and of the blackness, almost nothing. Gone,too, was the burning globe. Something loomed there in the port, so hugethat it spread out over almost the entire surface. Something big andround, all grays and greens and browns, and something for which Rikudhad no name. A few moments more, and Rikud no longer could see the sphere. A sectionof it had expanded outward and assumed the rectangular shape of theviewport, and its size as well. It seemed neatly sheered down themiddle, so that on one side Rikud saw an expanse of brown and green,and on the other, blue. Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the worldhad ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regularintervals by a sharp booming. Change— Won't you eat, Rikud? Chuls called from somewhere down below. Damn the man, Rikud thought. Then aloud: Yes, I'll eat. Later. It's time.... Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently. But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had alwaysseen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps didnot exist in the viewport. Maybe it existed through the viewport. That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could seenothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, moreconfusing than ever. Chuls, he called, remembering, come here. I am here, said a voice at his elbow. Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud ofvapor. What do you see? Chuls looked. The viewport, of course. What else? Else? Nothing. Anger welled up inside Rikud. All right, he said, listen. What doyou hear? Broom, brroom, brrroom! Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting ofthe engines. I'm hungry, Rikud. The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the diningroom, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more. <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt. Rikud sat down hard. He blinked. The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. <doc-sep>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport. Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport? Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived. It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different. Then they've changed? No, merely different. Well, what about the viewport? It changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change? The stars come out at night. So there is a change from day to night! I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night? Once they shone all the time. Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable. <doc-sep>Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book onastronomy. He hadn't been reading too much lately. The voice of thereading machine had begun to bore him. He said, Well, variable or not,our whole perspective has changed. And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If onlythe man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed soobvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in thehealth-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through thevast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this alsowas purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. Butif everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how couldthey find the nature of that purpose? I will eat, Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery. Damn the man, all he did was eat! Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Becausehe was hungry. And Rikud, too, was hungry. Differently. <doc-sep>He had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, andnow, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, readingmachine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached thedoor. What's in here? he demanded. It's a door, I think, said Crifer. I know, but what's beyond it? Beyond it? Oh, you mean through the door. Yes. Well, Crifer scratched his head, I don't think anyone ever openedit. It's only a door. I will, said Rikud. You will what? Open it. Open the door and look inside. A long pause. Then, Can you do it? I think so. You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud. No— Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake ofbreath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,and Crifer said, Doors are variable, too, I think. Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the otherend of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine. He missed the beginning, but then: —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through thisdoor. The machinery in the next room is your protection against therigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you mayhave discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you havenot, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this shipis a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it ishuman-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will notpermit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, andto avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to bepermitted through this door— Rikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusingwords. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interestingthan that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to anothervoice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't. When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentlehumming, punctuated by a throb-throb-throb which sounded not unlikethe booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn'tblast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud'seyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs andgears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful becausethey shone with a luster unfamiliar to him. Odd, Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, Now there's a good word, butno one quite seems to know its meaning. Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there mightexist an endless succession of them, especially when the third oneopened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door. Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? Theviewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topographywas different. Then the garden extended even farther than he hadthought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds wayoff in the distance. And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put hishand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the newviewport. He began to turn the handle. Then he trembled. What would he do out in the garden? He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a sillythought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikudcouldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth feltdry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't. Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way backthrough the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finallythrough the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer. By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He didnot dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, andsweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at thegarden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he couldwalk and then might find himself in the garden. It was so big. <doc-sep>Three or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough totalk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at allinterested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope withthe situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variableand Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read thatbook on astronomy. Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. There are not that many doors inthe world, he said. The library has a door and there is a door to thewomen's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you throughthat. But there are no others. Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. Now, bythe world, there are two other doors! Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly. What are you doing that for? demanded Wilm, who was shorter even thanCrifer, but had no lame foot. Doing what? Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no troublehearing you. Maybe yelling will make him understand. Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.Why don't we go see? he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned. Well, I won't go, Chuls replied. There's no reason to go. If Rikudhas been imagining things, why should I? I imagined nothing. I'll show you— You'll show me nothing because I won't go. Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by whathe did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged atthe blouse. Stop that, said the older man, mildly. <doc-sep>Crifer hopped up and down. Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know whathe's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse. Stop that, repeated Chuls, his face reddening. Only if you'll go with me. Rikud was panting. Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some ofthem watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikudholding Chuls' blouse. I think I can do that, declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer'sshirt. Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, eachpartner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughedand some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done. A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls. Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, Time to retire. In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared histhroat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. Whatwould have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did thingspunctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with thebuzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it. What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing? This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the biggarden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because hecould huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone. <doc-sep>Rikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of themachinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gearsspinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then hebegan to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, hewas clearly an unauthorized person. He had heard the voice againupon entering the room. He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half aswide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires thatheld it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then heswung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbledunder his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm. Almost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were notcasual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikudsmashed everything in sight. When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the roomwas a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled inhis ears because now the throbbing had stopped. He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smallerviewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrainbeneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shoneclearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality. Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open thatdoor. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in thedarkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone. Whimpering, he fled. <doc-sep>All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer didnot sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went toeat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and thewhimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but thesmooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not runany more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food. Chuls said, over and over, I'm hungry. We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us, Wilm repliedconfidently. It won't any more, Rikud said. What won't? The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it. Crifer growled. I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a badthing you did, Rikud. It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and thestars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden therebeyond the viewport. That's ridiculous, Chuls said. Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. He broke the buzzer and no one caneat. I hate Rikud, I think. There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, Ihate Rikud. Then everyone was saying it. Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside withhim and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would havehad a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women'squarters. Did women eat? Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off afrond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe theplants in the viewport would even be better. We will not be hungry if we go outside, he said. We can eat there. We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken, Chuls said dully. Crifer shrilled, Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again. No, Rikud assured him. It won't. Then you broke it and I hate you, said Crifer. We should break you,too, to show you how it is to be broken. We must go outside—through the viewport. Rikud listened to the oddgurgling sound his stomach made. A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heardCrifer's voice. I have Rikud's head. The voice was nasty, hostile. Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he hadbroken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearerto understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud. The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.I hit him! I hit him! Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someonewas on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, andhe did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, Let usdo to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery. Rikud ran. In thedarkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were tooweak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawinghurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voicesand the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away. It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to runwas chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, andhow big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing himwere unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completelyand positively. He became sickly giddy thinking about it. But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he woulddie because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled andgrumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him. He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but thevoice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place ofmachinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, andhe thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heardCrifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage. Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch itwith his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet. He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him werecloser now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear thosebehind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were notfar away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted tobreak him. Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster oflow mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. Ifplants could live out there as they did within the world, then so couldpeople. Rikud and his people should . This was why the world had movedacross the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.But he was afraid. He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that hisfingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and fora long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside heheard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded onthe metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:There is Rikud on the floor! Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.Something small and brown scurried across the other side of theviewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideousred eyes. Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his facewas so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport thateveryone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of themachinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metalwhich he could see in the dim light through the open door. Where's the buzzer? he sobbed. I must find the buzzer. Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, You broke it. Youbroke it. And now we will break you— Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slippeddown against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footstepscame, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him. His head whirled and the viewport seemed to swim in a haze. Could itbe variable, as Crifer had suggested? He wondered if the scurryingbrown thing waited somewhere, and nausea struck at the pit of hisstomach. But if the plants could live out there and the scurrying thingcould live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness,then so could he live out there, and Crifer and all the others.... So tightly did he grip the handle that his fingers began to hurt. Andhis heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side ofhis neck. He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where theblue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the rowof mounds. <doc-sep>Crifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, andsomeone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kickedout and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved theweight of his body with all his strength against the door. It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth. The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. Hewalked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feelthe floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on thehorizon. It was all very beautiful. Near the ship, water that did not come from a machine gurgled acrossthe land, and Rikud lay down and drank. It was cool and good, and whenhe got up, Crifer and Wilm were outside the world, and some of theothers followed. They stood around for a long time before going to thewater to drink. Rikud sat down and tore off a piece of a plant, munching on it. It wasgood. Crifer picked his head up, from the water, his chin wet. Even feelingsare variable. I don't hate you now, Rikud. Rikud smiled, staring at the ship. People are variable, too, Crifer.That is, if those creatures coming from the ship are people. They're women, said Crifer. They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completelyhuman, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddlyexciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid. It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,frightening doors and women by appointment only. Rikud felt at home. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the significance of the viewport in the story?

The viewport is one of the most important parts of the story. Rikud goes to the viewport in order to get a break from his routine life inside the ship. The changing stars that he could see through the viewport is what inspired Rikud to think more about the changes going on around him and to explore hhhhhhhe ship. Ultimately it is the viewport that showed him the possibility of a new life on the planet. The viewport essentially lead Rikud to breaking the engine room and to opening the door of the ship.